I ate at Table in the North End. I had a nice time.
erhaps you’ve heard about the recent brouhaha between North End restaurateur Jen Royle and would-be diner Trevor Chauvin-DeCaro. If not, you might be the exception. Chauvin-DeCaro’s post on X about the incident has received more than 24 million views, and the story has reached the UK press.
According to Chauvin-DeCaro, he had to call off a trip from New York to Boston at the last minute because he was hospitalized. He then used travel insurance to get his money back on reservations including one at Royle’s restaurant, Table, where a seven-course prix fixe dinner costs $125 per person. Reservations are made through Resy, where the cancellation policy currently reads: “72 HOURS. Same day cancelations and no-shows will be charged FULL PRICE.” Chauvin-DeCaro was charged $250 for his party of two.
His post shows an Instagram message he received from Royle. “I just wanted to personally thank you for screwing over my restaurant and my staff when you disputed your cancellation fee,” it says. “I really hope in the future you have more respect for restaurants, especially small businesses such as mine. Pathetic.”
Chauvin-DeCaro responded to express shock that she had tracked him down personally: “The decision to reach out to a customer with such a scolding and disparaging message is, frankly, astounding. Such actions not only damage the rapport you have with your patrons but also reflect poorly on your establishment’s professionalism and customer service ethos.” He told her he planned to share his experience.
It continues from there, with plenty for onlookers to dig into. “This story has everything,” as someone posted in the blizzard of comments. Royle has a history of similar confrontations. Was Chauvin-DeCaro in the hospital or was his train
delayed, or both? How do fee disputes and travel insurance work, even? If you’re the sort who enjoys drama, your deep dive awaits.
I am not the sort who enjoys drama, but I do enjoy dinner, and so last week I made reservations at Table. You’ll never believe what happened next.
I ate some food and had a nice time.
First, the reservation process: I found it clear, but I also came to it understanding how Table works. Anyone reserving through the website would also get a good sense of that, as it’s full of video and images of the group dining experience and the food. Clicking on “reservations” leads to a page that references the 72-hour cancellation policy. From there, one navigates to Resy. I am always the person who clicks the “read more” button, but anyone who doesn’t might miss explanations of the menu, pricing, seating arrangements, and cancellation policy. Even so, once date and time are selected, a screen informs customers of the cancellation policy, directs them to check it before booking, and lists the date and time by which they must cancel in order to avoid a fee of $125 per guest. Should someone reserve directly through the Resy app, the language around fees and cancellation are immediately available. Clicking on that final “reserve” button triggers yet another message about the cancellation policy before you hit “confirm.” Resy then sends an e-mail with more warnings about the policy.
All of this is to say, it would currently be difficult to make a reservation at Table without being well aware of the cancellation policy.
A friend and I brisk-walk to the restaurant, terrified we’ll be late and chucked out the door after being dressed down and fleeced of our $250. Instead, we walk into a snug, brick-lined room where we are welcomed, seated, and offered something to drink. The place is mostly full on a Thursday, with just a few empty seats. We’re here to eat a seven-course dinner, served familystyle for the members of each party: “It’s a marathon, not a sprint,” says one of the servers wearing a T-shirt with the motto “Come hungry, be friendly” on the back.
The staff here is indeed totally friendly — if anything, maybe slightly on edge, and who could blame them? The conflagration engulfing their workplace on social media, entirely theoretical to 99 percent of its participants, could at any moment decide to walk through the door: someone yelling insults, someone making a video to post, who knows. Royle herself is not in the house, which I know because she posted a video still of the dining room on X, with the caption: “I may be on vacation for two months, but I’m always watching. Full house tonight and all weekend.” I hope the people in the image are fine with being watched, and with their picture being posted.
There are two communal tables, so it’s like a dinner party, if dinner parties were kind of awkward because some guests are excited to make new friends and others would rather stick a fork in their eye than talk to strangers. So, to be more accurate, it’s like staying at a B&B. Or like going to a junior high school dance: If one person gets the party started, everyone else will follow. Otherwise, we’re all just clinging to the wall with the friends we rolled in with. The night we visit, people keep mostly to themselves. On one side of us, voluble and opinionated tech bros. On the other, a mother and son from out of town, with whom we strike up a delightful conversation late in the meal.
The food starts to arrive: Warm focaccia and whole roasted garlic in a little skillet, a fun retro start to the meal and delicious as it ever was. A wood board with slices of fresh mozzarella and grilled eggplant, with sprigs of basil and the unfortunate halved plum tomatoes of a New England winter. There were other things to do with these crunch monsters: chop them
All of this is to say, it would currently be difficult to make a reservation at Table without being well aware of the cancellation policy.
and toss in olive oil and vinegar, roast them into something palatable, never buy them in the first place . . . . The next course, artichoke risotto, makes up for it. Rich with mascarpone, it’s almost like dessert. A follow-up of beans with grilled octopus arrives, a decent version in a city full of great grilled octopus dishes. We are starting to feel full, and excited for the intermezzo of fruit sorbet. Then it’s on to meatballs in marinara, and the one real stinker of the night: cheese tortellini the size of baby fists, heavy, tough, and tasteless. For dessert: gelato-filled profiterole with a little pitcher of chocolate sauce. The cocktails look good, but I drink a glass of wine, steered to the nebbiolo by a staffer. My biggest complaint about Table is the noise level, and I don’t particularly mind noise; right across the table from each other, we still have to yell to be heard.
My takeaway from the meal: I wouldn’t return for the food, but my experience was mostly pleasant, and if someone felt drawn here by and for that experience, they would in all likelihood leave satisfied.
I also believe it is fair to expect people who cancel to abide by clearly stated policies. According to 2021 data from reservation platform OpenTable, 28 percent of Americans said they hadn’t shown up for a reservation in the previous year. For Table, which has 32 seats and two seatings on Saturdays, two cancellations means a reduction of about 3 percent in business for the night. Restaurant margins average 3 to 5 percent; regular cancellations or no-shows can be a death knell for a business. (Time will tell whether fiery viral exchanges with customers can too.)
That said, there ought to be a middle ground on such policies. Charging the full fee is a refusal to acknowledge that life happens to other people as well as to you. Most restaurants charge a fraction of what the bill would have been, and while it hurts to pay it (been there), it feels like an appropriate acknowledgment of business lost rather than a robbery. For Table, judging by the roller coaster Yelp reviews, cancellation fees have been an ongoing headache. The angst could simply be avoided, by switching from a reservation model to a ticketing one. Guests buy a ticket to dinner that works like any other ticket to a sporting event or concert: Use it, lose it, or sell it, as Chauvin-DeCaro says he did with the Madonna ticket that was bringing him to Boston in the first place.
After eating at Table, I’m left with one question. Why did this particular story command so much attention?
As an astute colleague pointed out, it has a villain, and everybody loves a story with a villain. But who is the villain? Today, it would seem to be Royle, who tracked down a customer to berate him for doing something well within his rights. A few years back, however, she might have been cheered as a champion — for small business owners operating on thin margins, for her workers who lost $50 in tips. And Chauvin-DeCaro, so civil and measured in his reply, is the wronged party here. Yet, after Royle lashed out, he decided to put her on blast in return. “Karma, baby!,” cry the onlookers, enjoying their daily bit of blood sport. I guess.
What does the Table incident tell us about this moment in American hospitality? After the COVID pandemic shut down restaurants, public sympathy for the industry grew. Many made a conscious effort to support independent restaurants, ordering takeout, leaving big tips, expressing profuse gratitude. Glossy food magazines ran stories with headlines like “The customer is not always right.” Now, we have largely settled into a new normal. We’ve moved past the moment where we’re just grateful to be sitting in a restaurant at all. It’s expensive to eat out, and if diners have a better understanding of why that is, it can still knock the wind out of a body when the bill comes. What do customers expect for their money? What should they expect? As the world shifts out of crisis mode, diners’ sympathies may be shifting too.