Lived-In Spaces

A few weeks ago, I caved into a viral moment and tried a trending restaurant. It was a weeknight, and thankfully, there were tables available in the very lively room. The energy in NYC is electric; from the Knicks’ championship win to the anticipation surrounding the World Cup. So naturally, the restaurant was bustling, and my passionfruit margarita was tasty. But I came for the food, and quite frankly, my tacos were mediocre—totally bland and lacking flavor. I found myself repeatedly asking the server for more salsa.

I should know better. I’m the type of person who reads reviews and articles for my next gastronomic experience or, at the very least, values a friend’s recommendations. But I’ve been seeing this restaurant on my feed lately. Everyone is going, and I wanted to see what the hype was all about. Was I truly disappointed in the small portions, the lack of spice and flavor, and the overall experience? Or was I disappointed in myself for knowing better yet not doing so?

Now, I’m not saying I haven’t been to a restaurant I discovered online. Still, this experience led me to think about these things; since when does virality equate to verification?

Fashion choices, music debacles, Substack blogs, interior design, and other trends. I’m not criticizing; we all succumb to the internet’s influence. However, the virality of things is what holds our attention, not whether we actually like or enjoy the thing itself. It’s the era of “the link,” and somewhere between “Where did you get that?” and “Post the link,” we stopped asking people why they loved something. Not what it was, but why. That difference matters.

Are we that eager to borrow taste? Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer things lived-in; I like frequenting a quaint, neighborhood-y, cozy restaurant where most of the staff know my name, or better yet, my usual order. Or the wine shop where the owner has gotten to know my palate. He always has something open, and this time, it’s an Arbois-Pupillin Chardonnay. I can tell he’s challenging me because I typically avoid Jura—not because I don’t like it, but because I learned about it in rooms that made me feel like I should already know more than I did. The “wine bros” will do that to you. But I smell and sip anyway, and I like it. And I’m reminded of why I shop here and that I value lived-in spaces.

What my work and inner world have taught me about taste is that it’s cultivated. You discover your places, people, and things through experience—trial and error, refining as you go. So I don’t want to borrow my taste. I don’t want it to depend on a trend or fad, because borrowed taste never becomes a memory. I want my taste to grow with me, by my side, throughout life. And while taste is strictly individual, multiple people can enjoy the same thing because it helps us build connections. We may share experiences, but they’re never identical. The saying is “similar tastes,” not “same.” Right?

Also, social media isn’t the main issue; the noise it creates is. We have access to more opinions than any generation before us, and in all that noise, we’ve confused popularity with validity.

I prefer to disconnect, go silent and simple, and lean into curiosity. I might end up at another viral restaurant that doesn’t appeal to me, but curiosity has always driven me. I may be surprised, or not, but at least I’ll learn what I don’t like. And that’s a step toward discovering what I actually do.

I guess that’s why I still visit the little wine shop. Not because everyone claims it’s good, but because someone inside knows exactly what I’d like to drink.