The Seduction of Service
I’ve spent the last five years behind bars—hostel dive joints, cocktail temples, and everything in between. I’ve cranked out a thousand vodka sodas in one night, and I’ve spent hours talking gin botanicals with a stranger while pretending not to hate the sound of my own shaker. It’s a grind, sure, but it’s the kind of work that hooks into you. The late nights, the sore feet, the assholes who think “bartender” means “therapist on demand”—you take it all because nothing beats that moment when you slide a drink across the bar and watch somebody’s eyes widen. That little nod that says: yeah, you nailed it.
Once you’ve done this job, you can’t unsee it. You sit in a bar or restaurant and suddenly you’re tuned in to the rhythm—the invisible ballet of service. And if you’ve been in the trenches long enough, being taken care of feels like a goddamn miracle.
That miracle died, briefly, when the world shut down. Nights out got swapped for Netflix and takeout containers. Uber Eats was crowned king, and whole cities forgot what it felt like to walk into a place that wasn’t their living room. Even when the lights came back on, too many people stayed welded to their couches, convinced sweatpants were a lifestyle.
Here’s the thing: food at home fills your stomach. Going out feeds something else entirely. It’s not just calories—it’s ritual. It’s handing yourself over for a couple of hours and letting someone else steer. You sit down, someone smiles, pours you a glass, and asks you how you like your steak. You’re part of a story bigger than yourself.
Going out is romance. Not the Hallmark kind—the real kind. The seduction of a wobbly candle on a trattoria table. The reckless thrill of ordering the special without knowing what the hell it is. The chance to wear that shirt gathering dust in your closet, just because.
Stay home if you want. But don’t kid yourself: the couch will never love you back.
Surely I’m not the only one carrying the flag for the classic night out. I stand with anyone ready to denounce couch dinners and Netflix marathons for what they are: pale imitations of living. The world was meant to be tasted, savored, devoured. Invest in yourself. Give yourself the luxury of a night off. Dress up. Look good. Impress your friends with a shirt that isn’t sweat-stained. Take that recommendation someone swore by. Bury your face in a double bacon cheeseburger. Lick cream sauce off a fork while you plot your next bite. Indulge. Live a little. Don’t take it for granted. Just because the world spins a million miles an hour doesn’t mean you can’t slow down and enjoy it.
