A couple of weeks ago, while I was in Tokyo, my old friend Kathy Cheng and I met up for lunch at Hakata Tempura Takao, a tempura-only restaurant on the seventh floor of the Shibuya 109 mall. Now, this mall was busy, just jammed with foreign tourists taking advantage of the incredible exchange rate on the yen, so we had to wait in line for a table. Thankfully, though, the restaurant had about eight stools outside where prospective patrons could relax on the way to their meal. Stool by stool, Kathy, her daughter, my wife, and I moved closer and closer to the entrance, until, 15 minutes later, we were invited in to a private room in the back. Success!

God, it felt so civilized. Imagine, providing a bit of comfort to your fellow human beings as they sacrifice their time just to have the opportunity to become your customers!

Now this is where I could reasonably be expected to compare this with the line culture that seems to have taken over much of the New York dining world. But so much has been written about that lately, and besides, Cathy and I talk about lines a bit on the latest, brand-new episode of the Shut Up ‘n Eat podcast.

Instead, what this one line reminded me was that I actually miss waiting for a restaurant table.

Waiting for a table was a constant in my childhood. I grew up in Western Massachusetts, and my family and I went out for dinner fairly often, mostly to Chinese and Italian restaurants throughout the Pioneer Valley. These weren’t special occasions, and the restaurants weren’t fancy; in other words, we wouldn’t make, or even think we’d need, reservations. Our clan of four (later, five) would roll up to Sze’s or Acqua Vitae on a Thursday evening and ask to be seated. On a calm night, we’d get seated. On a busy one, we’d be shown to a group of chairs near the host station.

And there we’d wait.

The wait could be short, or the wait could be long — interminable if you were, say, 9 years old and very hungry, or worse, the parents of three very hungry children under the age of 10. But my dad had a way of handling us kids: He told us stories. Waiting stories.

Now, all parents learn to tell their kids stories, usually at bedtime, when the tales often end as soon as the child’s eyes shut. Waiting stories had a different purpose, and different constraints. Waiting stories had to go on, and remain entertaining, for as long as the wait would last. Five minutes, fifteen minutes, half an hour — who knew when a table would be ready?

As I recall, my dad’s waiting stories revolved around three recurring franchises. One of them was about the Schmird birds, a flock of avians so filthy that their feathery schmutz befouled whichever community they migrated toward. But the other two were specifically about waiting, and so always felt particularly appropriate. One was about two rival restaurants, Speedy’s and Fat’s: The former would seat you before you’d arrived, present you with the check, and whisk your dinner away immediately after serving you, while the latter would present you with dish after dish, course after course, amuse-bouches and palate cleansers and innumerable delectable morsels, while the hosts refused your every request for the bill. Another franchise recounted the heroic efforts of restaurant staff to procure milk from a prized breed of cattle located high in the Himalaya mountains. Think Indiana Jones, but for dessert: “This milk belongs in an ice-cream sundae!” These stories could — and did — go on and on (and on) as necessary, hilarious details accumulating, until, finally, thankfully, they would be interrupted by a host’s “Your table is ready.”

Without getting too nostalgic, what I loved about waiting stories was the certainty they provided. Yes, you’d have to wait, and maybe wait far longer than you’d hoped or planned to, but still, they showed there was a civilized, entertaining way to deal with these delays — and, if you could be patient, your patience would be rewarded. There was never any worry that Sze’s would run out of moo shu pork, or that Acqua Vitae would find itself bereft of meatballs.

And so there’s maybe the biggest difference today: It’s not just the inhumanity of the line — or the brutality of the reservation systems — it’s that what awaits you at the head of the line may be no more humane. Cramped and crowded seating, 86’d menu items, a meal so rushed that the maître d’ of Speedy’s would bow his head in shame.

Now, I’m certainly aware of the economic factors that determine all of this today. Running a food business in New York City in 2026 is a lot harder than doing so in Northampton, Massachusetts, in 1985. Maybe there’s no real comparison to be made at this point. But I can’t help hoping we can find our way back to a more comfortable, more accommodating, more humane restaurant culture, one that rewards our childlike faith with full menus and space to spread out. Alas, I’m just a diner, not a restaurateur, economist, or politician; I don’t have a clever or practical fix. But I bet someone out there does, and it’s only a matter of time before things begin to improve for us all, diners and restaurateurs alike. How much time? I have no idea. But I’m willing to wait.

How do you handle waiting in a restaurant line? Tell us in the new restaurant culture channel of the Shut Up ‘n Eat community!