Walk into any bar with a U-shaped counter—like the one I often sit at while working—and you’ll likely notice something strange: Most of the barstools are empty. But at one end, a tight pack of regulars is gathered like old friends around a campfire. They greet each other by name, laugh at inside jokes, and occupy the same stools they always do. You might assume it’s a coincidence, or maybe it’s just the best view of the biggest TV, but there’s more going on here than meets the eye.
There’s an unwritten rule at nearly every bar no matter the shape of the counter: People tend to sit in the same place every time they visit. And for regulars, that “spot” becomes sacrosanct. It’s an unspoken agreement, a social contract forged over beers, banter, and years of repetition. So much so that newcomers instinctively avoid those familiar perches even when the bar is wide open and the regulars aren’t there yet. Why?
Because bars, for all their free-flowing atmosphere, operate on a kind of social architecture. Having a “spot” offers something comforting for the regulars in an increasingly unpredictable world. They know exactly what view they’ll have, who they’ll sit beside, and which bartender will likely serve them. It’s the adult version of a security blanket in that it is predictable, familiar, and calming. In chaotic times, the familiar barstool can feel like the only piece of solid ground.
We’re social creatures with tribal tendencies. Even in adulthood, we carve out territory, especially in shared spaces. At a bar, where everyone is technically on neutral ground, regulars mark their spots not with signs but with presence and repetition. Sit in someone’s usual spot, and you might not get scolded, but you’ll feel the subtle shift in energy, the silent judgment from the tribe. We humans are polite creatures for the most part, but we notice.
And newcomers? They know not to cross that line, even if they don’t know why. Body language, tone of voice, and the unspoken vibe tell you someone sits there. Better to find your own seat and let the regulars keep theirs.
Let’s face it: most of us have a little Norm Peterson in us. We like being known and recognized. There’s a comfort in walking into a bar where someone remembers your name or your drink order. Sitting in the same place often enough makes you part of the furniture. People expect you, and when you’re not there, someone might even ask where you are. That’s not just about the seat—it’s about identity and belonging.
The layout matters, too. That U-shaped bar? It’s designed for interaction. It’s no accident that the regulars cluster in the bend of the “U” or on one particular side. That’s where the best sightlines, conversations, and bartending action happen. It’s the social sweet spot.
Oddly enough, this whole dynamic is incredibly polite. Regulars don’t need to post “Reserved” signs, and first-timers don’t need to be told where to sit. Everyone just knows. It’s like the silent dance of elevator etiquette; face forward, don’t speak, don’t touch buttons that aren’t yours. No one teaches it, but somehow, everyone follows it.
If you’re a newcomer, the best advice is simple: read the room. Sit where others aren’t—unless someone gestures for you to join. Over time, you might find your own unofficial “spot.” Sit there long enough, before you know it, you’re part of the unwritten rule like I am now.
So, as I watch the regulars laugh and chat, I realize I’m witnessing something sacred. It’s not flashy or exclusive but quietly meaningful. It’s about finding your place and, once you have, being missed when you’re gone. And that’s the magic of the hallowed barstool.
John Berkovich Talks 