Reason #13,272 To Hate The Suburbs
Walking to the restaurant entrance, you feel a rising dread.
You thread your way through the horde to face a teenage hostess posted at the door like a perky nightclub bouncer. She delivers the blow with a smile.
An hour for a table? At a mall joint?
No, sir, she helpfully clarifies. That’s just to get a pager.
We’ll beep you when a table opens up. Maybe another hour.