Who Gets the Banquette Seat?

My husband and I were at a local Italian spot in Salt Lake City, the kind with a long, cushy banquette running the length of one wall. There was no discussion about where I’d sit — on the bench, my dude. That’s my rightful place. 

A few sips into my Aperol spritz, my husband chuckled. On either side of us, nine other couples were in identical formation: men sitting erect in hard-backed chairs, women sprawled on the banquette taking in the restaurant’s theatrics. (A bonafide Italian waiter in large square glasses and brown suspenders was singing an operatic rendition of Happy Birthday at a nearby table.) The scene felt a touch cliché, but also kinda powerful. If provoked, we could have locked arms and scrimmaged our way out of the restaurant. 

The French weren’t exactly catering to a troop of women linebackers when they introduced the banquette in brasseries and cafés in the late 1800s. Originally just modular, legless boxes, these benches were practical — easy to move, no need to mop underneath. But beyond convenience, these seats also played a subtle role in defining the gender dynamics of public spaces. “Women were traditionally seated on the banquette,” wrote Suzanne Slesin in a 1979 New York Times article, “protected from the possible clumsiness of waiters and reflected in the mirrors that usually lined the walls.”

By the time Slesin was writing in the late ’70s, banquettes had evolved from austere, functional benches into lush, throne-like status symbols. Today, they're even better. Deep, soft, curved, and dimly lit. Sinking into one feels like a return to the womb — safe and cozy in your own little pod. It’s like watching TV; you’re part of the action but comfortably removed with a bowl of spaghetti on your lap. You can cross your legs. You can drape your coat over your knees like a blankie. The only drawback is that getting out to pee requires some light contortionism. 

I deal with the physical challenges of a reproductive cycle every month; all things equal, my body experiences more challenges than my boyfriend’s. He can sit in the uncomfortable chair as a tiny indicator of his awareness.

In an age where many of us like to hope that all people, regardless of gender, have the same rights, opportunities, and access to resources, you’d be forgiven for thinking the banquette is fair game for anyone. But you’d also be wrong. Based on a very unscientific and non-exhaustive Google survey I ran, it seems that the banquette’s most loyal occupants are women who see it as their deserved seat. What was once extended as a supposedly chivalrous offer — please sir, protect me from all those flying cassoulets — has since become a symbol of self-possession, both within relationships and more broadly. 

One respondent summed it up perfectly: “I like taking up space,” she said. “I need to roam.”

There are practical reasons, too: “No one brushes past me and bumps my purse or sweater off my chair.” 

I asked one friend if she’d ever had fights with her husband over the banquette. Her iconic response: “No, because I don’t let him in it.”

Although women expect the banquette now, in the delicate dance of heterosexual courtship, it’s still in the man’s best interest to offer it. “If I’m on a date and he took the banquette,” said one writer, “there’d be no second date.”

The bench is more than just a chair; it’s an assertion. “Historically, women have always been expected to take a backseat,” said another respondent. “My comfort is not just as important — it is more important. I deal with the physical challenges of a reproductive cycle every month; all things equal, my body experiences more challenges than my boyfriend’s. He can sit in the uncomfortable chair as a tiny indicator of his awareness.”

The banquette’s history is rooted in hetero dynamics — where gender roles are often most visible and exaggerated. So I texted a married couple I know, both women, to see how they handle sharing the bench. “I take the chair 100% of the time because she’s queen,” said one. The other agreed, “I love a booth; it’s just known.” It’s just known! 

At the risk of overcomplicating a simple preference for eating dinner on the couch (read: at the risk of making shit up), the feelings and convictions about banquettes that came up in my questionnaire seem to represent a kind of subtle balancing of the scales. Girls just wanna take a load off. And can you blame us? 

There is so much endless and unspoken pressure placed on women, of almost any age and any cultural background, to be in service to those around them. “In the U.S., most of us aren’t taught to use our sociological imaginations,” Jessica Calarco, author of Holding It Together: How Women Became America’s Safety Net, told Anne Helen Petersen in an interview. “Instead, we — especially women and people from other systematically marginalized groups — are taught to self-help-book our way out of structural problems. To believe that all our problems would go away if only we were to strictly follow some seventeen-step plan.”

For much of my life, being helpful has been a defining characteristic. Though I grew up in Australia, where our social safety nets are robust, I was raised in a family obsessed with productivity. My parents were farmers who rarely took days off — it’s hard to draw boundaries when you eat, sleep, and work in the same place. I watched my mom do it all without fuss, and I internalized the idea that I had to do it all too. 

It’s often only with other women that I feel like I can finally put down the burdens we all carry, even if just for a little while.

Now, like many grown-ass women, I juggle an unquantifiable amount of balls at any given time. Daily thoughts include: Oh hell, did we get my mother-in-law a birthday present? Does my husband know he needs to wear a tux to that wedding 2.5 months from now? Remember to text [insert friend] “good luck” for her work thing today. How much money do I need to save if I want to buy a house in my lifetime? What should I make for dinner? If I decide to have a child, who’s going to look after that worm?

Moving to Salt Lake City from New York in early 2023 was a major slam on my brake pedals. But I still work too much. I still find it hard to ask for help. In many ways, I’m still trapped by my social conditioning — constantly people-pleasing, constantly deprioritizing my needs. But I’m starting to untangle myself from it. Recently, a friend invited me over for dinner, and I panicked because I didn’t have time to prepare something to bring. She texted back, “Your contributions are actually your brain.” Damn. Yeah. It’s often only with other women that I feel like I can finally put down the burdens we all carry, even if just for a little while.

All of this is to say, obviously, I want the banquette, dawg. In lieu of wide sweeping social infrastructure, I want a moment in the most comfortable seat in the house, twirling pasta and watching fake Pavarotti boom Happy Birthday at an embarrassed-looking table. And it feels like this sentiment is rippling far beyond me, the nine other women in that Italian restaurant, and the countless survey respondents who’ve all claimed our spots on the bench. 

We’re not objects to be reflected in restaurant mirrors anymore. We’re tired, and we want a little softness. So, how do men feel about it? A smart one responded to my survey: “I let my partner decide where she wants to sit.”