I try to stay away from hip, trendy places because they tend to be frequented by the worst kind of assholes: the blissfully unaware trend followers whose mustachioed faces are outfitted with smug smiles and whose bodies are adorned with the ugliest thing they could dig out at the vintage clothing store. Here's a tip; ascots should only be worn by a gay billionaire while sitting in his pipe smoking room. Pun unintentionally intended.
Anyway, I found myself at this venue because a friend's band was playing downstairs. He cautioned me to make reservations because this place fills up with assholes pretty quickly. My girlfriend heeded his advice and made a reservation for 9:30 PM, setting in motion a chain of events that will inevitably lead to FBI and Homeland Security Agents dragging me out of a bunker somewhere in the foothills of Idaho asking me about those packages I've been mailing to hipsters posing as gay billionaires. Just kidding, thanks to new legislation, I'll be whisked off by FBI and Homeland Security Agents to a secure facility somewhere in the foothills of Turkmenistan interrogating me about what I meant by 'packages' as soon as I click 'Post.'
Moving along. The reservation was made early in the week. The Beehive emailed my lady friend to confirm the reservation. She confirmed via email. They then called the day of to confirm the reservation again. She confirmed over the phone that we would be there. As fate might have it, we showed up at The Beehive around 9:20 PM on the night of our reservation. We waited as the doorman attended to patrons ahead of us in line. After a few minutes, he asked for the name on the reservation, checked our IDs and radioed inside. A moment later, we were directed to enter and speak with the hostess. The hostess checked the reservation list again and stated it would be a few minutes but we could wait at the bar. It was now 9:26. The bar was crowded so we stood about 10 feet away from the hostess table and waited, never leaving her line of sight.
While we were waiting, I scanned the room and started making judgements. It was mostly filled with the aforementioned kind of assholes I described above. Maybe I'm too quick to jump to assumptions, but I'm pretty sure every table had at least one conversation about Kafka. Opposite of where we were standing, there was a video being projected on a brick wall showing vintage reels of food preparation. 'This place is so cool!' The Beehive exclaimed about itself. I was honestly expecting the food footage to be spliced with high school yearbook photos of The Beehive being caught smoking in the bathroom. The Beehive doesn't conform to society's rules, except for the ones it deems hip.
We watched as several of the people who were in line ahead of us were gathered by staff members holding menus and brought to their tables. We continued to wait. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. 20 minutes. We were now watching what appeared to be people walking right in and being seated. After about a half hour, my girlfriend went up to the hostess table, which was now occupied by some lady with a stupid hat from a Roarin' 20's flophouse that screamed, 'I can't wait to get back to my boyfriend's apartment in Allston where he's jamming with his band. They sound like late Elvis Costello combined with early Lou Reed mixed with Euro synth pop and a sprinkle of go fuck yourself.' - in addition to the original hostess. My girlfriend inquired if our table was ready. Stupid Hat replied, 'Oh, we've been calling you non stop for the past half hour! We'll have a table ready for you near the bathroom as soon as possible.' The bathroom? Why would you even mention that's where the table is located? I resisted the urge to barricade the exits and use her hat as kindling to burn the place to the ground.
Here's what happened: They called my girlfriend's phone to let us know the table was ready. However, she forgot her phone at home. Our bad. But, we confirmed the reservation twice. The doorman checked us off his list. He radioed people inside. The hostess checked us off her list. There was radio communication happening and multiple lists being checked off. They knew we were there. The original hostess and Stupid Hat were staring at us standing there while we waited. I can't emphasize enough how we never left their line of sight, not even to use the bathroom. Neither of them could have walked over to us to notify us that the table that we confirmed reserved was ready? I know The Beehive doesn't want to come off all low class and Chili's-like having to call somebody's name out, but seriously, no one could have come over discreetly? Enraged, we just left. When we got home, my girlfriend checked her phone. Two missed calls from The Beehive. In Stupid Hat math, that must qualify as non stop. The first call time was 9:30 PM. To The Beehive's credit our table was ready on time, but are you kidding me? That was 4 minutes after we walked in; we were RIGHT THERE. read more