AUTHOR: Hot Plate DATE: 2:07:00 PM ----- BODY: Anyone who eats out in New York has noticed the evolution of dining at the bar. As pointed out in the New York Times recently, bar dining has spawned its own set of challenges for bartenders (excuse me, mixologists) and restaurateurs alike. I am often one to choose bar dining in place of reservation seeking, scheduling and confirming because it can be a less formal way of enjoying great food. So it was with that in mind that I ventured to the Spotted Pig on Saturday night, 8:00 pm eastern standard time. Though I have waited for a table here twice, the full menu is served at the bar and with waits ranging from 30 minutes to an hour and a half on previous occasions, I figured obtaining a stool seat was a better bet. As anticipated the hostess informed us that there was an hour wait for a table and though we put our name down we had our sights set on the bar. With only about 12 stools we were able to size up the competition immediately. Two in the corner were in for a while, having just ordered martinis and thoughtfully perusing a menu. Three in the middle also looked comfortable, one was biting into a hamburger and the other two drinking pints of the Spotted Pig ale and nibbling on their friends’ shoestring fries. The far end of the bar was a gamble, mostly drinkers in groups of two with others flanking them in conversation. One seat quickly opened up in the corner and we immediately staked our claim. As my dining companion glanced at the menu, I spotted a family of five lingering over one seat at the bar three seats down from our secure location. They seemed engaged in conversation with the hostess over the discrepancy in the time she had quoted them versus the time they had actually waited. Just as it appeared they might be seated shortly another order of shoestring fries floated down in front of them (by this time I had also begun to think what the people next to me might do if I reached onto their plate for a bite of thin fried potato crispiness). I snapped myself back to reality and just in time for the hostess was advising the family that their table was ready. I made my move nearly tripping on a bar stool, spilling the gimlet of the nice couple standing between the seat and me and swiftly placed my handbag on the stool. Though two seats were now secured I then had the task of convincing the three bar eaters/drinkers in between my friend and I to move down so we could dine together. This classic maneuver though usually easy can often bring the same look of disdain you once probably received from the person on the aisle seat when your mom would ask them if they would switch with your window so she could sit with her child. Fortunately our fry eating neighbors were quick to oblige and we at last settled into our stools, hung out handbags on the hooks place conveniently under bar, avoiding the female dilemma of where to put your handbag while eating at a bar and faced our next challenge, ordering. The bartender though friendly enough was not interested in answering our questions regarding the ingredients or level of spiciness in the summer succotash. We order two glasses of wine and requested some spiced almonds, olives and two glasses of water. Wine arrived but our other requests were ignored or forgotten though I could see the almonds resting in a large glass canister just out of reach. I wondered how the bartender might react if I just helped myself but we ordered our food and quenched our thirst on a fruity pinot noir instead. After a short deliberation my friend had settled on a summer succotash and a ricotta gnudi (the reason for our visit) while I chose the oysters and soft-boiled duck egg with asparagus and arugula. As soon as this order left my lips I wondered if this combination might produce undesirable results in my stomach and was immediately stricken with ordering paranoia, the brief panic that arises from the realization that you placed an incorrect order (not to be confused with ordering envy, when you are consumed by what someone else ordered, or ordering opposite, when you order the exact opposite of what you really wanted). By the look the bartender gave me when I told her to eighty-six my oysters and egg you would think that I had asked her to trade a seat in first class for the one next to the bathroom that doesn't recline! However, I was a patron and she obliged by ducking out from the bar to tell the kitchen that some girl was driving her crazy and wanted the roast halibut instead. While she was gone I noticed that although there were many mid order and many more waiting to be served there was a subtle acceptance of the laissez fair attitude that permeated the Pig. The bartender returned and since I figured she already disliked me I tempted fate, asking again for almonds and water. This time with success, so we settled into our stools, nibbled our almonds and watched as people gave their names to the hostess and congregated in the limited space around the bar, eagerly attempting to make eye contact with our bartender. Our service also began to improve once I aided her in locating a misplaced cocktail shaker, though her thank you was more of a "Duh, I knew where it was" as opposed to a "thanks for helping." By signing on as bartender here she must have known what she was getting into especially on a Saturday night but as we paid our check I arrived at an interesting revelation that perhaps there was a defined source of her aggravation. Could it be she was trying to impress someone and could that someone be the gentleman she leaned over and kissed sitting next to me? After all, though we had asked her to perform host, waiter, server, and busser for our meal, she was not super bartender, only a human being whose "boyfriend" was watching her work. No one seemed to mind this public display of affection and the Pig oinked along noisily pumping out pints of beer and serving up consistent uncomplicated fare. We had survived our bar adventure, there had been obstacles, challenges, but our efforts had been rewarded with good food, so we could not complain. As we left I noticed that most of the people filling the stools had been there before us and they remained eating, drinking and chatting away without a care for the others who might covet their position. Perhaps they knew that scoring a reservation at a high profile small restaurant requires speed dial, but getting a seat at the bar requires skill and giving it up, well that's just a sin. Other Bar Bites: Red Cat: Dates stuffed with goat cheese wrapped in bacon Biltmore Room: Stuffed zucchini blossoms Brasserie Perrier: Philadelphia favorite Gramercy Tavern: Spiced nuts Craftbar: Arancini RIP: Mini hamburgers at Merge Email me your favorites --------