I hate barstools.
OK, let me amend that. I like them well enough at 2:15 on a
Tuesday afternoon, when you can pull one up, lay a stack of bills
on the bar and let the afternoon pad away on quiet cat feet of
jukebox C&W and Crown Royal.
But when 6:30 p.m. rolls around and you’re trying to get a drink
and the bar is palisaded with a Trumpian wall of backs; when
putting in a simple drink order means you have to stick your head
into someone’s side eye-patrolled personal space and yell past
their ear; when reaching over the tight-packed shoulders to get
your Martini is like playing one of those rigged claw games —
then, barstools suck.
Never really thought about it before, but it really does suck trying to get a drink at a bar when all the stools are occupied.