In the Waiting Line
Article by Ben Goldstein, Image by Mikayla J. Yurman
I get to the restaurant — a trendy, ambiguously Mediterranean place — just a few minutes before opening. To my dismay, there is already a throng of yuppies at the door. I reluctantly take my place behind what appears to be the entire Salesforce marketing department and settle in for a long wait. The line jolts forward when the doors finally open, allowing me a modicum of hope. “Just a bar seat for one,” I request. I can even see a few free seats past the French tourists and moneyed hipster families. The host whizzes through a few screens on a handy little tablet before graciously replying, “Your table should be ready in four hours.” Why not just dunk me headfirst into a vat of tabbouleh?
New York City has a way of reminding you that not only are you far from the first person to want something, you are certainly not the most important or well-connected or attractive person to want it. It’s a given that you’ll have to wait in line sometimes in a city of some nine million, but lately the competition seems a little more feverish, a little more overwrought. The Internet has given everyone a platform to not only create consensus on the best Italian restaurant or handbag accessory or nightclub, but to make attaining them a distributed status game that feels impossible to win.
I’m conflicted about this state of affairs. One one hand, it is really fun to slip past a long line of presumably jealous onlookers. Getting a guest list spot for a show that’s absolutely, unequivocally sold out doesn’t make the music any better, but it does warm the spirit with a smug sense of satisfaction. Of course, the altruist in me bristles at my own disdain. Ticket queues and reservation drops might ostensibly be fair, but in practice are anything but. Hours into a wait, it’s tempting to daydream of a more egalitarian system. From each according to his ability, to each according to his need to be front row at Cameron Winter’s show?
Shameless namedropping aside, it’s clear that popular enthusiasm for the line is still going strong. What used to be a surefire sign of a tourist is becoming more and more of an everyday routine. Much of the white collar class in New York is still flush with cash, and so too are their friends and rivals with which they jockey for status. A recent study found that the highest-earning 10% of Americans account for almost half of all spending. Some people still have money to burn, and the only thing better than a fancy $250 dinner is a fancy $250 dinner half the city is beating down the door to eat.
So for now it seems the line calculus still makes sense for many. Rally the troops in the groupchat, set your calendar for the Resy update, remind your friend’s roommate that if she doesn’t show up you will charge her the twenty-five dollar cancellation fee so help me God. When the tide does turn, however, we would all do well to remember that the city is full of underappreciated venues of all kinds. Restaurants where Eater doesn’t eat. Bars with live bands that you only find out about once they start playing. Diners that have yet to undergo a clout-focused rebirth. They’re out there, and even your friend’s roommate might find something to like.
The line can never truly die in a city as big as New York. There’s just too many people who all want to be in the same place at the same time. But I hope that maybe we can think a little bit more critically about the lines we sign up to join, and ask ourselves the all important question: Do I really have nothing better to do than stand around here for three hours? If you can answer that question with confidence, you’re already well on your way.
After the Mediterranean restaurant debacle, I try to piece my evening back together and head out to Knockdown Center for a DJ I’ve been wanting to see. I entertain the idea of going to Basement first, but quickly forget about it when I see a line of gargantuan proportions snaking out of the entryway. A few hours pass by at Knockdown, and I leave to get my Uber home. Tantalizingly, temptingly, there’s only three people in line for Basement. I cancel my Uber and walk over to the back of the blissfully short line. At my feet I find an abandoned ten dollar bill, still tightly rolled up. Maybe it’s just about being in the right place at the right time.
