Table Manners

It gives me some satisfaction that I am not alone in my inability to ignore (certainly not avoid) the incivility of the public world, yet I am saddened by its ubiquity.

Stanley Fish asked readers to add to his list of irritating utterances, some of which he rightly calls "programmatic lying," in his November 16 NYT Opinionator online commentary "Can I Put You on Hold?" The column elicited an outpouring of responses, one subset of which were complaints about the chummy wait staff who have been instructed to introduce themselves at the beginning and intrude throughout the meal.

I was struck, however, that these were among the few posts that received criticism instead of commiseration. Those who were put off by "Hi, my name is Chuck; I'll be your waiter" and "Is everything all right?" were admonished for being overly sensitive at best and downright misanthropic at worst. In defense of the malcontents I would add another question I find annoying. I have an empty glass; the waiter stands over me with a pitcher and asks, "Would you like more water?"

There is often more to the problem than mere chattiness. The questions are (it seems inevitably) asked just as I've put a forkful of food into my mouth. Glasses are set down anywhere on the table instead of to the upper right of the place setting and are set with the hand directed downward, fingers grasping the rim. There's the even more intrusive behaviour of squatting to be at armpit level with the table to jot down the order. On more than one occasion I've had someone come along with a broom and dustpan to sweep the floor under the table where I am dining. At the end of the experience, I'm asked: "How was everything?"

I have learned to dare not respond to this question. In point of fact I am not being asked to respond unless it is in the affirmative, making the query redundant in the first place. Should I mention a single problem with food or service I am met with excuses, justifications, rationalizations that exonerate the restaurant and everyone associated with it while making me the offending presence.

People used to employ non-verbal cues to communicate with wait staff -- and the wait staff used to be trained to read those cues so as to avoid asking unnecessary questions. As long as I am perusing the menu, I am not ready to order. Once I have closed the menu and laid it on the table, I am ready; there is no need to ask, "Do you need more time to look at the menu?" or "Are you ready to order?"

I am finished eating when my knife and fork are inverted side by side on my plate (not while the food-filled fork is traveling to my mouth -- even if it is my last bite), though I would feel more comfortable if my plate were not removed before my companion also finishes eating.

OK, so I'm a snob, but attention to these little actions used to be called "simple good manners." There are some rather obscure rules of etiquette that we need not cling to, and some downright silly ones: Who came up with the idea that one must leave some food on one's plate? But that does not negate the adage: Etiquette tells one which fork to use. Manners tell one what to do when one's neighbor doesn't.

People behave as if manners are a burdensome elitist relic, as if by discarding them we have liberated ourselves. Manners have evolved because they make life easier. Life is hard enough as it is. Why not alleviate some wee bit of the awkwardness of social interaction through the simple thoughtfulness of manners?


PS A lovely little movie was released earlier this year called The Invention of Lying, co-written by Ricky Gervais, who also stars. (Gervais conceived the premise for The Office and its offshoots.) The film could as easily been called The Invention of Manners, for both manners and white lies are vehicles of kindness with which we treat others.

Peter Ustinov once wrote, “Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.”