On a recent afternoon, my book club and I were grazing a selection of meze at a Mediterranean cafe in the Bay Area suburbs. We had cleared the hummus and olives and devoured the cheese and crackers. What remained on the platter, begging to be eaten, was a half triangle of spanakopita and dollop of muhammara, which everyone had declared their favorite.

As my friends discussed the author’s use of magic realism, I became hyperfocused on what would’ve been the perfect last bite for whoever was lucky enough to chomp it. I could almost feel the crispy phyllo dough shattering in my hand as I dragged it through the final dollop of spicy red pepper spread. I considered making a move and noticed our server hovering in the corner, watching our table.

Suddenly, right out from under our noses and before we could stop her, she confiscated the platter holding that precious last bite. Was it time to leave? I whipped around to see if a line had suddenly formed for a table. Nope, it was a Sunday at 3 p.m. Was there a reservation coming? If so, there were plenty of empty tables. I considered running after the server — lecturing her on the significance of the last bite — but she had already dropped the precious goods into the bye-bye bin. It was gone. 

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This has happened to me on countless occasions — and in all kinds of restaurants. At a chaat house in Pleasanton, a server came by to ask if we needed anything else before taking away the last of the bhel puri despite our half-full lassis. Forty minutes into dinner at a trendy sit-down restaurant in San Francisco, a busser whisked away the final puddle of panna cotta before my bestie could spoon it.........

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