The Hidden Hospitality Hazards When You’re Too Big for the Bar
"Not Everyone Can Carry the Weight of the World."
I know many LAST CALL readers may have already seen, and possibly read, my recent story, “The Hidden Hospitality Hazards When You’re Too Big for the Bar,” published this week on VinePair. But as this is probably the most personal of the number of personal essays I’ve penned over the years, VinePair graciously, and generously, permitted me to share it here in its entirety here with the thousands of LAST CALL subscribers.
As I’ve been hard at work on my next book I haven’ t had the bandwidth to continue contributing freelance stories at my regular pace. The idea of this story, and the raw vulnerability on display, has been something on my mind for a long time, but sharing it as a published story came together fast and furious. I texted my idea to VinePair Managing Editor Tim McKirdy and based on the title alone he was on board. Soon thereafter, without following through with a proper pitch, I sent him the story and over a few days of phone calls, texts, emails, and Google Drafts, it all came together and VinePair wasted no time publishing it.
With gratitude to Tim for believing in this story and for all of his thoughtful and thorough edits, cuts, and guidance on the final structure. And to VinePair Art Director Danielle Grinberg, who was more than open to my design notes on the illustration direction and its literary nod to the iconic cover of the 1984 Vintage Contemporaries edition of Jay McInerney’s debut novel, Bright Lights, Big City. This isn’t the type of story you’d typically read on VinePair, and I truly appreciate the whole team there for being open to sharing this with their many readers.
And thanks to everyone who has shared or sent comments, emails, texts, and DMs since the story was first published on Wednesday. It means so much to me.
Let’s go Knicks!
BTP
“The Hidden Hospitality Hazards When You’re Too Big for the Bar”
Last November, I went to the friends and family soft-opening of a sleek ’70/’80s-inspired bar on the Lower East Side. I was led to a low-slung, padded, backless stool wedged next to a sofa. I asked if I could instead post up at the bar but the bespoke bar seats, all sleek chrome and rich chocolate leather, proved challenging to casually mount, and I was unable to sit back due to the narrow curved sides of the padded, slim-fit seat. For the next two hours I did my best to chat with the bartender, sip the bar’s elegant drinks, and soak up the overall vibe, but was literally on the edge of my seat, worried the whole time that I was going to either break or slide off the very expensive-looking barstool. All of the stylish people in the room seemed at home. But in a room designed to make everyone feel sexy and glamorous in the throwback style of Andy Warhol and Grace Jones-era New York, I felt anything but.
You don’t get as big as I am overnight. It happens gradually as years of unhealthy choices reveal themselves in a steady increase in the waistband, and as the “X” in the XL tag in your sweater expands from a solo-act to a full-on quartet. I still like to think of myself as “husky,” which sounds a lot more folksy than “fat,” but I know I’m being delusional as I’m more accurately among the 39.6 percent of U.S. adults who are obese.
I’ve had wake-up calls — like the last time I actually weighed myself a few years ago and literally cried. I’ve tried intermittent fasting and do my best to walk as much as I can. But no matter what I do it’s just a drop in the ocean. Carrying this extra weight comes with frequent sweating, shortness of breath, sore muscles, achy knees, an awkward gait. (“Buddy, when did you start limping?” asked a friend I hadn’t seen in a minute when we were crossing the street.) All of which makes me about as flexible as a loaded cargo ship executing a 180-degree turn.
I haven’t had health insurance or visited a doctor’s office since I left my job in the publishing industry in 2017. On my last appointment the nurse seemed shocked as she adjusted the scale to record my weight, optimistically commenting that I “carried it well.” My doctor was less than sympathetic and borderline cruel. Waving off my promises to watch what I eat and pledges to exercise, they went straight to recommending bariatric surgery. I even attended a presentation at the NYU Grossman School of Medicine, which thoroughly depressed me. Midway through, when the doctor mentioned I would never again be able to eat a piece of steak without irreparable damage to my “new body,” I grabbed my jacket and exited the auditorium. A future without Keens wasn’t any kind of existence I’d want to be a part of.
Yet even in a world with porterhouse steaks, the often uncomfortable reality of life is far from perfect and not without its share of hidden challenges. 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.