The Perils of Popularity
Too Much of a Good Thing
Popularity can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. That’s why lines breed lines and people wait for pizza on Bleecker Street at a place they’ve never been to before. Or gelato. Or a bar. You must know a place like this and probably avoid going there. We ask why people line up, but we know why. A good review helps, of course, or some celebrity sighting. Some ridiculous claim like it’s the best pizza in New York (yet another reason to end the dreaded “best in x” formulations). People post photos, that feeds desire, the line gets longer and the cycle continues.
Why do we want to go to these places? For different reasons. They can be new and daring, they can be old and reassuring. Our heroes, of many vintages, may have gone there—Ernest Hemingway, M.F.K. Fisher or Anthony Bourdain. Or it feels like you’re experiencing something specific to a city you’re visiting, even in your own city.
I used to go to Via Carota for lunch a few times a week. I lived a block away and would walk over, sit at the end of the bar and feel good about things. I knew a few of the bartenders, I could read the New Yorker, and I worked my way through the menu. Delightful. It was by no means a secret, but it still felt like a neighborhood restaurant, at least during a leisurely late lunch.
We know that’s not how it is any more (a glowing New Yorker review didn’t help, incidentally). Via Carota is now like Balthazar—it doesn’t belong to New York, it belongs to the world. It’s always busy. Always. I walk by every day and marvel at the lines—for lunch, for dinner, on hours, off hours. It’s nobody’s fault—it’s a great place that deserves to be well-loved. But any intimacy and personal connection is much harder to maintain.