Rage against the reservationist

Dear reservationist, please do not scoff at me. I know I'm asking for the impossible when I call on a Friday afternoon to request a table for 8 p.m. that evening. Even without your imperious tone, I know your establishment is a hot one indeed. That's why I'm calling you before I bother to walk-in: on the off, against-the-odds chance that there is an opening. What? Oh, you're too cool to accept walk-ins? Well, goodbye then.

You know, I've made a conscious effort not to unleash my frustrations on this blog. Restaurants have bad nights, mistakes happen, and in most cases, things are swiftly smoothed over. But in the multiple instances in which I've had to deal with a curt, harried, and unhelpful reservationist—Why does it feel like I'm bothering you when it's your job to answer the phones?—I'm sick of being treated like dirt before I've left my humble little ride with the valet and got a sugary, overpriced cocktail in my hand.

All this came to a head over the weekend: I had reservations at Foxtail for Saturday night. I didn't get the customary phone call to confirm the time. So when I called first before heading out to West Hollywood, I was informed that my reservation was in fact the night before.

Why so forlorn Foxtail? Is it because no one can get a proper ressie with you?

Hello?! I distinctly requested Saturday, not Friday. No, Cherise the Reservationist was stalwart, "Your reservation was last night." She offered no explanation, no solution, no attempt to look for another time. When I pointed that there was obviously a problem here, and I'm not hearing a possible alternative or even an apology for that matter, she responded, "Okay, certainly...I apologize for your confusion" (emphasis not mine).

I was fuming obviously, but the thing that completely took me over the edge was the unmitigated self-righteousness. Cherise was confident that she wasn't the one in the wrong as she kept repeating in an inflexible loop, "Your reservation was last night. My book says that your reservation was Friday." 

What convincing evidence, Matlock. Remind me never to hire you as my defense attorney. Which is more likely: that I misspoke both the date and day as I made the reservation in front of the very people that I was supposed to meet that night, or that Cherise the Reservationist opened her appointment book to the wrong day and wrote my name (most likely misspelled) in the incorrect slot?

And, if I indeed had a Friday night commitment, why did I not get a confirmation call? That would have apprised me of "my confusion" at least 24 hours in advance to rectify the matter with my party. Foxtail is new, but a phone call to guests for validation is just fundamental. Perhaps this miserable, miserable non-procedure is the reason why no one—really, no one—on the various message boards is talking about the supposed hot spot. The hullabaloo over "Top Chef" be absolutely damned.

—Jiyeon Yoo