Today’s newsletter was supposed to be about something else entirely. But then last night, while doing my usual 9 p.m. doomscrolling ritual, I saw that a reporter who shall remain nameless (here he is) tweeted a personal attack on myself and one of my greatest weeknight pleasures:
“Please know, if you’re someone who brings a book to the bar… nobody likes you.”
“Who hurt you?” I wondered. Was he himself ridiculed while reading in a bar? (I can assure you that it wasn’t the book’s fault.) Had he spent too many nights trying — and failing — to hit on women who were quietly enjoying Michelle Obama’s “Becoming” with a glass of Merlot? (The reader was not the problem here.) Did a hipster reading Neitchze in a South Jersey Chickie’s and Pete’s force him into conversation about atheism during an Eagles game? (I find this unlikely.)
I do not know why this man hates people who bring books to bars. But I feel sorry that he seems to be missing out on one of life’s greatest adult pleasures.
Let’s paint the scene: It’s Wednesday night. I haven’t made it to the grocery store in a week. I’m craving a cocktail and edamame dumplings. I could call a friend to join me, but I’ve been talking to people all day at work. My voice and brain need a break. Also, an unread library book is on my nightstand. Now, at this point you may be wondering, “Why not order in? Sit on your own couch and read, weirdo!”
Do you remember that This American Life episode about choosing between two superpowers — flight or invisibility? Well, I’d choose invisibility, hands down. But I wouldn’t shoplift, sneak into movie theaters, or try to find out what my friends talk about behind my back. I would spend most of my invisible days eavesdropping on strangers.
The cool thing is that I don’t need a superpower; I can just bring a book to a bar! Bars are incredible places — the flirting, the yelling, the jostling, the mini dramas — all unfolding in real-time right before your eyes. There is life happening around you. And, with the safe, quiet company of a book, you have the unique power to float in and out of it on your own timeline.
Read a few pages. Sip. Bite into a dumpling that tastes like a pillow in your mouth. Tell the bartender what you’re reading. She recommends another author whom you might like. The man next to you, an American Airlines pilot, joins in on the conversation. You become bored and start flipping through pages again. The story’s getting good. “Another martini?” To the left of you, a first date is going south. You take out your phone and write down in your Notes app something ridiculous the guy has just said. You drift back into Book World. The Italian protagonist is begging his wife to take him back after years of infidelity. A tall man with blonde hair and blue eyes sits down next to you and cracks open a large hardback. “What are you reading?” you ask.
Now, maybe you think this is some kind of loophole. (“You’re not actually reading, you slutty snoop!” you could be shouting at your screen.) Maybe I’m exactly the sort of Bar Reader whom “nobody likes.”
But, honestly, what’s not to like? I come, read, eat, drink, have polite conversation, tip well, and leave. Is a person reading and drinking on their own so threatening? Or repulsive? Or pretentious? Is scrolling through Twitter or playing Wordle more acceptable for the solo diner? Does that make them more likable?
In closing, to the Tweeter in Question: If you haven’t mastered the art of bringing a book to the bar, then don’t hate the player, sir; hate the game.
this makes reading at bars so tempting! l am a big fan of people watching/being in the presence of others but don't actively contribute too and usually do that at cafes. Bars must have more exciting stories to eavesdrop on ;)