Is it just ME?

Or are waiters too fast to whip your wine away?

THE waiter is hovering. I wrap my hand around the stem of my wine glass and swill the contents theatrically. He gives a slight nod and moves on. My friend shows me a photo of her grandchild, I put the glass down and — bang! — it’s gone.

‘Excuse me,’ I blurt out. ‘I’m not finished yet!’

The waiter shudders slightly and returns my glass, containing a teeny drop of Riesling. ‘Who’d want this?’ his expression clearly says, the picture of millennial disdain.

What is it about over-efficient waiters who seize a glass with the very last delicious drop of wine in it?

Young men (and it is mostly men) need to learn more about mature women in restaurants. Dear garcon, it might look, to you, like a glass ready for the dishwasher; but to us, it’s a symbol of a life well-lived.

Fiftysomething women love delayed gratification, being rewarded for having saved something, whether the last sip of coffee or the final crumbs of a dessert. We love measuring out our pleasure, spoon by spoon.

We eat delicately around the egg on the Fiorentina pizza, leaving it to the very last minute to plunge in our fork as the golden yolk explodes. We may even take our after-dinner mint home to enjoy later.

We sip and savour and drain our glass slowly, relishing every last drop.

But in this gentle act of resistance, we are so often thwarted by the waiter.

Hell-bent on rushing us home, he’ll strip our tablecloth as we’re splitting the bill. Meals end up like a game of chess as you try to outwit the waiter. So I’m digging in my heels. I don’t care if you’ve got a date later. Or a bus to catch. Go and annoy the men by the window. I’m not letting go of my glass.

Hellbent on rushing us home, waiters strip the tablecloth while we’re still splitting the bill