Alright, ‘fifteen minutes.’ That’s what they tell you. ‘Fifteen minutes for a table.’ But what does that even *mean*? Is it a literal, stopwatch-accurate fifteen minutes? Or is it a fifteen minutes in the abstract? A philosophical fifteen minutes. Because sometimes it’s ten, and you’re thrilled. Sometimes it’s twenty, and you’re quietly seething. But they *said* fifteen! It’s like they’re managing expectations by under-promising and over-delivering… or just flat-out guessing. And why do I always fall for it? Every single time. ‘Fifteen minutes.’ Sure, okay. I’ll just stand here, subtly checking my watch, wondering if the universe’s definition of ‘fifteen minutes’ aligns with mine. It never does.
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