ON THE BAR.
This usually goes out on Monday, but I had to bring my bebe to the pediatrician, so it… didn’t (she’s fine). I almost started with an apology for the delay, but I’m not sorry for taking care of my kid! (Giving myself permission to choose literally anything over work is perhaps not the incisive dismantling of capitalism I’d like, but it’s a start.)
The past ten days have absolutely kicked my ass, and I’m relearning a lesson I’ve learned many times before, always the hard way: I have a body. As I reckon with the myth of working motherhood, I’m thinking a lot about all the ways in which our culture’s frameworks for work and parenting are to blame for my current state of what can only be called absolute bodily chaos. I’m hoping a few days in Maine next week will help us reconnect and figure out a path forward together (one in which I promise not to work 13 days in a row and my body agrees to digest literally anything). Living within the limitations of our physical vessels is informing this week’s newsletter. Hope you like it.
XOXO
Lauren
P.S. We have a lot of new subscribers, thanks to a mention in Not Drinking Poison! Welcome, new pals. And thanks, Aaron, for the boost (and the hot goss).
WHAT I’M READING
The Hidden Hospitality Hazards When You’re Too Big for the Bar, by Brad Thomas Parsons in his newsletter, Last Call, originally published in VinePair.
(Illustration: Danielle Grinberg for VinePair)
I thought a lot about being physically in a space when I was building Rebel; as a very short person, there are a lot of design features in the regular world that make my life challenging (being an adult woman whose feet dangle in many chairs does not engender the kind of confidence most of us desire for ourselves), and I wanted my bar to be comfortable for me, for once.
That didn’t happen, because the contractor refused to build things the way I wanted them—”bar height” is bar height, he argued. (And of course he’s right, but also, free will is available to us.) In a way, though, it worked out for the best, because having a traditional bar height bar—not the Lauren-size version I was hoping for—allowed me to buy the traditional bar height bar stools we have, and while I didn’t buy them because of their wide seats, I’ve been told by many people who appreciate a wider seat that they are extremely comfortable and make them feel very welcome.
The first time someone commented on the seat, I was both very happy and very suddenly aware of all the things I likely hadn’t considered when designing the bar. We’ve gotten mostly positive feedback over the years, but I think a lot about this stuff now. I’m a big fan of benches for seating, because they’re a flexible format. I like mismatched, lightweight, ad hoc tables and chairs that can be easily and readily moved around without creating a visual cue that something has been altered in an effort to accommodate. We’ve been criticized at Dear Annie for having Ikea tables, but a) Ikea tables are what I can afford, and b) Ikea tables weigh like 3 lbs and say, “Hey, this is a very low-stakes environment, move shit around as much as you need to.” I hope that a few Ikea rounds are more welcoming than the heavy-duty booths and tables—often bolted into the floor, as Parsons describes—that have become de rigueur in new bars and restaurants.
As is the case with everything in hospitality, this goes beyond my feet touching the floor or Parsons’ ability to sit in a booth. From his newsletter:
“What has affected me more than the stigma toward overweight guests at bars and restaurants is often reflected through the unintentional lack of hospitality within the room itself — the chairs, the stools, the booths, and the narrow pathway between tables. Bars have always been my sanctuary, a democratic community where everyone is welcome to disappear among the crowd. But when you literally can’t fit in, you’re left with nowhere else to go.”
For all of our positioning about equity and accessibility in this industry, I wonder how many of us think about building spaces that are more than just ADA compliant (and how many of us would admit how much eye rolling happens about meeting that minimum standard during buildouts). Can a traditional dining room really be a hospitable one, if we’re considering a wide range of body types? Why do high tops, offered most often to people without reservations because they’re generally considered inferior seating, still exist? And would it kill us to print larger font menus for older folks, instead of making them turn on their phone flashlights in the middle of our dimly lit dining rooms? (This last question is directed at me and my notorious affinity for lighting that barely qualifies as lighting. Let he without sin, blah blah.)
I recently went to a beautiful new spot in the South End and was seated at a sumptuous high-top banquette thing that turned my toddler-esque experience of simply sitting up to eleven. The seat was so shallow, my legs were simultaneously dangling from and slipping off the ivory velvet—I think in order to remain upright, I would have had to perform a sort of wall sit maneuver, which would have been great for my quads but bad for having dinner, which is what I was there to do. We moved to the bar and had a very nice time, but it did make me wonder, how did a whole team of designers let that happen? Did they try sitting on this thing? Were they all tall, with tiny butts? How do you design a place where there is a 100% chance of people sitting and manage to create a whole section that will force most people into a non-consensual leg day?
I was reminded of an old-school approach to restaurant design that involves making the seats intentionally uncomfortable so guests don’t linger and it’s easier to capture the increased revenue that comes from turning tables over. Briefly, a really devastating thought crossed my mind: Do they not want us to be comfortable? Do they not want us here at all?
Wait, the Cheapest Bottle on a Wine List Costs How Much Now?, by Eliza Dumais for Punch
The headline mostly says it all, but as someone who knows the rough wholesale cost of most bottles of wine, I myself am alarmed at some of the pricing I’ve seen—and paid for—around town recently. I understand how hard it is for indie restaurants out here, but wow. I guess I didn’t get the 5x markup memo. So, I am just going to briefly and shamelessly self-promote here and say that the wine prices at Rebel Rebel, Dear Annie, and Wild Child use the same markup metric I learned 15 years ago. Maybe we’ll change it someday, but it’s still working for now. Enjoy.
WHAT I’M LISTENING TO
In truth, this crystal bowl sound bath playlist has featured heavily in my attempts to reduce my cortisol levels, but I’ve also been revisiting Sandro Perri’s discography. I’m particular to Soft Landing, which captures the kind of humid, spring-into-summer energy that’s been hanging around lately. “Wrong About The Rain” is a favorite track, and could be every New England meteorologists anthem this time of year.
SPECIAL SAUCE
For half the week because half the week’s over. A reminder that these are all $22-$25 BTG!
THURSDAY: 2022 La Garagista ‘Harlots & Ruffians,’ Champlain Valley, Vermont
FRIDAY: 2018 Xydakis Assyrtiko, Cyclades, Greece
SATURDAY: 2018 Radikon "‘O……” Oslavia
SUNDAY: 2020 Octavin ‘Hip Hip J,’ Jura
ONE MORE THING
We have a bonus Wine School happening on Tuesday, and the winemakers from the Russian River Valley’s Joseph Jibril Wines will be here pouring through their lineup and chatting with us. Jaam is a Somerville native, and he brings a really interesting perspective about the state of domestic winemaking to his classes. They visited us last year, too, and it was a standout event, so we’re excited to see them again. Hope you can make it.