What Do a Plate of Ribs and Bad Bunny Have in Common?

Lord.

That was some good ribs.

I did not expect a plate of ribs in Pleasantville to lead me into a conversation about Bad Bunny, language politics, and cultural curiosity. But that is the thing about dining alone. You order dinner. You leave with perspective.

I went to Southern Table solo, as I often do when I eat out. A table for one. A menu full of Southern comfort. A quiet promise to myself that I would behave like a lady.

The ribs had other plans.

There is something about ribs that demands honesty. They are not a polite food. They do not stay quiet. They announce themselves. Sauce glistening. Meat tender enough to make you reconsider your manners.

Part of me wanted to hold that rib with both hands, lean back in my chair, and devour it the way it was meant to be eaten—fingers fully involved, sucked clean to the bone, licked like I had just won a medieval feast.

But I was in public.

So I reached for my knife and fork.

I ate those ribs with a composed, ladylike discipline that would make any etiquette instructor proud. Small cuts. Neat bites. Strategic napkin dabs. A performance of restraint happening in real time.

Meanwhile, my spirit was barefoot at a Fourth of July barbecue.

Now the corn on the cob? That did not stand a chance.

I considered lifting it daintily. I truly did. But instead I made an executive decision. I boxed it up and took it home, because some foods deserve freedom. Later, in the privacy of my kitchen, I allowed the summer barbecue version of myself to emerge. Elbows up. Butter unapologetic. Joy unfiltered.

Balance.

Dining alone has its own rhythm. When you sit by yourself, people notice. They ask what you ordered. If it is good. If you have been there before. What you would recommend. It is one of the quiet gifts of solo dining, the way it opens small doors to connection you would not find otherwise.

Last night I spoke with three strangers. A couple to my left. A gentleman waiting at the bar. My server, who had opinions and delivered them confidently.

And somewhere between my second rib and a sip of water, the conversation turned to the Super Bowl. More specifically, to Bad Bunny.

What did I think?

I confessed the truth. I cannot confidently name a Bad Bunny song. I have heard them. I am sure I have moved to one at some point. But if you asked me to identify a title under pressure, I would fail the test spectacularly.

Still, I found myself saying something I meant.

I am happy for him.

Happy that Spanish-language music stands boldly on one of the biggest stages in America. Happy that culture is not being edited down to make anyone comfortable. Happy that we are expanding the soundscape of what we consider mainstream.

Most of us took Spanish in high school. Or French. Or something we swore we would never use again. Yet Spanish surrounds us. In restaurants. On trains. In grocery stores. In conversations passing by on the sidewalk.

And still, there lingers this quiet assumption that English should be the only language spoken widely and everywhere. That everyone should meet us in our language.

We are a bit spoiled in that way. Spoiled enough that we do not realize what we are missing. When you stay in one language, you stay in one lens. You miss the jokes that do not translate. The poetry that lives in cadence. The way some emotions only have names in other tongues. We think we are being practical, but really we are making ourselves smaller.

New York, especially, knows better. Walk through any neighborhood and you will hear a symphony of dialects. Entire histories carried in syllables. Food shaped by migration. Music shaped by longing. Art shaped by identity.

Imagine if we were all one language. One flavor. One rhythm. One story.

It would be painfully dull.

Culture is what makes life textured. It is what makes art electric. It is what makes music stretch beyond borders. It is what makes a plate of ribs taste like heritage and heat and memory passed down carefully.

So what do a plate of ribs and Bad Bunny have in common?

Both refuse to apologize for what they are. Both remind us that flavor is better when it is bold, that identity should not be trimmed down to fit the room, that authenticity cannot be sanitized. That the world is bigger than one language, one sound, one way of being. That some things—the best things—demand to be experienced on their own terms.

Would I recommend Southern Table? Absolutely. Tasty food. Warm ambiance. For solo dining, a solid four out of five. The lighting is forgiving. The staff attentive without hovering. The kind of place where you can eat ribs with a fork while secretly plotting to devour them medieval-style.

More than anything, dinner reminded me of something simple.

Talk to strangers.

Ask questions. Answer them. Stay curious. Dust off that language you abandoned years ago. Learn a new word. Try a dish from a culture not your own.

What makes life beautiful is not one direction or one story. It is layered. Multicolored. Multivoiced.

Messy sometimes.

Like ribs.

And infinitely better because of it.