A Night Out

The dining room carries the same, traditional hum of conversation I have found in every successful restaurant. Polished, dimly-shining yellow lamps hang over each table.

A small bar protrudes from the wall, decorated with flags from four or five different football teams, two of which are featured in the game that is playing on the large flat-screen on the wall. Seated at the bar is an older man with white hair, wearing a crisp red button-up. He barely takes a sip from his drink; his eyes are trained on the screen.

On the table catty-corner from ours, there are three boys that look to be about college age, all wearing hoodies in different designs and colors, whom I immediately dub the Three Caballeros.

They eat without looking at or speaking to one another, but don't pull out their phones. Their expressions are bored. Occasionally one will glance with steadily decreasing interest at the flat-screen. Two of their friends, a pair wearing baseball caps backwards. Energy immediately picks up at the table. Within moments they are talking and laughing.

Our waitress approaches, a young woman wearing a football jersey. After reporting our order back to the kitchen, she comes over to the table where the Three Caballeros are sitting and has a extended conversation with one of them. Laughing, she eats a piece of chicken from his plate, then returns to the kitchen.

The other servers go about their business with eyes flicking from side to side, trying to catch empty water glasses and cleared plates as quickly as possible. One very short waitress in a turquoise blouse logs her customer's payment in the computer. In another minute, I see her struggling carrying a large case of dishes to the kitchen. The bartender, a woman with a crisp pink blouse, looks on with disinterest.

At this moment, I look down to see that, over the course of my taking notes, my plate has been cleared and my water glass refilled. One of my table companions raises an eyebrow, impressed.