If I have to go to each and every new eatery in my neighborhood to conduct access audits and negotiate deals, I will, readers. I will.

Down here in the Square, Rain Shadow Meats opened last month. I tracked the new construction with great expectation. We resident pioneers eagerly awaited their offerings: inventive appetizers, loaded sandwiches, unusual salads. And, of course, lots and lots of choice cuts for carnivores. All ingredients selected with great care and locally sourced. Equal effort spent creating an open, inviting space.

Except the seating. The place features bar stools. Nothing but bar stools.  When they were preparing to open, I spotted the problem but assumed they would include table seating in the back. Best to check assumptions, so I slid my card under the door along with this note: “I would love to talk to you about wheelchair access.” No response. So perhaps they took care of it?

I raised the problem in person as a simple question: “Where am I supposed to sit?” One staffer assured me that one stool was removable.  As she tried, but failed, to find the elusive stool, I pictured a bad game of musical chairs with me on the losing end.

My indignation rising, I asked why they designated a single stool. What if I wanted to have lunch with a fellow wheelchair user? How would they accommodate us? Not all patrons are comfortable sitting on stools, I argued, further: small children, people with bad balance, tourists in shorts. I longed to make a dramatic exit complete with withering remarks and a slammed door. But I swallowed those retorts. Clearly I was not making progress. Plus it’s almost impossible to get the proper leverage in a wheelchair for a satisfying door slam.

Reinforcements. That’s what I needed. And perspective. I enlisted a fellow activist who knows everyone. After a quick conversation with her, the owner vowed to provide a place. ASAP.  The following week, I returned. “Here,” the owner beckoned. “Watch this.” He quickly removed a stool and set it aside. A simple act. But, oh, the echoes. It’s a lunch counter, and so much more. Recall the Greensboro Four. That famous lunch counter. Woolworth’s lunch counter. And the hundreds of lunch counters that followed. Friends and leaders and activists who hurried up history and sped integration.

I’m trying to find a way to widen options for all. Care to join me in my quest? I promise we’ll eat well. Eventually. At the same table. Where there’s room for everyone.