JOAN
My mother was never satisfied with the first table she chose in a restaurant. When I visited her in California, we often ate out. She would take a seat, and whoever was with her – me, my husband, my sisters – would pick out chairs or side into a booth. Then she'd look around the room and see a spot she liked better. Maybe it was near a window, or farther from the air conditioner's breeze, or it just had that indefinable something that caught her attention.
Once, on the patio of a Santa Monica restaurant where several of us had gathered for lunch, the only table that struck her as appropriate happened to have been chosen by other people, who were just opening their menus. My mother approached them. She was in her sixties then, a small, pleasant-looking woman. When confronting strangers with requests, she was polite but firm. She had an air of determination that people seemed unable to resist.
I watched my mother explain to the seated group that their space was the only one where our family could possibly sit; maybe it was shadier, or had more room. The rest of us stood back and saw the people rise from their chairs and take their menus to another table.
From Chapter 8, Having Her Way
Once, on the patio of a Santa Monica restaurant where several of us had gathered for lunch, the only table that struck her as appropriate happened to have been chosen by other people, who were just opening their menus. My mother approached them. She was in her sixties then, a small, pleasant-looking woman. When confronting strangers with requests, she was polite but firm. She had an air of determination that people seemed unable to resist.
I watched my mother explain to the seated group that their space was the only one where our family could possibly sit; maybe it was shadier, or had more room. The rest of us stood back and saw the people rise from their chairs and take their menus to another table.
From Chapter 8, Having Her Way