Taking a Reservation With a Grain of Salt

There's a tapas place in my neighborhood that I want to check out and invited a new friend to join me tonight.

Yelp.com suggested I make a reservation. So be it. Here's how it all unfolded.

::ring ring::

Guy: Tapas joint in Washington Heights, how can I help you?

So far so good.

Me: Hi. I'd like to make a reservation, please.
Guy: Ok. What's your first name?
Me: Sarah.
Guy: Could you repeat that?
Me: Sure, it's Sa-rah.
Guy: Still not getting you, one more time?
Me: Seriously? Saaaa-ruhhh.
Guy: Hmm. Maybe spell it the name?

The name? Was this guy insinuating that I had some bananas name with an unfathomable pronunciation only dogs and the Na'vi species could understand?

My name isn't Kaixin or Sheboygan or even Zanzibar (all stupid names that some of my stupid friends have named their stupid children). Sarah is one of the most common girl's names around; there were EIGHT Sara(h)s in my high school gym class. Eight! How was this guy not getting it?

The exchange (or lack thereof) continued.

Me: ::sigh:: S-A-R-
Guy: Wait, start over!

At this point I began wondering if he was just f*cking with me.

Me: OK. I was now trying to not flip the f*ck out. It's a Wednesday night, this reservation isn't even necessary. It's ... Esssssss. Ayyyyyy. Arrrrrr. Ayyyy. Ayyyych.
Guy: Oh, I just don't know about this one.
Me: I think we'll just forget it then.
F*ck tapas. What even is the point? Small plates?! You're starving at the end having spent $70 on nine bites of food.
Guy: Oh no! Just come in and maybe we can get to the bottom of this name of yours!!

I will, dammit. I want to see this guy. And he better f*cking be Lou Ferrigno.