Last night, my favorite restaurant refused to bring my friend a second glass of wine. They said they would bring us the check and we had to pay and leave. I was staring at a full glass of wine and I really wanted to enjoy it with my friend. They told us that we were only allowed to have a table for 90 minutes and our time was up. To be fair, yes, they did say this when we were seated. However, it also took a long time to get our food. And what exactly is the harm in letting someone finish a glass of wine with their dining companion? We weren’t sitting there drinking tap water. But the waitress said the manager had made the decision and of course we would never blame someone for doing their job as they are told. Bewildered and flustered, we did dutifully pay up. I hurried to gulp down my Primitivo. Sadly, I knew this would be my last meal at Gazzo.

I looked around at everyone else enjoying a leisurely dinner and Julie and I noted they had all been seated before us. But they were younger by decades and most had tattoos and non-corporate haircuts. And that´s when the feeling hit me that this could be ageism.

Julie turned to me as we were walking down the street and said, “I have lived in Berlin for 40 years and I have never been kicked out of a restaurant like that before.” I have. This was the second time Gazzo had told me to leave. That first time, I had really hoped it was a one-time thing. My friend, Keke, and I had been enjoying an early dinner at 5pm on a Saturday in March. We were also hastily whisked out after our 90 minutes was up by their calculation. It also felt jarring and rude. Keke said, “I am never coming back here.”

Is age-based discrimination what happened to me twice with two older female friends? I can´t prove anything, of course. But I am 46. My friend, Keke, is 58. Julie is 67.

I wanted to go to Gazzo last night to celebrate getting my first mammogram over earlier that week. As I sat there on Friday evening, being shoved out, I thought, “This is really making me feel old. Even more than the mammogram.”

I have been to Gazzo about 25 times and spent almost 800 Euros there. I do think it is the best pizza I have eaten in Berlin, but unfortunately, I do not wish to go there again. I do not feel welcome in the place I used to go to feel comfortable. I went to Gazzo on good days, but especially on my lowest days. It used to make me feel better. That is all past tense now. When people came to visit me in Berlin, it was the first spot I had to take them to. Not anymore. I even wrote about them in my last blog post about how much their quality impressed me. To say I feel betrayed by this place that I have recommended over and over again is an understatement.

It’s okay. The thing about youth is that it all succumbs to time. One day all the tattooed cool young people will be over 40. The women, like myself, will suddenly discover how the world not only ignores you but actively tries to push you out of all arenas of life. One day, all the tattoos will be melting into drooping, saggy skin. Maybe they’ll be asked to leave their favorite restaurant for lingering too long in the presence of kids. They will not be able to prove that is the definite reason they were asked to leave, but they will trust the feeling that whether it is gender or age or possibly that they are not white (as I am not), that they were not welcome. Gazzo serves good pizza. But there are countless other places to eat.