Battle of the Big Table

My wife, Stephanie, is somewhat of a momma bear. I learned this early on when as a nightclub manager I had to throw out a very drunk and belligerent young couple. They’d been yelling obscenities at each other and then at the people next table over who’d politely told them to shut up. The boyfriend went compliantly when escorted by me and a bouncer. The woman was unfortunately left unescorted, and she followed us, screaming to let her boyfriend go. Then suddenly she charged us with a mouthful of hawked-up phlegm. The loogy landed smack in my face, followed by the insult, “Motherfucker.” Not the first time for me, but Stephanie, my then-girlfriend, took it more personally, launching herself at the unsuspecting woman.

Nothing so dramatic happened when the French decided to do battle with the Americans.

No longer in the nightclub business, Stephanie and I were now hosting a Minnesota group on a riverboat cruise through Cambodia and Vietnam. We shared the boat with another group who spoke French—you know, from France. The boat was lovely with private berths that opened to the Mekong River, a sun deck with a small pool, and a dining room with white linens. Food and booze were all you could consume.

Then that first dinner service. All of us (Americans) were eager to get on the boat, excited to be on vacation, and looking forward to getting to know each other. We sat at our designated and segregated tables with the signs ENGLISH SPEAKERS. We proceeded to talk and laugh. The first course was a shrimp salad with light citrus dressing, the second course either pork loin or fish (I had the fish), and dessert was a selection of local fresh fruit. Yum.

Then the French sitting at tables marked FRENCH SPEAKERS complained. Apparently, we were the Loud Americans. It’s not like we ran around screaming or yelling a Vikings Skol chant. In my opinion, and I am not a loud talker, we were just excited and having fun. Because he kept glaring at us, we knew the complaint came primarily from one rabble-rouser, a septuagenarian with hearing aids and one of those tan safari vests with enough zippered pockets to hold a litter of kittens. Now, I realize how those hearing aids can be. My own mother has a pair and becomes uncomfortable in an echoey restaurant. But she knows enough to move seats or never come back. She doesn’t complain. This guy and his coterie of misfits complained to the Tour Director about the Loud Americans.

The Tour Director relayed the complaint. We ignored him. Minutes later, a group of six French promptly filed out, gesticulating wildly in our direction and mouthing indecipherable insults like crazed drivers cut off on the freeway (you know the type). We finished our meal and moved to more drinks on the sundeck.

The French continued to be disgusted with the Loud Americans. They demanded that their dinner be served first at 7:15, with the Americans served later at 7:45. The Tour Director gave in. Though ridiculous, I was fine with this arrangement; I usually don’t eat until past 7:00. But there were others accustomed to 5:30 or 6:00 back home, and this presented a major inconvenience. Stephanie, the momma bear, tried to remain calm.

Now, I don’t want to imply that all French are mean. I’ve had my share of snooty French waiters, sure, but I’ve also been given a smile from a woman selling flowers near the Seine. My own lovely sister-in-law is French, well French-Canadian. One gentleman in particular, the portly Jacque, made it clear to us that not all the French had it in for laughter and frivolity. Some of them, in fact, laughed on occasion and got silly. He thought it was just magnifique that younger people were on the boat (our average age was approximately 58) and having a good time. In fact, Jacque and his wife were so bold as to join us the next night at the later dinner time.

When we sat at 7:45 that evening, most of the French group were still finishing their dessert and coffee. Again, we apparently talked too loud and laughed too much. The remaining French, led by the septuagenarian with his safari vest, made the performative gesture of abruptly standing, giving their best shaming stares, and walking out. Stephanie was now having difficulty restraining herself.

I need to mention that there were way more French than English, and they commanded the high ground which was the Big Table in the middle of the room. And despite the defection of three or four of their countrymen, and the fact that their average age was approximately 75, they could take us in a brawl. So, full frontal physical confrontation was out of the question. Though I know Stephanie considered risking it.

Another thing I should mention; we did not have separate lunch times. Over pre-lunch cocktails the next day, the American group did a little venting of fuck-those-French emotions. Then, once liquored up, a plan was hatched. One asked the question, “Why do the French get to have the middle Big Table? Why are we relegated to the smaller outer tables furthest from the buffet?”

That was Stephanie’s opening, “Why don’t we just take it?” And with their liquor-induced bravery, the group stood up en masse and walked toward the dining room. This was where Stephanie brazenly switched the FRENCH SPEAKERS sign for one that read ENGLISH SPEAKERS. Then all sat down before any of the French entered. The group of brazen Loud Americans had taken the Big Table.

When the reality of the coup d'état set in, pandemonium ensued. Safari-Vest had come in first and then just stood, stunned. It took him no more than two seconds to understand what had happened. The Americans had stormed the Bastille, sunk their fleet at Mers-el-Kebir, and taken all the reservations at L'Arpège. The high ground had been taken, and the Big Table with its FRENCH SPEAKERS sign was now lying toppled on a table only large enough for four. To say he gesticulated wildly would be an understatement. The man made a head-turning scene—waving his arms and yelling French pejoratives, spittle flying from his moist and supple lips.

He was ignored by those at the Big Table.

Later, the Captain arranged a secret meeting with the Tour Director, the head of both English and French tour groups, and the boat's Food and Beverage Director. None of us were witness to what was discussed or decided, but it was clear by the ensuing result: absolutely nothing. They decided to do nothing with the apparent belief that things would sort themselves out on their own. Now, I have to say that doing nothing is often the best decision. As my father once said, “A problem ignored long enough often ceases to be a problem.”

That night, because the French could start eating at 7:15, they entered the dining room first. And instead of switching the signs back, they simply added to the existing ENGLISH SPEAKERS sign, the word NO. When we entered, Mr. Safari-Vest sat at the head of the table, the side that faced the front entrance, and I swear, smirked. Now, I’m not sure NO ENGLISH SPEAKERS is up there with NO BLACKS, NO DOGS, NO IRISH, but it’s insulting, nonetheless. Stephanie, now switching to become the peacemaker and mollifier of hurt feelings, organized a few English Speakers to put four four-tops together to make a big table large enough to hold twelve. This slightly grander than the French eight-top. Well, Touché.

Sadly, the stomach flu entered the equation, and one by one we all became coming-out-of-both-ends sick. Then, really, no one wanted to sit with others.

This turn of events reminded me of the time I lived in Las Vegas and took a comedian friend over to Lake Mead and Hoover Dam. We took the tour that led us down to the base of the seven-hundred-foot dam. Standing at the bottom and looking up at the immense wall of concrete, he said, “Sure puts your dick into perspective.”