Manners

From our June 2020 issue.

© Warren Goldswain | dreamstime.com

My mother was a stickler for good manners. She felt it was an important asset to have, no matter what, and one of the places she felt it to be very important was when going out to a restaurant. The last thing she wanted was to have two unruly children (my brother Patrick and me) at the table when we were out to eat—an occasion that was rare at best. We were taught to fold our hands at the table—“If your hands are folded, they can’t get you into trouble” was her mantra. She taught us what each piece of silverware was, what different plates were used for, and how to ask with “please” and “thank you!”

Our mom was brought up in a gentler time—when manners were important and there was no such thing as a fast food restaurant. What’s more, she was brought up in Europe, where dining was a fine art—with well-prepared food something to be relished as opposed to gulped down on the fly. Meals could consist of a number of courses, each presented by itself and with much flourish. It was as if each course was a gift to be savored. She confessed to me that sometimes these meals would go on for hours, and when she was young it could seem almost impossible to quell the fidgets. But she and her two brothers managed, and it all started with the folding of the hands and resting them on the edge of the table. Another thing that was equally important was re- specting the people that waited on us. It wasn’t enough to have those “pleases” and “thank yous.” We couldn’t be impatient, we couldn’t whine, and we couldn’t stare if an accident—like a dropped tray—happened. I know I’ve been to restaurants where a waiter dropped a tray, and after the initial crash of plates and silver- ware, the room became deathly quiet as diners gawked. The poor waiter tried to pick everything up and exit as quickly as possible, but there was no dismissing his reddened and mortified expression. And who knows what happened to him after he went back into the kitchen, with the remnants of a lovely meal hastily piled onto his tray.

So, my brother and I learned through “practice restaurant meals” at home. We were pretty good at folding our hands, and we tried our best to be as quiet as possible. One time our mom cautioned us to stay put and disappeared into the kitchen for a longer time that we expected.

“What’s she doing in there?” Pat whispered.

“Not sure,” I replied, looking anxiously at the door that separated our kitchen from the dining room. We could hear some clattering sounds but that was it. Suddenly she pushed open the kitchen door with a tray heaped high with pots and pans and some silverware. We ducked our heads and concentrated on our folded hands. What was this all about? My brother and I exchanged furtive glances. Mom approached the table with the tray and then suddenly dropped it. Crash! Clang! Crunch! The contents of the tray hit the floor! I remember my brother and I had all we could do not to stare at what happened. We tried so hard—but it didn’t work. We gawked in horror at all the pots and pans on the floor, and we stared at our mother.

“Well,” she said, shrugging with a halfway grin, “You didn’t pass the test this time!”

We slumped in our seats. Not passing the test meant we weren’t going out to eat any time soon.

“Not to worry,” Mom said as she deftly scooped up everything on the floor. “You’ll have another chance sometime.”

That chance did happen again at the next “Manners” session. I hate to admit it, but we both failed miserably once more. Our mother sighed a bit at that—this was a pretty impressive demonstration on her part. But, once again, she was undeterred. “You’ll get it,” she smiled. Then she winked at us. “The truth is, it took me and my brothers a while as well.”

One day it finally happened. She dumped the contents of a tray right near us, and we kept our heads down with nary a twitch. It was as if the event never happened. “Hurray!” our Mom crowed. “We are going out to dinner soon!”

As it happened, the very next time we went out to that favorite restaurant of ours, the waiter dropped a tray filled with drinks. Iced tea and coca cola splashed everywhere. All the other patrons stopped what they were doing and stared at the hapless waiter—except Pat and me. We stared fixedly at our laced fingers and didn’t budge even though we got a little wet. Mom was so proud of us we were rewarded with an extra treat—marshmallow sundaes for dessert!

I passed this lesson on to my young daughter during our own “practice restaurant meals” and like me, she failed dismally at first. But it wasn’t long before she caught on. I remember smiling as I dropped a tray of clattery things and saw my little girl furiously studying her folded hands. She had passed the test with flying colors! And, in case you were wondering, yes, we still fold our hands at the table when we go out to a restaurant. Old habits—especially the good ones—die hard.