Joe Flacco Is Without A Doubt, 100% Correct. Eating Alone At The Bar Is Heaven
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 like I hadn'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.
We still treat eating alone like a cry for help. People see one stool and a fork and start writing a Lifetime movie.
When in reality, the bar in a big city is the most welcoming room there is.
You slide in, skip the reservation arms race, and eat like a regular.
You save money because you are not ordering for a date, or a group.
You avoid the performance of small talk with people you barely know and/or like.
And you still get the best kind of human contact- a bartender with opinions. A couple negotiating dessert. An off-duty cok whispering you the sleeper dish. Tell me how that is worse than shouting at a friend across a four-top while a Bluetooth speaker blasts 00s bangers.
(Sidebar - why does every restaurant now try to be "trendy" and "edgy" by playing explicit hip hop from the 90s and 2000s?)
I travel most weeks. Schedules change. Plans fall apart. Gaz, Feitelberg, and Francis have been swearing to me that we will go to dinner "next time I'm in New York or they're in Chicago" for like 6 years now. But then life kicks the door in, and we are back to texts and rain checks.
I used to sit around waiting for the perfect night to line up. Or try to score a primo reservation at a place that was next to impossible to get in, weeks in advance. But not anymore.
Now I just go.
The best meals I have had in the last few years were me, a bar stool, and a bartender who cared.
There is a bigger culture thing here, too.
We love to say take care of yourself until someone is visibly enjoying themselves without a crowd. Then the questions start.
You good? Everything okay?
Yes. Actually, I'm fucking tremendous.
The grown-up move is knowing how to treat yourself well without needing five people to co-sign it. The barstool is not lonely. It is free. It is a little vacation that starts when the bread hits the board. Like Flacco said, it's heaven.
Joe Flacco wasn't just tossing out a cute line for clicks. The man’s 40, living out of a hotel while his family stays in Jersey, bouncing from Cleveland to Cincinnati, and he’s figured out the same hack the rest of us road dogs eventually learn- the bar seat is peace.
He probably eats at 4:30 to beat the rush, orders like a pro, and owns it.
No showing off, no small talk calisthenics, just a hot plate, a cold drink, and a little headspace before the next snap.
When he says the dude eating alone is “in heaven,” that’s not schtick, that’s a veteran reading the defense and taking the easy yards. If an NFL quarterback can embrace the solo stool without caring who’s watching, then what’s our excuse?
If you've been living a lie like I was for years, and want to join us in paradise, but just need a slight push, or some tips, allow me to be your Jiminy Cricket. If you want to try it without feeling like a weirdo on a first mission, steal these-
1st - Pick bars with a real food program. If there are oysters on ice, a chalkboard of specials, or a bar menu that changes regularley, you are in the right place. You are not there to “snack.” You are there to eat.
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2nd- Sit where the action is. Grab a stool near the service well or where the bartender stages drinks. You get faster attention, a better read on the room, and light conversation without forcing it. You can usually scope out the talent best from the side - wink wink.
3rd- Order with intent. One drink and one small bite or app to start. Ask the bartender something like, “What’s the move here?”
4th- Phone discipline matters. Don't sit there and stare at your screen all night. You could have ordered in and sat on your couch like a fat ass if that was your plan. Use it, but do not vanish into it. Fire off a text, take a pic if you gotta, then pocket it. A small notebook beats a screen if you like a prop.
5th- Tip like you plan to come back. A couple of extra bucks is a reservation you cannot make online. Bartenders are half concierge, half traffic control. They hold all the keys at a restaurant behind the manager. Treat them right and your next visit will feel like home. As anybody who has made good friends with a restaurant's bartender will agree, trust us on this.
Do I still want to look forward to the (now rare) nights with friends, too many plates, and story one-upsmanship? Of course I fucking do. I am not saying to give up the group dinner.
I am just done letting other people’s calendars dictate whether I eat well, explore a city, or enjoy a Tuesday night.
If the crew can rally, great. If not, there is a stool with my name on it and a bartender who already knows that I like my wine chilled.
So next time you are traveling, skip the pity party and take the bar seat. And order like you belong.
Enjoy the little slice of peace and the small talk that shows up when it wants to. Sign your check and walk out into the night feeling lighter because you called your own plays and won the drive. "Heaven" might be a touch dramatic, but it is close enough for me. And on this one, Joe Flacco is the closer. He said it best. The guy eating alone at the bar is onto something.