I Don’t Wait for Reservations—Reservations Wait for Me

It’s Friday night, and I’m hungry. Not just hungry—deserving. The kind of hungry where any establishment should be honored to feed me. So I walk into a trendy restaurant downtown, the type with a six-week waitlist and plates the size of coasters.

The host greets me with the usual fake smile. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Of course,” I say confidently. “I reserved the right to eat wherever I want.”

She blinks. “Sir, we’re fully booked until next month.”

I lean in. “Let me rephrase that. You may think you’re booked. But when I walked in, the universe cleared a table. So technically, someone else is about to cancel. Go ahead, check.”

She checks, humoring me. Shockingly, no table has magically appeared. She starts to tell me again about being full. That’s when I raise a hand dramatically:

“Ma’am, please. Don’t embarrass yourself. Do you see me? Do I look like the kind of man who waits outside while lesser men eat inside?”

By now, other diners are watching. One couple whispers. A waiter stifles a laugh. The manager strolls over. “What seems to be the problem?”

I tell him calmly, “The problem is you’ve confused capacity with priority. And I am priority.”

The manager sighs, clearly wanting me gone. “Sir, if you’d like, we can set you up at the bar.”

I smirk. “Fine. But make sure everyone knows the bar just became the VIP lounge.”

Five minutes later, I’m sipping overpriced wine at the bar, spreading out like I own the place, and waiters keep slipping me free breadsticks to keep me quiet. I call that a win.

Because when Hot Josh shows up, the reservation isn’t for a table. The reservation is for attention.