Yesterday after
lunch I was struggling with the restaurant doors so I could leave (Mary had
gone to get the car), when one of the wait staff rushed to help me, apologetic
because he’d been at the other end of the restaurant when he saw me. He told me
his grandmother is in a wheelchair and he’s recently been taking her around. He
was surprised at how hard it is to go a lot of places, though he said I
probably already knew that. We chatted for a moment, and I thanked him. I appreciated
his open friendliness more than I can say.
Truly, that’s the
reaction my walker elicits from most people—genuine courtesy and caring, a
willingness to open doors and wait patiently for me, a smile, a friendly word
of reassurance. Most people are genuinely good, and I’m more convinced of it
every day.
But I’ve had some
experiences that made me think wait staff in some restaurants don’t want the
reputation of their establishment touched by the handicapped. It’s not chi chi
or whatever. Recently friend Nancy and I went to an upscale wine bar. She, who
had a knee replacement yesterday, was on a cane and walked with obvious difficulty
and pain. I was on my walker. Next day she emailed me that she was still
chuckling over the dismayed looks that greeted us when we entered, and I
recalled that our waiter was more than a bit patronizing—when he paid attention
to us.
One night not long
before that I went to a new Mexican place at Clearfork, the now “place to be”
in West Fort Worth, with Subie and Phil. While Subie parked the car, Phil and I
went in, me on the walker and he with Porter, his seeing-eye dog. Again, those
astounded looks on the staff faces. I explained that we had a reservation.
After a moment’s confusion, they said, “Here take this table.” It was one right
next to the door and in the bar area rather than the main dining section. And
it was noisy.
Subie has more
chutzpah than I. She immediately announced it was unacceptable and sought out a
staff person, who said, “Well, if you’d had a reservation.” Subie held firm and
told her we did. Eventually we were moved to the main dining area, where carpet
softened the sound. Subie said matter-of-factly, “It’s the dog. Happens all the
time.” That “troublesome” dog, Porter, crawled under the table, and you’d never
have known he was there the whole meal.
Those two
incidents, so different from the reception I’m used to, stuck in my mind. I’m
not sure what to make of them, except that maybe restaurants ought to do a lot
better about giving their staffs sensitivity training. I have been with Subie
and Phil when hostesses tried to turn them away because of the dog, apparently
unaware of the ADA rules.
There was the
time, however, that Subie and Phil got up and left Pacific Table without giving
me my walker. The host, who was standing nearby, said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take
care of you.” I asked if they’d feed me, and he said for sure. Of course, Subie
and Phil barely made it to the door before they had that “Oops” moment. But it
shows some restaurant staff have their hearts and heads in the right places.
I do keep a list
of places I won’t go again and won’t recommend to friends. And Jordan really
wants to write a blog—well, dictate it to me—about the lack of accessibility in
Fort Worth. Our pet peeve: a restaurant which has a nice, long ramp—of herringbone
brick. I challenge you to take a walker up a herringbone brick walkway. And in
a lot of restaurants, the restrooms are not accessible.
Seeing the world
from behind a walker gives you a whole new vision. I’m not crying “Poor me.”
Far from it. I lead a full and active life, with my walker. But I think the
world could do a lot better.
