Sarah E. Moffett

On Saturday night, I was kicked out of a restaurant. This was a new experience for me seeing as I generally tend not to initiate food fights with the bread basket, return dishes to the kitchen eighteen times, or climb on top of the bar to reenact choice scenes from Coyote Ugly. The reason is embarrassingly lame, but let me start at the beginning.

This past weekend, I awoke with one simple desire. Mussels. I don’t ask where these cravings come from, but I do tend to follow them. I wanted a hot, steamy pot of mussels, soaked in something delicious, and served with warm ambiance, good wine, and an energetic atmosphere. I knew just the place. Or so I thought.

At 6 p.m., a friend and I walked into Café Belga and were seated without a reservation. The rest of D.C. is far too mature to dine at such an early hour, but my stomach’s memories of brunch were beyond fading. We were seated in a corner next to the window and handed menus. The lovely hostess offered to take our coats. We declined. The Artic blasts seeping through the windows more inclined to button up my coat than disrobe. Tightening my scarf around my neck, I quickly narrowed my choices in wine, appetizers, and entrees. While there is much to be said for a leisurely dinner, I was here on a mission.

To eat.

And Café Belga did not disappoint. We started off with “Kip & Krab Sigaar,” and quickly moved to two pots of Belgian mussels, an order of their balsamic and herb infused root vegetables, and several glasses of wine. The tiny table was overflowing with food and service was a bit slow, but we were happy. We were eating. We were drinking. We were talking. We were doing that D.C. dining thing.

While we were doing said D.C. dining thing, the restaurant was steadily filling up, and with the long, narrow room packed with tables, there was little room for waiters to navigate with food, let alone for customers to wait. More than once I glanced up to see the bar three deep, and waiting customers packed like sardines in the 3 x 5 entry way directly in front of the door and next to the hostess stand. Just looking up made me claustrophobic.

The waiter returned in approximately 90 seconds of us receiving our dessert menus. Seeing as we were still sipping our dinner’s wine and enjoying every girl’s prerogative—a/k/a conversation—we replied to the waiter’s inquests that we were finishing the wine and would pass on dessert. The waiter returned with our check in milliseconds. Trying to be hospitable, I made the mistake of immediately putting down my card. I’m not sure it hit the leather receipt holder before it was whisked away and returned with a receipt. Continuing our conversation and indulgence of wine, I signed, and continued to enjoy the remainder of my Syrah. Again, the leather receipt holder was whisked away. I was able to take another sip of wine before our waiter reappeared.

Tapping his watch, he looked down at us and said, “without trying to be rude, we do already have a reservation that is waiting for this table, so if you could . . .” His voice trailed off. The implication was beyond clear. He wasn’t moving until we were. I looked at him over my half full glass of wine, and in a congenial American effort nodded before dropping my Syrah like a shot of whiskey while simultaneously buttoning up my coat and rising from my seat.

It was only as we were ushered out first by the waiter and then the still smiling hostess and channeled through the waiting masses huddled in the entry way that I realized that the D.C. dinner has met its European equivalent. Three figured meals no longer mean warm seating, table room, patient servers, or even a two hour dining option. It means get in, get out, and don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you. (I’m channeling bad Christian elementary school chants, but I have no idea why. Must be Advent.) So all of that to say, it’s a bit of a relief to mar my good girl image and say “I’ve been kicked out of a restaurant.” I just hope no one ever asks me why.  Oh’, and next time I crave mussels, I’ll get over it.

Washington Post Magazine Review

AOL City Guide

Meandering One (Positive Review)

Quell Disappointment (Not So Positive Review)

Share This