The days are getting longer, the inseams are getting shorter, and the wrongest people in the world are very excited.
That’s right: Outdoor dining season is upon us. And if you’re anything like me, you’re dreading the fervor with which other people are going to suggest grabbing lunch or dinner alfresco, and would rather dig into various light bites within the comfort of a fully enclosed space. Sadly, this is a losing battle, but it’s one I will embark on nonetheless.
First, let me make some concessions. If the meal comes with a preexisting outdoor context built in (a barbecue, a picnic, etc.), go nuts. Throwing something on the grill, basking in the sun like a lizard while it sizzles away, and then eating it off of the flimsiest paper plate that’s still street legal is rightfully a classic warm weather activity. I not only enjoy it, I wholeheartedly welcome it. When you go to someone’s house for a meal that’s prepared, cooked, and plated in their kitchen and some genius proposes that the entire operation moves to the deck or the backyard? I’m not thrilled, but I can understand that some people have lovely patio setups more optimal for entertaining than their dining room. (Plus: your house, your rules.) Also, if food isn’t involved, I will gladly get anywhere from one to seven drinks with you outside. Obviously.
But there’s no doubt that, dollar for dollar, outdoor dining at a restaurant is always a worse experience than simply eating inside.
I admit that I'm approaching this issue from a New York City resident’s perspective, and perhaps other cities don’t share the same olfactory problems. Namely: Everything reeks. That does not bode well for a meal. Neither does being attacked at all angles by car horns and sirens, the Jordan and Pippen of annoying sounds. If you’re seated in the actual restaurant, your ear drums can be mercifully protected by these things called doors. They’ve been around since 2000 BC, and for good reason. I’m not saying every restaurant I’ve ever been to had a playlist I was in love with, but I’d take even the thumpiest bass over the wail of someone being transported to the hospital.
The tide may even be turning here: most of the dining sheds in the city have been disassembled, it's harder than ever to get a table outside, and there’s an ongoing battle in Dimes Square, the nexus of NYC outdoor dining, where popular wine bar Le Dive recently had its request for a sidewalk seating permit denied.
Perhaps you opt to reside somewhere quieter without three million rats competing for real estate with you. But I bet it still has weather! My main gripe with outdoor dining is that I’m never the right temperature. Skill issue, you say? Look, a man can only own so much linen. Sometimes you get stuck in a situation where your starters are on the bench (the laundry basket) and you’re wearing second-string clothing (a T-shirt that fit better a few stomachs ago). When that happens, I can only focus on how much I’m sweating, how it’s making me look and smell, and the acts of violence I’d commit to be underneath a ceiling fan.
On the other end of the temperature-regulation spectrum is the literally chilling experience of dining outside, watching the sun go down, and feeling the temperature plummet in real time. What I’m saying is that I’m never the right bodily temperature when outdoor dining. Conversely, I’m almost always the right temperature when I’m inside a building, because that’s the point of buildings. Why sit outside and leave to chance what has already been perfected by science?
I could unfurl a scroll filled with qualities I hate about the outdoor-dining experience, but I’ll devote my energy to the absolute worst part. No earthly phenomenon ruins things quite like my archnemesis: the wind. Oops, there goes my napkin. Didn’t need that anyway. That fun story I was in the middle of telling, charming everyone with my comedic timing? Completely waylaid by a 25-mile-per-hour gust. And yet, there’s an obvious solution. Ask for a spot inside, where your date’s sundress isn’t threatened by the gales, and all the contents of your table remain where they should be, rather than tumbling down the grimy sidewalk. (By the way, I’m not a monster, and you shouldn’t be either. If your date wants to take things outside, always defer to them. But if this is just you and the boys going out to dinner, don’t be afraid to put your foot down, indoors.)
We haven’t even gotten to the bugs. Exposing your food to the elements is already kinda gross (and believe me, I’m the furthest thing from a germophobe—just ask the coworker who recently made the mistake of opening my AirPods case), but when insects are buzzing around, it only amplifies the feeling that I’m having tapas with Oscar the Grouch. If I wanted to get swarmed by mosquitos when eating, I’d just apply for a spot on Survivor.
If it’s not the fauna that’s the problem, it’s the flora: thanks to climate change boosting seasonal allergies, eating outdoors in 2025 is an itchier experience than ever before. Everything is coated in a visible layer of pollen dust. You’re telling me you want people sneezing to and fro in the same environment where beautiful crudo is being served? Not in my world. Not in the world I’m living in.
I’m well aware that most of you won’t agree with me on this. All I ask is that you look inward and consider the error of your ways. Do you really want to spend the next two hours perched next to a dumpster, or is it just 72 degrees? Are you yearning to be overloaded by stinky sensory distractions, or are you just in it for the vibey Instagram pic? To that point, if you want to be outside that badly, go for a walk! Organize a little park hang. Go see a baseball game, where there’s food anyways. There are plenty of better ways to get out in the sun that don’t involve downloading the Resy app.
Deep down, you know I’m right. So, this spring, as mediocre establishments with patios prepare to swindle us out of our hard-earned money, consider the humble indoor-dining restaurant. It may not have string lights or a neon sign hastily hung from some cheap, artificial wood, but you know what else it doesn’t have? Someone else’s weird dog. I’ll take a controlled environment where I know there won’t be any radical temperature shifts, swarming locusts, or unappetizing scents any sunny, beautiful day of the week.