I don’t curse too often here on SCF, but here is a time when the words are well deserved. Here we are, heading to see Clybourne Park and it’s 715 p.m., 45 minutes before curtain. We walk into Joe Allen, wondering if we can get two seats at the bar. Unlikely, we know. But we are in luck! Two seats, count ’em, one-two, on either side of three women who appear to be dining together. How can we get them together? Asking the women to slide down would seem to be the first logical choice, but as I approach them, their faces turn snarly.
So I turn to the bartender. Would there be any way — and as I’m asking, I hear Ms. White Shirt here turn to her left and, in a stage whisper: “Don’t. Make. A. Move.”
Really? Really, bitch? You’re almost done with your meal. We’re trying to get a quick bite. What harm would it be to be courteous and slide down a little? Turns out, I ask the women on her right to slide down a bit, and they accommodate us without a blink of an eye. But as we try to squeeze our two stools in the newly created space, Ms. W.S. over here really doesn’t make a move. Not one inch.
And on top of that, the burger I ordered medium came out rare and I had to send it back.
Well, I guess that’s what happens before showtime on Broadway, when you go from being this busy:
— to this empty —
in about 15 minutes. Although I must note that at other times I have fully enjoyed my meal at Joe Allen, so this was rather an anomaly, mainly caused by non-moving bitches wearing white shirts and whole bunch of attitude.
