I’m a pro when it comes to going out in New York City. I can tell you where you’ll easily get a reservation, where you won’t, and how to walk into Thai Diner to get seated immediately. I know what the scene is like (and not like) at all the bars in multiple boroughs, where the lounges and rooftop vibes are, and I’ve been to all the (RIP) nightclubs. I celebrated my 16th birthday at midnight on a Tuesday at Tunnel, arguably the hottest velvet-rope spot to ever be in NYC, where Vogue’ing was invented. I know all the classic tried-and-true-NYC spots for keeping it real and keeping it basic…yet entirely not basic at the same time. How I’m now a genius pro at hitting the town? It’s in finding the spots to drink and dine out with my 2 year old babe. I can tell how and when a restaurant will be happy and able to seat us, I know where we can sit at the bar, and I’m sensitive to which restaurants won’t be affected so much by our child-ness. People marvel at my son Miles’ ability to be out. He knows how to sit and hang. Already a total New Yorker, he’s got mom’s spontaneous vibes.  We grab wine and cheese---and ‘honey bread’ for Miles---at a tiny wine bar after he exhausts me with more than an hour of climbing followed by thirty solid minutes on the swings at the park.

On a recent Tuesday with said 2 year old and my smallest foldable stroller in tow, I had the foresight to call JG Melon to ask how big of a crowd there’d be between 5 and 5:30 on what was one of the first beautiful days in May. The restaurant famously doesn’t take reservations. I’d spent the day working uptown, taking Zooms and calls in transit. I had a different look in my former life at the famous Hearst Tower, jumping in and out of taxis from the garment district to Madison Avenue and multiple neighborhoods in between. Four-inch (plus) heels, opaque tights, designer dresses, a huge handbag and huge earrings were the elements of my uniform of choice. Now that I take care of a small human and own and lead a magazine and podcast, I need to be in multiple places for multiple purposes on any given day, and always with a laptop. 

I walked into a solidly seated JG Melon but without its yet-to-be-crowded small bar area. Before I’d said a word, it seems my backpack and stroller spoke volumes to the host who appeared to pre-party grumpy prior to his shift. The Upper East Side watering hole known for dishing out a solid, crave-worthy burger and its signature disk-shaped fries came to be in1972, making it a New York institution and destination, and these days, one for tourists, with its classic American fare and flare. The restaurant’s website actually lists its dress code as ‘preppy’. I may have looked like a tourist myself, clad in jeans, backpack, comfortable flatform wedges and little kid holding my hand. This gave Captain Grumpy license. License to discriminate against mom. When I spotted a small table where we could easily fit, his response was ‘Howwww??’ And instantly he rattled off a terse, ‘You haven’t even told me how many of you there are?’ Well, I actually did. If myself and my child were to be joined by others, I would have mentioned it upon asking whether the restaurant a table to suit our party. While he insisted that I demonstrate to him exactly how my stroller folded away while standing in the empty pathway from bar to dining room, he simultaneously exclaimed that we were blocking the way. He also insisted we then wait on the restaurant’s slim iron bench outdoors while he sorted out whether we could have a table. 

He returned to share that they did in fact have a table, but was I aware that they take cash only??? He next proposed that I leave my stroller outside on the street, at this small corner restaurant without any semblance of a cordoned-off outdoor seating area. When I told him that I wasn’t going to be leaving my stroller in streets of New York, maybe this was some clue that I wasn't a tourist. Or maybe it drove his feeling that I was home; someone who landed in New York to check out the sights, petrified to leave her stroller unattended before taking the family trip to the Statue of Liberty. Tourist or not, it was the stroller that was the thing. Once again, and as my child needed attention at this point, he insisted I fold up my Babyzen Yoyo stroller, the miraculously-lightweight and small carriage that deserves an actual award for how it breaks down and can be carried like a tote bag with strap. It was then that Miles and the bench he was sitting on toppled over onto the concrete. I heard an Upper East Side gal, one I’m so familiar with, walk by and mutter, ‘Poor thing, that must’ve been so scary’. Miles is resilient, like his momma, and when he got up and smiled the whole interaction at JG Melon broke my heart. I was the one who was scared, but on an emotional level. Scared by what, at times, seems like a seriously suffering society with its lack of humanity, collective judgement, lack of skill and desire to connect. It was then that I turned to the man and very plainly said, ‘I think it’s time we’re done here. This has been very unpleasant.’ And with that, and without a word, he turned away making a beeline for the front door and the beer-swigging crowd that the night would bring.

Tamara Rappa is the Founder and Editor in Chief of Story + Rain, and Host and Chief Creative Officer of the Story + Rain Talks podcast.