Too long spent waiting in a restaurant for food, left MoL uselessly wondering what happened to all those Beethoven-style glasses men used to wear some years ago and don’t now. MoL faces a dilemma, liking restaurants, disliking being waited on (too much existential performing). The good thing about the regular English pub was the minimum transaction, leaving you in charge of your own time: you ordered your drink yourself, paid for it, without having to tip, and went and sat undisturbed until it was time for the next round, but since the smoking ban most pubs have become restaurants in disguise and those still dedicated to drinking have taken away the seats because drinkers standing drink faster than drinkers sitting, which means more sales. Only plain Mexican restaurants seem to get the balance right between good timing and invisible service. Predictably those reactionary petrol-heads on Top Gear hate Mexican. Tastes like sick, said the terrible Clarkson. Tastes like refried sick, said the somewhat wittier May. Anyway MoL says being waited upon usually means you get to wait.