Selective hospitality

I savor the aperitif while watching the impeccable choreography of the service. The bartender shakes the cocktail shaker like a metronome, and the dishes emerge through a porthole door. Every few minutes, a couple or a group of friends enters and stands at the door, waiting to be served.

Then something curious happens. Sometimes the host smiles, cracks a joke, and welcomes them with open arms. Other times, he glances sideways, finishes what he's doing, and approaches slowly with an inquisitive expression. The difference in treatment is so marked that I can't help but notice.

He seems like a nice guy, a far cry from the stuffy, ceremonious maître d' of yesteryear, but only with those he chooses. Perhaps because I'm alone and would appreciate some entertainment, or because I need to tell someone about the awful day I've had stuck at an airport, I find myself begging for a little attention. But with each new, effusive welcome, the more distant the treatment I received seemed.

I don't expect him to welcome me like a lifelong friend if we've never met before. Or maybe a little? After all, the ultimate secret of hospitality is making a complete stranger feel welcome.

Today's restaurant service exists between the rigidity of classic protocol and an informality that sometimes borders on camaraderie. The latter can be more appealing, but also more arbitrary: it depends on the mood of the day, unconscious biases, and the chemistry between friends.

And one wonders if sometimes a little of the old discipline wouldn't be preferable. That stiff, distant maître d' might not have been warm, but at least you didn't run the risk of being left out in the cold.