Assistante S.
Google
Every morning in Tel Aviv, my wife and I follow the same ritual: coffee at Xoho, on Ben Yehuda Street. Our anchor point, our little piece of order in the chaos. Xoho has two zones — smoking and non-smoking. I smoke, so our choice is obvious.
This morning, three empty tables. One in part sun with a single chair; two in the shade, still cluttered with empty cups and crumbs. No one around — just the remains of other people’s breakfasts. As usual, I sit at one of the shaded tables and wait (don’t ask, just wait) for someone to clear it.
A waitress approaches. She tells me the table hasn’t been cleaned yet and suggests — no, politely orders — me to sit at the sunny table instead.
“I’d rather stay here,” I say. “I can wait. Take your time.”
“It’s not a suggestion,” she says. “I demand.”
Fine. I get up, waiting for her to clear it. She starts moving around, wiping every table except mine — a perfect little ballet of passive aggression.
Then another waitress passes by. I ask, “Excuse me, may I sit here?”
“Of course!” she says, smiling, and immediately clears the table for me.
I sit down, relieved. Naturally, the first waitress reappears.
“See the difference between you and your colleague?” I tell her. “She hurried to help me. You’ve been rude.”
She calls me ridiculous. I tell her she’s been horrible. The tone rises a bit, but nothing dramatic. Then the manager appears, serious and defensive.
“You can’t speak to my staff like that,” he says.
I explain what happened. He doesn’t care. He demands that I apologize.
“No,” I reply. “If anyone should apologize, it’s her.”
He asks me to leave. Which I do — calmly. If I were him, I’d probably have done the same, out of principle. Still, I can’t help thinking that waitress chose the wrong job. One day, Xoho will figure it out. Pity — it used to be my favorite café.
