Poppy Mom

Here comes a regular

Before I moved to St. Louis in '99, I spent eight years in Columbia, Missouri. Eight fabulous years, and I hated to leave. In the time I lived there, I became a bit of a fixture at Ernie's, an old 1930s-era diner in downtown. It was the perfect place to go for a hungover breakfast, or to sit for hours, drinking cup after cup of strong black coffee while I scribbled away in a notebook. Sometimes the counter in that dark, smoky diner felt more like home than whatever apartment I was renting.

When I moved, Ernie's was one of the first things that I painfully missed about my old life. It wasn't until 2002 that B. and I found a diner that even came close to matching the essence of Ernie's - the Formica counter, the chrome, the smoke, the striaght-up black coffee, simple food that was simply great, and a staff that embraced us as family shortly after our first few visits. Once I found my diner, I finally started to feel at home in this city.

No, I'm not going to mention the name of this establishment, which is odd for me. Their website isn't listed in the "Noshing" section, either. I've been a massive advocate for this little restaurant over the past two years. I have drug most of my friends and family there, and I'm always telling people, "Go there. It's great. You'll love it." But not this time. Why? Because I'm going to bad-mouth them.

Things have changed, and I don't like it one bit.

The food's still great. The quality of the restaurant's still great. I'd still recommend them to just about anyone who's looking for a yummy, classic breakfast or a fabulous cheeseburger. I lived on them while pregnant with Clara "Cheeseburger with Onions, Pickles, and Mustard" Jane. The problem isn't with anything restaurant-related.

Being a regular is wonderful. The old "Cheers" cliche really does apply - "Where everybody knows your name". There's a lot to be said for that. These people and businesses can become as much a part of our lives as our family and friends. In the weeks after Cheeseburger's birth, when the post-partum depression and panic attacks threatened to snap what was left of my brain, I could go to the diner and my mind was taken away. I found myself surrounded by people I saw everyday, who knew how I liked my eggs and when I needed a coffee refill. I spent hours at that counter, Cheeseburger dozing in her carseat beside me, trying to bring my feet and soul back to Planet Earth when it felt like the rest of my life was somewhere floating in space with no oxygen.

But there are perils that come with being a regular. Where are the lines between business and pleasure? It would be great if real life was like "Cheers", where Norm goes years without paying his bar tab. But that's not reality. As I business owner, I can empathize with the need to make money. And maybe that's what makes me a not-so-profitable business owner - I don't have a problem with working for free for my friends.

No, I don't expect free food from my diner, nor do I expect to be able to run a tab for years that eventually rivals the amount of my student loans. I just wish the line between business and friendship didn't exist. Because, the fact is, I know too much about the behind-the-scenes of my diner. I know who's fighting with whom, and why. And likewise, they know all of my business, too. We've crossed that line from wonderfully comfortable to too-much-info.

B. and I became friends with a couple that works th grill at the diner. One-half of that partnership has finally gotten fed up and left the business to pursue a different avenue. And that's great - I'm thrilled for her and I know she'll do great and be very happy in her new vocation. But sadly, this also signals a change. Like any restaurant - or group of friend, or family, or any community, for that matter - flux happens. And in this case, I'm not liking it one bit. I want my old home back.

I haven't been frequenting the diner nearly as much as I was. For awhile, I was going every single day. So, maybe my angst is fueled by my body's depleted bacon fat reserves and the solution to my problem would be to go more often. But somehow, I doubt it. If I were to do that, while my bacon fat levels would return to their normal, healthy level, I know I would just get more tightly wound into the diner's microcosm, and I know that's not what I need.

I need to open my own diner. Or have bacon delivered directly to my door. Anyone know of a good bacon delivery service?

Posted by Robin at June 13, 2004 12:41 PM | TrackBack