User's Guide

We Submit Ourselves to PrimeTime Tables

The dream: Esca, unoccupied.Photo: John Saponara
If you’ve read Eater in the past couple of weeks, you’ve heard of Primetimetables.com, a scalping-type service that gets you tough-to-score reservations for a flat fee. It’s true that the restaurant world could soon experience something similar to what’s happened on Broadway, where good seats at hot shows can go for as much as $500 – it’s simple market economics, and you don’t have to be a Marxist to see the downside. But it’s also true that $45 will get you a table at a top restaurant if you call that day before noon. Heady stuff. We thought we’d give it a whirl – see how well the system works, and just how dirty we felt afterward.

At 9 a.m. Saturday, like a Madame introducing her girls, the site displayed a long list of restaurants ready to take us on. Not all of the most desirable tables were present and accounted for: Babbo, Per Se, and Jean Georges were conspicuously absent. But there was space for four at L’Atelier de Jöel Robuchon, Eleven Madison Park, the Modern, and Blue Hill, among others. We’re two-for-eight types, and the only deuce on offer happened to be a 7:30 spot at Esca. Nice. We made our “reservation” under the name Andy Shernoff, the punk rocker turned sommelier who would be dining with us, and PayPal’d in our payment. So far, so good. At three that afternoon, we got an apologetic phone call from a man with a thick French accent. “We were not able to change zee name in time, sir,” the suave Gaul informed us. Shernoff and your Grub Street editor would be answering to the name “Samuel Shulman.” (PTT books tables under dummy names, which they’re supposed to change when you pony up.) When we sauntered into Esca, which was packed with chumps who had called a month in advance, we felt pretty special about having elbowed our way in. But then the fear crept in: What if the phony name doesn’t work? What if Esca is on to us? What if Samuel Shulman is on the terrorist watch list? When the hostess finally came by and said, much to our relief, “Mr. Shulman, your table is ready,” we were looking around for people to high-five. But the next day, with the wine drunk, the alliterative cover name cast aside like so many used tablecloths, we grew contemplative. If plebes like us are willing to pay for a table, where does this all end? How long until we’re told that 30 percent of our food budget is a reasonable amount to devote to getting seats? We fear it’s too late. Our next date will no doubt cost a couple extra Jacksons. But then again, it might be worth it 

We Submit Ourselves to PrimeTime Tables