“That table is reserved for paying customers,” the hostess at El Rincón de Coyoacán said coldly, folding her arms without even sparing the elderly man a glance.
He paused mid-step.
This was his third time visiting the bustling restaurant in Mexico City—and for the third time, he was met with the same quiet disdain.
With a slightly trembling hand, he pointed toward the small wooden table by the window—the one that always remained empty at eight in the morning, bathed in gentle sunlight.
“I’d like to sit there,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry, sir. That table requires a reservation,” the hostess replied curtly, already turning as if to guide him back toward the door.
Before she could act, a young waitress stepped out from the kitchen, balancing a heavy tray in her hands.