At approximately 2200 hours on 11 MAR 2011, I entered Buffalo Wild Wings on Dupont Road in Fort Wayne with a friend and a friend of his whom I had only met that night.
The restaurant was not busy, so we quickly were seated at the table closest to the north east corner of the building (not counting the booths along the wall). Each of us removed our jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. While we decided what to order, we took turns making a trip to wash up; I went last.
We placed and received our orders. Around the time we'd consumed about three quarters of our meals, a man who appeared to be a manager—though he never introduced himself or identified himself as such—approached our table and knelt beside the empty side of the table. Speaking in a lowered voice, he asked how we were all doing. We were doing fine, we assured him. He then moved on to his primary topic of discussion.
Unfortunately, I did not record this conversation, so I cannot provide exact quotes, but they express the sentiment and flow of the conversation.
Addressing me directly, the presumed manager stated that he did not know if I was a cop or if I had a permit. Then he informed me that he had received word from more than one patron that the sight of my openly displayed, holstered sidearm made them uncomfortable. He asked if there was any way I could cover it up.
I politely declined.
Pressing, he then asked if I would go place my sidearm in my vehicle.
Again, I politely declined.
The manager continued to reiterate these two requests multiple times. "Sir, I'm not sure why you're arguing with me. I'm politely asking you to simply cover it up or go put it in your car."
Each time, I politely declined. "I understand that. I will not be doing either of those things."
At one point in the midst of this, our waitress, Kayla, brought another iced tea to the table. Seeing her manager, smiling, she asked jovially, "Are you bothering my table?" He nodded yes and continued his requests; she turned and left.
"I just want to make my other customers comfortable."
"Why don't you take this opportunity to explain to them that I am not doing anything wrong, that I am not acting suspiciously, and that there is no reason to be uncomfortable?"
"I'm just asking you to cover it up or go put it in your car."
"I will not be doing either of those things. But I'll tell you what, if you want me to leave, I will comply with that request. But if you ask me to leave, I will not be paying for this food. Would you like me to leave?"
"I can just write down your plate number. But, I just want you to cover it up and go put it in your car. Would you like a cop to come take care of this?"
I was unconcerned with his threat. "I'm not doing anything illegal, but if you ask me to leave, I'll honor that request because this is your establishment."
At no time did this man ask, instruct, or imply that I should leave. After several rounds of him asking and me declining, he stood and declared that he would be calling a cop to "come take care of this. They'll be here in a minute."
As the presumed manager walked away, the friend of my friend looked at me and asked what that was all about. Sarcastically, I replied, "Somebody is unhappy that I have my gun visible to the entire restaurant," and I gestured with my left hand at the dining area. Then came an ironic remark, "Oh, I didn't even know you had a gun!"
You see, the sidearm was on my right hip, towards the corner, and was not visible to more than the three tables/booths along the wall in the corner. My own friend knows I always carry, often openly, but the topic of whether I was carrying had not come up since the time I met his friend.
We took our time finishing our meals, and when we were nearly done with our meals, I asked Kayla for our checks. We paid for our meals and then left. The time was 2300 hours.
No cops arrived.
But I won't be returning.
The restaurant was not busy, so we quickly were seated at the table closest to the north east corner of the building (not counting the booths along the wall). Each of us removed our jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. While we decided what to order, we took turns making a trip to wash up; I went last.
We placed and received our orders. Around the time we'd consumed about three quarters of our meals, a man who appeared to be a manager—though he never introduced himself or identified himself as such—approached our table and knelt beside the empty side of the table. Speaking in a lowered voice, he asked how we were all doing. We were doing fine, we assured him. He then moved on to his primary topic of discussion.
Unfortunately, I did not record this conversation, so I cannot provide exact quotes, but they express the sentiment and flow of the conversation.
Addressing me directly, the presumed manager stated that he did not know if I was a cop or if I had a permit. Then he informed me that he had received word from more than one patron that the sight of my openly displayed, holstered sidearm made them uncomfortable. He asked if there was any way I could cover it up.
I politely declined.
Pressing, he then asked if I would go place my sidearm in my vehicle.
Again, I politely declined.
The manager continued to reiterate these two requests multiple times. "Sir, I'm not sure why you're arguing with me. I'm politely asking you to simply cover it up or go put it in your car."
Each time, I politely declined. "I understand that. I will not be doing either of those things."
At one point in the midst of this, our waitress, Kayla, brought another iced tea to the table. Seeing her manager, smiling, she asked jovially, "Are you bothering my table?" He nodded yes and continued his requests; she turned and left.
"I just want to make my other customers comfortable."
"Why don't you take this opportunity to explain to them that I am not doing anything wrong, that I am not acting suspiciously, and that there is no reason to be uncomfortable?"
"I'm just asking you to cover it up or go put it in your car."
"I will not be doing either of those things. But I'll tell you what, if you want me to leave, I will comply with that request. But if you ask me to leave, I will not be paying for this food. Would you like me to leave?"
"I can just write down your plate number. But, I just want you to cover it up and go put it in your car. Would you like a cop to come take care of this?"
I was unconcerned with his threat. "I'm not doing anything illegal, but if you ask me to leave, I'll honor that request because this is your establishment."
At no time did this man ask, instruct, or imply that I should leave. After several rounds of him asking and me declining, he stood and declared that he would be calling a cop to "come take care of this. They'll be here in a minute."
As the presumed manager walked away, the friend of my friend looked at me and asked what that was all about. Sarcastically, I replied, "Somebody is unhappy that I have my gun visible to the entire restaurant," and I gestured with my left hand at the dining area. Then came an ironic remark, "Oh, I didn't even know you had a gun!"
You see, the sidearm was on my right hip, towards the corner, and was not visible to more than the three tables/booths along the wall in the corner. My own friend knows I always carry, often openly, but the topic of whether I was carrying had not come up since the time I met his friend.
We took our time finishing our meals, and when we were nearly done with our meals, I asked Kayla for our checks. We paid for our meals and then left. The time was 2300 hours.
No cops arrived.
But I won't be returning.