On a normal spring evening, you’d be looking at a 30-minute wait, at least, for sidewalk seating at Parc. You’d wait, too, because you’d know what you were waiting for was worth it. The quintessential Rittenhouse Square dining experience: a table for two, a bottle of sparkling wine in an ice bucket, and, of course, one of their award-winning bread baskets.

On a normal spring evening, you would browse the bistro-inspired menu and decide between the steak frites and the steak au poivre. Your date would order the salade Lyonnais, and, if it was a second or third date, you’d ask the waiter to bring a dozen oysters to start off with. You’d eat leisurely and people-watch and when the bill came it would be something like $165, before tip. Higher than you’d expected, but not outrageous. Then you’d suggest a walk around Rittenhouse Square Park, where the two of you would digest, while discussing your personal and professional aspirations.

That’s the way it would happen on a normal spring evening. It’s definitely not what happened yesterday evening, when almost a thousand protestors marched down Spruce Street, right up to the tables of the Parc dinner crowd, holding signs that called for and end to white supremacy, and chanting that “White silence is white consent.”

The diners clearly hadn’t anticipated being so involved. Maybe they thought the march would flow past them like a parade, or some interesting exhibit. An opportunity for photos, and a catalyst for some stirring and provocative dinner conversation later on, when the protestors had gone. Instead, they were confronted; accused of being complicit in, and having benefitted from an unfair system. A tough charge to defend yourself against, with a plate of trout amandine in front of you.

A protestor and patron exchange opinions in front of Parc.

Some diners did their best to look unfazed. A few women were visibly shaken. A drink was spilled, and the police intervened. Luckily, the general mood of the protest was peaceful and positive. The crowd sensed things were getting out of hand, and, confident they had made their point, began to march on.

But had they made their point? I went back to Parc a few minutes later, and the atmosphere wasn’t unlike a dinner cruise that had made it through a patch of rough seas. Everything was, for the most part, back to normal. The laughter and the clinking of glasses had resumed, defiantly now.