I’m a positive thinker, but I’m also jaded. It’s a good balance, and the combination works for me as far as getting through life, but it doesn’t always work in restaurants when I sit down for a glass of wine and some dinner. I’m not sure if it’s just me, and I’m truly cursed, or if it’s the fact I’m a woman sitting next to a man.
When I’m with my man, it doesn’t matter where we are. Sitting with him, I never get poured as much wine. Even if we’ve ordered a bottle and the waiter pours the wine while we watch him, or the server sets down the wine that we’ve separately ordered by the glass, I always receive less. I don’t get it. At first it was funny—as in annoying and peculiar. After a good amount of time passed, with the same regularity of unfairness, I really began to take notice. Then I started documenting it.
I’m a woman who grew up in apartments in Manhattan and later graduated to condos and co-ops. This is the life I know, and no matter how many condos I live in or own, I never learned how to cook. Or learned how to stay home. I rely on restaurants, and I’m always treated very well when I’m sitting there by myself. So I’m confused by this perplexing dynamic.
It’s only been the last few years that I’ve paid full attention to this unfair phenomenon. Perhaps this was always the case and I was oblivious, but whomever waits on us, male or female, whether it be at a bar, a regulation table, tiki style sand areas with cool looking waitresses, rooftop randomness, private dining rooms, picnic bullshit on the west coast, five-star restaurants in New York, stupid Hawaiian luaus, Vegas for Christ sakes—you name it, I get poured less wine than the guy sitting next to me. Even in New England, where everything is considered equal.
Ron, my significant other, didn’t believe me at first. Month after month of effectively proving my point, he finally saw the obvious. The injustice didn’t make sense. Why do I get poured fewer ounces of wine than he does? I initially joked about how the server or bartender was so taken with my astonishing beauty that he or she forgot to pay attention to the important details—MY POUR. But that line got old, and Ron always thought it was terribly amusing, as if he were in on the joke. Then I started getting annoyed with him, and glaring angrily, and he didn’t find it as funny anymore.
So the fact remains. Many times a week, in various restaurants, I compare my glass to his. These days I barely look at him before trading glasses. He’s cool with it because it’s been proven. I proved it! Yet, THE POUR reared its ugly head again this past month in the lovely cold city of San Francisco. I won’t name this particular pretentious restaurant, at least not yet, although I can’t wait to—maybe the next blog—but the server who first greeted us, poured Ron a full glass of champagne and me just a few sips. Mine was a third of Ron’s pour. What the fuck?
Ron still thought this was hysterical, as I had been building my case for this creepy injustice for a while now. I didn’t find it as funny. Again, I simply took his glass, gave him mine, and glared. Honestly, I don’t know what to do going forward. How will I combat this awful prejudice? I’m a creature of habit. I like exploring new cities, as long as those cities are located in America. (In London, I also experienced similar unfair service.) Whatever it is, let’s put a stop to it. How dare someone pour me, of all people, less wine?