Philip A.
Yelp
A Recipe for Invisibility: The Gay 90s Experience
We arrived walked passed the crowded patio, me and my family--looking forward to dinner at a spot I'd been to before with other company, where I'd always been greeted warmly, seated right away, and treated with ease.
But this time was different.
We stood at the entrance with no greeting. No acknowledgment. As we waited, guests who came in after us were promptly welcomed and shown to their tables outside on the patio without hesitation. We watched it happen in real time.
Eventually, someone motioned for us to sit ourselves. And once we did, we waited another fifteen minutes without a single word. No menus. No water. Not even a glance from the staff. The dining room was nearly empty, just one other table occupied, yet somehow--somehow--we were invisible.
I watched as a younger server spoke to a blonde woman across the room. She subtly leaned around the corner, eyes finding our table, then disappeared. Neither returned. Instead, they floated out to the patio, where the crowd looked a little more... familiar to them.
By the 20-minute mark, I had seen enough. I asked my family if they were picking up the same thing I was. They all nodded.
So we left.
And only then, as we reached the door, did the bartender who hadn't so much as glanced at us suddenly perk up:
"Have a good day, you guys!"
Right. That part still worked, apparently.
We ended up grabbing dinner elsewhere, where the welcome was instant and the food was secondary to being seen.
That night, Gay 90s served us nothing but a slow, bitter reminder:
Some tables get service. Others get studied glances and delayed smiles.
And it usually depends on who you're sitting with.