Reason #13,272 To Hate The Suburbs

Suburban dining: First, you wait

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.