Reservation Required

The dark rolled in, and that canvas tent stopped being entertaining. I slipped off the marble table and scurried toward the tall wooden hostess podium guarding the patio entrance. Scrambling up the inner storage shelves, I hauled myself onto the polished top ledge. Sitting right in the amber glow of a streetlamp was a thick leather reservation ledger and a shiny brass service bell. I grabbed a fat red grease pencil from the groove and slashed out half a dozen dinner bookings with thick, spiteful strokes. To cap it off, I brought my heel down hard on the bell's button. *Ding!* The sharp chime bounced down the street. Enjoy sorting out tonight's seating.