Alright I have a big confession to make. And I'd like to thank Joe Flacco for helping me to muster up the courage and admit a dark secret.
For YEARS I treated the host stand like a parole hearing. “Yeah, my date’s running late.”
“She’s stuck at work.”
“Her plane got diverted to Newark.”
I’d stare at my phone like it owed me money, while the smell of seared steak and garlic butter tapped me on the shoulder.
The truth was pretty simple actually. It was just me, a menu, and a dumb little voice in my head that was embarrassed to say the words- table for one.
The night everything changed was a soggy Thursday evening in New York's West Village.
The spot- Via Carota.
The dining room was slammed. Resy was looking like a Taylor Swift ticket queue.
There I stood like a mammalucco, thinking a table was just going to magically open up for me at one of the hardest reservations to get in the city. But as luck would have it, the bartender gave me a little head tilt to the only open stool. I made my way over, sat down, ordered a negroni that snapped with cold, and watched a plate of coniglio fritto aka fried rabbit hit pass by me on a runners tray with a crisp skin crackle you can hear.
Ten minutes in, and I realized I had been playing this game on Hard Mode for no reason. Full menu. No wait. Actual conversation if I wanted it. Silence if I didn’t. Cheat code unlocked.
The game was officially changed.
Which brings me to Joe Flacco, patron saint of bailing shit teams and even shittier general managers out, and, apparently, the early bird special.
He said the guy eating alone at the bar is in heaven, and it hit me right between the appetizers. I felt that like I haven't felt anything in a long time.
It is blunt. It is funny. It is the truth dressed in sweatpants.
The solo bar seat is the one place in a busy week where you control the clock, the playbook, and the soundtrack.
Joe Flacco could not be more correct if he tried.
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