Your Table Is Ready: Tales of a New York City Maître D'

by Michael Cecchi-Azzolina

A practiced maître d’hôtel can tell the difference in the denomination of a bill just by how it feels. Twenties are generally a bit worn, fifties not so much, and hundreds, the crispest.

It never fails, the most awful human beings, the power hungry, those with the least personality, kindness, and humanity, are general managers in restaurants.

So why do you sometimes have to wait fifteen, thirty, even forty-five minutes for a table when you have a reservation? Is it the incompetence of the reservation team? Is the evening overbooked because the owner is trying to milk every penny possible so he can actually meet that month’s exorbitant rent? Did the maître d’hôtel or host forget you are here? Maybe. It does happen. But I am here to tell you the one most egregious thing that guests will do that will absolutely fuck up the entire timing of the evening and create those fifteen-, thirty-, and forty-five-minute delays. Cell phones.