Would you believe me if I told you that I willingly ate at a restaurant where the chef had been rumoured to murder stray cats? Well, I did and I’d do it again. A week or two ago, I found myself at a buzzy, new restaurant in Hollywood. I was in Los Angeles for work and, after grabbing drinks with a friend, I slid into the dimly lit joint to taste the fabled off-menu rigatoni. I made the reso for two but it was late on a Wednesday and my friend opted to slink off to bed rather than stay out for a bite.
When I approached the hostess and notified her of the change in the number of guests, she told me I could have my original table or sit the bar. Without hesitation, I took the bar. Dining at the bar is special because you are invisible and on display at the same time. Typically, the bartender takes your order and serves you, meaning you are usually in the presence of a skilled conversationalist should you choose to entertain. The bartender is more likely to give you an honest read of the menu than a regular waiter, more likely to slip you an off-menu treat as you keep them company. You experience the restaurant through the eyes of those who work there without clocking in. As a voyeur, you eavesdrop on the first date to your right, you pick up on the not-so-secret affair between servers. You can chat with the stranger next to you or you can disappear into your own world, earbuds in, magazine in hand. I did a bit of it all that evening.
Next to me, a man in an Aime Leon Dore hat offered his fries, allowing me to snack off his plate. Despite his generosity, I never gave him a bite of my rigatoni. That was for me alone to indulge.