At the bar at The Bowery Ballroom (the one in the basement, not the one by the stage or the one up on the balcony), a person asked the bartender if there is a card minimum. “No, but that’s why we are so backed up. Everyone is paying with their card,” the bartender says. Someone behind me asked if the band is on yet. No one answered.
At the intersection of Spring Street and Crosby Street, I overheard a man who was wearing pre-Alessandro Michele Gucci Horsebit Loafers. He was talking to his friend, who was not wearing pre-Alessandro Michele Gucci Horsebit Loafers, and said, “I fear the day homeless people start accepting credit cards.” The two men went into Balthazar and probably ordered the seafood tower and probably have Raya profiles and probably didn’t delete their Uber accounts.
I carry cash. You should, too. And not just because it’s good manners, but because there is a particular kind of entitlement about choosing not to. A presumptuousness. I carry $100. Five twenties. Have it: to split the bill after dinner. Have it: to tip your barber, your barista, your delivery person. (You can't beat cash for that.) Have it: for emergency situations. Have it: for small purchases. Have it: because cash is untraceable and not all drug dealers take Venmo.
It might have been that Square was down, or their iPad wasn’t working, or the Wi-Fi was acting up, but one morning at Happy Bones, a coffee shop on Broome street, they couldn't take credit card. They gave the guy in front of me his almond milk cortado for free. He didn’t have cash to pay for it, but he also couldn’t tip them for the nice gesture. It came in handy to have cash then.