
Picture this: You walk into a the hot new bistro that everyone has been buzzing about with your beautiful wife. You wait over an hour for a table, kicking back a couple handcrafted cocktails while you wait.
Then, as you blindly follow the hot young hostess to the table, you begin to break out into a cold sweat. Why? Because you can see that evil bitch has decided to steer you right into a deep-dish pizza pie of public humiliation – the booth.
Okay now the average skinny person reading this is thinking, “what’s wrong with a booth?” Well, my slender friend, when you’re sporting more than a little around the middle, a booth is your mortal enemy.
As you approach, you brain starts reeling, doing the mental calculus, sizing up the relative merits of each side of the booth and which might offer slightly more spacious accommodations. Taking your best guess, you attempt to wedge your girth between table and the seat back.
Once in a while, some generous restaurateur has decided not tried to pack as many paying patrons as he can possibly fit into the dining room. In which case, all your fretting is for naught. But more likely, simple economics wins out and you’re fucked.
In that case…
Your first level of recourse is to casually ask the wife if she would mind switching sides in hopes that your fat ass will fit a little better on the other side (luckily, many booths are not symmetrical).
Your second level of recourse is to hope and pray the table isn’t affixed to the wall and can be adjusted.
And your last, and totally humiliating level of recourse is to basically admit to the hot young (and evil) hostess that you are just to fat to fit in that there booth.
Having lived this nightmare one too many times, I usually just preempt the whole situation and tell the host that I would prefer a table when I give them my name.