Be a regular

and be local royalty

In this suburban dad life we must find glory where we can. Badass victorious moments are fleeting and getting fleetinger by the day. That’s why I cherish the times I walk into a bar, a restaurant, a coffee spot, the hardware store, and get recognized as a regular. Having Evardo, the Saturday counter guy at the New Rochelle Diner, know that it’s hot chocolate with whipped cream for my son, side of sausage and well done French Fries for me is just about as good as it gets. And while it may be entirely imagined, I spy the other counter patrons enviously eyeing the platonic food triangle that has established itself between Evardo my son and I. We have achieved regular status. Sitting at this counter we are vinyl, swivel chair, big shots feasting on omelettes surveying our formica domain. Not bad for a couple of common schmoes like us.

One quickly understands why all those scenes in Goodfellas inspired a generation of wannabe gumbas. Who wouldn’t want to walk into a joint and be treated like a king? Because let’s face it, these days we’ve all sort of become pawns on this American chessboard. I wake up with like 16 sore parts of my body, I own only a few precious articles of clothing without stains on them, I live my days waiting for something to break in my house for me to fail at fixing it. But when I walk into the Pelican Room, with its speakeasy bar, the owner daps me up like I’m Joe Fucking Pesci and the bartender starts making my French 75 (bougie much?) I’m the top dog. And I didn’t even have to murder anyone or do any of that pesky racketeering. Yes, I highly recommend regularity as a cure for general mediocrity.

Go ahead, give it a shot. Find a place you love, make a phone note of everyone’s name, return time and time again. Tip well, write glowing, hip, overly expressive online reviews, ask questions, laugh loudly, be that guy and soon, very soon you too will be a god damn regular badass. Then reap the benefits when you bring a friend or family member, or maybe that romantic interest in your life. But hey fucko, play it cool. Don’t dork it up. You have got to seem like this is your natural vibe. Regulars don’t try hard. They act as if. You’re just a regular homey, with regular connects, and regularly get your hand shaken by local purveyors. Don’t betray the fact that inside you’re entirely and deeply lame. Don’t let anyone see the glee in your eyes as they say, “we have your corner table right here.” No one will ever know that you rock a c-pap machine by night, and play Settlers of Catan phone games by day. It doesn’t even have to be in your neighborhood. Try becoming a regular on vacation. Pick a joint in the small Greek town you’re visiting and go back four nights in a row. Get to know Anna, she’ll bring you back to the kitchen, you’ll see the fish they just caught, you’ll drink Metaxxa late into the night and belt out My Sherona with the philosophy major/waiter Thanos (not the purple guy). You may never make it back to the island of Ikaria, but for that week you are a Greek god.

anna’s does not disapoint

I use my regular status to make up for an actual glaring deficiency in my real life. I’m one of those idiots who can’t remember people’s names even after I’ve met them 10 times. It might be a mental block, or some deep seeded selfishness, but boy do I suck at it. I was once at a neighborhood holiday party and I introduced myself to my actual next door neighbor of five years. I won’t soon forget the look of sheer disappointment on her face as she made note of just how much of a dick I was. Sadly, I couldn’t tell you her name right now if you had a gun to my head. I hate myself, but when I walk into Spring Lounge on the corner of Spring and Mulberry, even after a year of being away and they yell my name and hook me up with a reposado rocks with a lime, I know I have achieved something worthwhile. I may have never written that Oscar winning script, I didn’t get my face on the cover of AdWeek (not that I really ever wanted that), the New Yorker doesn’t even know I exist except for that one tote bag they sent me years ago, but by god, the Balkan owners of Sergio’s Italian Ristorante shake my hand and know I’ll be ordering the giant veal chop parmigiana, side of linguini, with a filthy Tito’s martini with three Blue Cheese olives. Oh yeah, break out the velvet rope for this guy to get on the other side of, because he’s important people. Very important people. They made an acronym for it… (you see already I don’t deserve it, keep it cool, nerd).

the regular sir?

In these modern times, of lonely disconnectedness and sad $20 salads scarfed at open seating plan desks, you can drive a minivan, you can buy jeans at Target, you can suck at golf, forget your neighbor’s name, and come up a bit short in the body shape department, but if even once a quarter you step into a place and get to feel like a member of the rat pack even your life can be aces. Your table is waiting.