Taylor Swift does not “need” to “go out to dinner.” “Going out to dinner” is a bourgeois construct that has no obvious draw for her. Civilians with expendable cash go out to dinner to break up the monotony of being alive. Celebrities go out to dinner to be photographed so that these cash-flush civilians remember they exist. Taylor Swift is neither a civilian nor a run-of-the-mill celebrity. She has rarely known middle-class tedium and she has never risked exiting the collective imagination for even a brief moment.
And yet Taylor Swift has, of late, gone out to dinner basically every other night during her recent stays in New York City, and to some of its sceniest spots, the sorts of places tourists go in hopes of spotting someone like Taylor Swift. Last month, over the course of roughly two weeks, Taylor visited the following Manhattan restaurants and bars: Via Carota, Emilio’s Ballato, Hôtel Barrière Fouquet’s New York, Il Buco Alimentari & Vineria, Zero Bond, Casino, and Temple Bar. In the few days it took me to report this story, she also went to at least one football game, SNL, Nobu, and the Waverly Inn. In photos, she smiled like she had a little pleasant secret; she did not look tired or like she was running out of things to talk about with her dining companions, a rotating cast of slightly less famous people, some of whom are her friends, one of whom is her alleged lover, and one of whom is Ryan Reynolds: Zoë Kravitz, Laura Dern, Greta Gerwig, Blake Lively and/or Ryan Reynolds, Phoebe Bridgers, Travis Kelce, and Sophie Turner.
Though all of these aforementioned excursions were documented immediately and at length in the papers of record (The New York Post and TMZ), they still left me wondering: What motivates this militaristically busy, perennially stalked international superstar to put on a good outfit and leave the luxe confines of her Tribeca condo to dine alongside the unwashed masses and staked-out paparazzi, many of whom instantaneously sell her out to “Page Six” and DeuxMoi? Should Taylor Swift — for some unknowable, perhaps fetishistic reason — desire to recreate the plebeian experience of going out to dinner, she likely has a cadre of personal assistants who can bring her food from any restaurant of her choosing at any time, the option to hire a personal chef who can painstakingly recreate any food from any restaurant of her choosing at any time, the singular ability to shut down any restaurant at any time so she can eat there with her pre-selected guests but sans normies gawking at her, the financial ability to pick up a restaurant and put it in her house, and the express permission to eat anyone she wants. So why?
The too-obvious answer is that she wants to be seen, that she enjoys the publicity. But this is a woman who has 274 million Instagram followers and has recently bent both the NFL and the worldwide theatrical market to her will. So what motivates her to risk life and limb to eat slightly elevated antipasti? Does she even eat the elevated antipasti? What kinds? Does she pay for them? Does she share them with her bodyguards? Is she always in a private room? Does she tip? And what do the employees of the restaurants themselves think of it all? To answer these questions, I visited one variably exclusive, variably TikTok-ruined NYC restaurant or bar every single day for five work days. In the process, I would test my own stamina, the limits of a $75 per diem, a restaurant’s ability to recover from the sheer fact of Taylor Swift’s presence, and fate itself.
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Day 1: Via Carota
My first stop is Via Carota, an actually good, warmly lit Italian restaurant in the West Village that has not yet been completely destroyed by TikTok, but which hovers unsettlingly at that precipice. In recent years, there’s consistently been a long wait for a table and a hypebeast, eyes-darting-around-for-celebs energy to the crowd here, but Taylor’s visits this year, one with Sophie Turner and another with Jack Antonoff and Margaret Qualley, threaten to hurl Via Carota into Carbone territory. (Why hasn’t Taylor been to Carbone? Is it the Kanye of it all?) I meet my partner there after work and we wait about 30 minutes for an outdoor table underneath a large awning that has been there for at least two years, and which serves a dual purpose: protecting you from falling debris and reminding you that you are not Taylor Swift. We order the insalata verde, some meatballs, and the fish, which comes to $111.
I tell our server, a lovely young woman, about my undertaking, and she sighs a polite but ancient sigh, a sigh that hints at a dark tale of hundreds of women who look exactly like me coming to Via Carota and asking her about Taylor Swift. “I wasn’t here when she came in last time, but I’ll see if her server is here or if my manager wants to talk about it,” she says.
Neither person ever appears. Near the end of our meal, we casually ask our server about Taylor’s order, her vibe, her tipping habits, where she sat, and the server shrugs with a combination of genuine disinterest and deep-state-level secrecy. “We get a lot of famous people here,” she says. “Not that I don’t care. I’m just not a huge fan. I like her.” She pauses and her eyes suddenly widen. “Now, if it was Rihanna …”
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Day 2: Il Buco Alimentari & Vineria
I decide to try a different, time-honored tactic at Il Buco Alimentari and Vineria: sitting alone at the bar and chatting with the bartender. This works like a charm at the East Village spot, which is perhaps the least sceney of the restaurants at which Taylor and her posse have dined. The bartender is a wonderfully sweet and cheerful man named Julius who’s not only open to telling me every single thing that happened when Taylor Swift visited but visibly thrilled about it. He is a self-identified Swiftie who asks to be quoted by name (“like Julius Caesar”), and for him, the experience was, not to be dramatic, life-altering.
“I was actually her server,” he begins, eyes shining. “I wasn’t aware that she was going to come here for dinner — big celebrities don’t put in a reservation. I was like, ‘Holy shit!’” Swift, Kravitz, Dern, and Gerwig sat in a booth in the main dining room, surrounded by gawkers trying to take what they delusionally imagined were discreet photos. Taylor’s two security guards sat at the bar eating their own dinners, following her to the bathroom and back when necessary, and “if anyone tried to take a video or a selfie, they’d ask them to delete it,” Julius says. “She just wanted to be regular and enjoy dinner with her girls. So I didn’t even ask for a selfie or an autograph. The memory is enough for me.”
We move on to their order. According to Julius, “Taylor wanted to do the whole menu. I said, ‘Stop it!’ She said, ‘Is that too much?’ I said, ‘Yes.’” He ended up curating her meal, family style: They had pasta, a lot of shared appetizers. “We sent some stuff from the chef. They were like, ‘Oh my God, we didn’t order this!’” (Similarly, I order an appetizer and a mocktail — I must stay sharp — and my tab comes to $55.)
At one point during the meal, Julius tells me, Taylor politely inquired as to the level of noise coming from upstairs, where the restaurant was hosting a private party full of boisterous youths. “I was like, ‘Isn’t your concert loud, too?’” he says, looking mischievous. When they’d finished eating, Kravitz helped bus the table. “I didn’t expect her to do that because both of her parents are celebrities,” says Julius. He confirms that Dern was a “sweetheart” but that Gerwig “did not make eye contact” — not in a rude way, exactly, but perhaps because she found herself broiling inside the white-hot center of the zeitgeist when she’d thought she was merely having dinner on a Monday.
In addition to threatening phone-wielding randos and walking Taylor to and from the bathroom, Taylor’s security guards served a third function: Secretly paying the bill on Taylor’s behalf before anyone else had a chance to. “Laura Dern was going to pay the bill,” says Julius. “She’s like, ‘Darling, take this.’ I was like, ‘No.’ She was like, ‘Why??’ I said, ‘Ms. Taylor paid!’” He confirms that she tipped well.
I ask if an onslaught of Swifties have since come to Il Buco Alimentari as a result, and Julius gets a faraway, frightened look. “Yeah,” he says. “A lot of people have asked me a lot of uncomfortable questions.” He turns the conversation back to Taylor. “She was stunning and beautiful,” he says. “She is super-tall. She’s dating that football player now. I’m happy for her. They were all talking about boys. They were talking about relationships because Zoë, I think she just got with Channing Tatum. They were talking about social media.” A sudden but faint glimmer of relatability: Taylor goes out to dinner to participate in the experience of feeling irritated by the loudness of strangers and to talk about boys and social media.
My best friend Julius lists other celebrities who’ve been at the restaurant: Martha Stewart, David Schwimmer, Tom Holland, Bella and Gigi Hadid, Molly Ringwald, Pedro Pascal. He reiterates that Taylor was “very kind” during her visit — which isn’t always the case. “If it was Mariah Carey? Forget about it. I love Mariah. Don’t get me wrong. But my boyfriend works at the Macy’s Parade, and he deals with her every year, and he’s like, ‘Don’t turn on her Christmas album or we’re breaking up.’”
A manager stops by the bar. “You’re still telling this story?” he asks Julius. I explain what I’m up to. “Oh,” he says, studying me like one might a serial killer. “Nice.”
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Day 3: Emilio’s Ballato
I plan to meet my friend Sarah at Emilio’s Ballato at 6 — idiotically, as it turns out, since I have another work engagement at 8 p.m. The restaurant’s infamous line, which has never included Taylor but has possibly included Joe Jonas, has already formed down Houston. With each second that ticks by, my chance to understand the mind and digestive patterns of Taylor Swift slips further away. Fortunately, the three women standing in line in front of us are all Swifties who have come to the restaurant because Taylor did; they elect one of their group, Jill, to be the spokesperson. Jill is 26 years old, lives in the West Village, and has been a Taylor fan since she was 14. “I went to Via Carota recently because I wanted to be where she was,” she tells me. “I did ask if I was sitting in the same seat she was sitting in. And they said yes!” Jill confirms that Taylor’s group sat in a private room and tells me that “Taylor’s bill was $4,000.” I ask how she knows this. “My boss told me that,” Jill says. Her boss has no actual affiliation with Via Carota or Taylor Swift. “I don’t know how my boss knows. But they all got the prix-fixe menu and four drinks total.”
We finally make it inside around 6:45 p.m. and order a few appetizers and martinis as quickly as possible. An elderly New York couple next to us is talking about nuclear fission. Just kidding, they’re talking about Taylor Swift. The four of us engage in friendly conversation about how Taylor recently dined at Emilio’s, a fact the couple learned “in the newspaper” and which inspired the two of them to come in tonight. Suddenly, the man looks directly into my eyes. “I used to work for the FBI,” he says. “You look like a criminal I’ve been chasing.”
Sarah and I wolf down our appetizers ($100+) and try to get our server to tell us some stories in our brief window, but he kindly deflects and says to ask the manager instead. I put down my fork and walk outside, approaching an older Italian man smoking a cigar, surrounded by other older Italian men. “Are you the manager?” I ask. “Who wants to know?” he says. His friends laugh. I suddenly feel like Sandy at the beginning of Grease. I ask again. “Who wants to know?” he repeats. I introduce myself, explain what I’m doing there, and he takes a long puff. “Yeah, I’m Emilio,” he says. “What can I tell you? She eats, she pays, she gets the fuck out.”
Back inside, Sarah and I attempt to do the same, and a woman we haven’t seen before approaches our table. “You told my husband you liked the food,” she says. “But you just ordered a bunch of vegetables.” Sarah and I laugh, assuming we are all doing some kind of theatrical, Sopranos-y bit. The woman glares at us. “Vegetables,” she repeats. “You had vegetables? Next time, stay home and bake your vegetables.” She gives us one last withering look before turning on her heel. “I’ll never understand this generation.”
I feel many things at once: empathy for this woman, who has had it up to here with the Swifties and their apparent fixation on ketosis; defensiveness, because we also had bread and potatoes and alcohol; concern that I am going to be yanked into a van when I leave; delight that she thinks I am Gen Z.
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Day 4: Hôtel Barrière Fouquet’s
Each restaurant I go to separates me further from financial security and an understanding of my purpose on Earth. This one is no exception. I’ve never been to the Barrière Fouquet’s and in fact, had never even heard of it before it recently hosted Taylor Swift and Sophie Turner for what “Page Six” describes as a “low-key dinner.” (The chicken is $54.) It’s in Tribeca, near Taylor’s home, and even if I were blindfolded and dropped off in its lobby, I would know that. When I arrive at 5:30 p.m. for my own low-key dinner with two friends, we are the only people in the dining room who are not rich tourists from out of state in $600 leggings and platform Dior sneakers.
Our server informs us, not unrelatedly, that “old money is quiet and new money is loud,” which explains why, as she puts it, “Taylor doesn’t have a bad reputation. She was nice and she was chill, and she wasn’t, like, being fancy and ordering caviar.”
“Isn’t she technically new money?” I ask.
She considers this. “I guess, yeah,” she replies. “But she comes from some money.” (Taylor’s dad is in finance.)
My friends and I order the chicken, steak tartare, and salmon caesar to share, plus three glasses of wine, and the bill comes to nearly $300, or one-half of the leggings. For this price, we learn that Taylor sat in the restaurant’s private room with Sophie Turner, also known as “Joe Jonas’s ex,” says our server. “I don’t know her name. But they both dated him. So maybe they were talking about that.” And yet, even in this enclosed space reserved for the very famous and very rich, the server confirms that she was plagued by strangers taking unwanted photos of her. When Taylor’s bodyguards asked these private-dining-room companions to stop taking photos, they “threw a fit.”
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Day 4.5: Temple Bar
My friend Hazel and I decamp to Temple Bar on Lafayette to spend the rest of our life savings. There is no line, but the doorman slowly and forcefully implores us to “back up” when we reach for the door handle. “Is it just the two of you?” he asks. We nod. “Do you have a reservation?” he asks. We do not. He eyes us sternly, perhaps making a mental note to call the FBI and turn me in. Somehow, we are granted entry. It’s dark inside, full of 20-somethings crammed against each other, squinting and drinking espresso martinis, which Hazel and I immediately order. There are no tables free, but a young woman directs us to a tiny inch of space right up against the wall. “This is a really good spot,” she says.
“To Taylor, this is a dive,” observes Hazel. I look around at the drunken crowd. I can’t picture Taylor entering this bar without being instantly swarmed. I have to imagine that there’s a private room for her here, too. But I also have to imagine that it is so much more fun to have her friends over at one of her several homes, where she can go to the bathroom without being followed or eat a $30 cheeseburger without a bunch of new-money freaks taking her photo. Her dislike of being photographed by randos in private settings is thematically consistent — earlier this year, Taylor canceled her membership at Casa Cipriani after another member snapped a photo of her with Matty Healy. But she has held onto her membership at Zero Bond, another “exclusive” “club” tragically frequented by our terrible mayor, which I suppose means that he behaves himself in her presence. (When I asked my co-workers and friends if anyone could help me get into Zero Bond for this story, they all made fun of me.)
Eventually, Hazel and I get a table. We order another round of espresso martinis. Neither our initial server nor our second server were working when Taylor came in, they tell us. The second server was “so mad” about this. But he feels confident that she’ll be back.
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Day 5: The Unnamed Restaurant
The next day, I run into Taylor Swift. I can’t say at which restaurant or why I’m there without severe personal and geopolitical consequences. I understand this to be both an abandonment of my journalistic principles and a direct betrayal of the reader, but I have to think of global security and the future of my own social life. Let’s just say that wherever I am, I had a hunch that Swift might be here, at this specific restaurant in New York City, at the same time that I was planning to be there.
I spot Taylor from across the room and at first wonder if I have hallucinated her after spending the last five days chasing her phantom all over Manhattan. But then my friend points her out, and I feel gratitude that this ridiculous week has not permanently damaged my brain. She looks beautiful, glowing incandescently like some kind of possessed religious statue. She sips a cosmo. I had heard that was her drink.
I wonder if I will be vaporized on sight if I approach her, but I watch as several other people walk up and chat with her without her hovering bodyguards reacting negatively. She smiles generously and reacts to each of them in a human way as they alternatively try to act unruffled and openly genuflect. She doesn’t look fearful or annoyed, nor is she doing that thing she’s always getting shit for where she looks too excited. She looks like a woman at a party in New York, calmly enjoying herself. I find myself admiring her poise and grace and her arms, which are insane.
I approach her with no idea of what I’m going to say, and when I’m in front of her, I forget why I’m there and the words tumble out of my mouth. They have nothing to do with going out to dinner. Instead, I say, “My whole family loves you, and they would kill me if I didn’t say hi.” She laughs and opens her mouth to reply to a sentence she has probably heard upwards of four thousand times at restaurants just like this one.
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