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The real waiters are out in the lobby

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It’s sort of a hobby of ours. My wife and I like to pretend that we’re going to eat at one of West Des Moines’ many fine new restaurants.

We will be out running errands or looking at materials for our remodeling project, or maybe visiting Jordan Creek Town Center for potential wardrobe purchases – I’m thinking seriously about a pair of socks — and then we’ll say, “Let’s go someplace nice for dinner.”

We both go along with the gag, discussing which place sounds just right, sometimes going so far as to speculate on our entrée selections. We choose the restaurant, drive into the parking lot and say ominously, “Looks kind of busy.”

We park at the far reaches of the pavement and hike back to the building; if we lose sight of it, we just follow the trail of BMWs. We stride confidently through the front door, hack our way through a dense but mild-mannered cluster of suburbanites – it’s like rushing a quarterback whose linemen don’t really like him much — and arrive at the hostess’ station. “How long is the wait for two people?” we ask, switching on our tape recorder so we can share the response with the folks back home.

On a slow night, the pleasant young woman will tell us that the next available table should be ours in no more time than it takes to read a novel. More typically, it’s enough time to weave a Persian rug or overthrow a modest-sized government. We listen, act astonished and leave.

It’s lots of fun and much less expensive than actually buying a meal. On the other hand, we’re still hungry.

I wonder what people did before the recent surge of restaurant construction. Ate at home? Nah. That is so 1950s.

The problem might be simply that the western suburban population is increasing faster than the supply of eateries. Put up a building, lay in a supply of food and employees, throw open the doors, and in pours a batch of people who otherwise might well have starved.

Also, standards have risen. Diners who once would have been satisfied with a hamburger, fries and a malt want to dine at a place where the glasses are made of glass. And the people who always drank from glass glasses now want a wine list.

I suppose sophisticated people – those who sip cognac and steal towels from only the finest resorts – are in the habit of making reservations. But that doesn’t explain the mopes in the lobby. There they lurk, waiting patiently while each opening of the door brings a burst of cold air and overly optimistic newcomers.

They don’t talk much. Most couples barely have enough material to get through a meal’s worth of conversation, let alone a warm-up session.

They don’t complain. (You would think I could learn from that example, but history suggests otherwise.)

We tried to be a bit contrarian recently and arrived at a nice West Des Moines restaurant before 6 p.m. They seemed proud to announce that the wait was already an hour and a half. So we tried again in the Johnston area and discovered a two-hour wait. We kept slinking eastward and found ourselves in Ankeny.

Delaware Avenue, which we usually consider crazy with traffic, seemed almost deserted by comparison with where we’d been. We parked, walked right into a Mexican restaurant, sat right down and ordered. In no time at all, the food arrived.

It was like a dream, but better, because there were margaritas.