Do I Know You? (The Joy of Being A Regular)
For my entire life, I’ve lived either in the heart of a big city or just outside of one. This came with a lot of perks: I grew up steeped in the arts and exposed to cultures other than my own, and — yes — I ate a lot of good food. There was always one thing I felt I was missing out on, though: being a regular.
I’d seen it on TV. From Cheers, to Friends, and so on, I envied the notion of being able to walk into a public establishment and have someone know you. It’s not that it’s impossible to achieve this in a city, it’s just far less likely. With a plethora of restaurants to explore, it’s rare that you will ever visit one on such a routine basis as to become a familiar face, and even if you stop for Starbucks each morning, there is an anonymity to these busy corporate spaces that makes relationship-building feel antithetical, or at least difficult. All that to say that while it was something I wanted, I had no idea of how to make it happen.
When the pandemic sent Chicago into lockdown, achieving this coveted status was the last thing on my mind. I had just moved to a new apartment in Lincoln Park. I was mourning the loss of my first dog and figuring out the quirks of my new puppy. But, just like anything else good in life, becoming a regular came along when I least expected it. During one of my first “mental health walks,” I was dead-set on finding what I would call a “mental health bagel” when an amazing smell caught my attention. Coffee. I didn’t even like coffee very much at the time, but I couldn’t help myself from walking in. Two minutes later, I walked out with a tiny, 8-ounce mocha that, to this day, is a core memory for me. Thus began my love-affair with Printer’s Row Coffee Co.
My singular visit turned into weekly visits, which turned into multiple visits per week. I’d love to credit the quality of the drinks (they’re still some of the best I’ve had anywhere), but that wasn’t my honest motive. It was that, during a period of intense isolation and fear, this tiny coffee shop — with its warm atmosphere and friendly demeanor, even in the presence of masks and plexiglass — had become my safe place for the social interactions I craved. In the blink of an eye, these people knew my name, and I knew theirs. They asked about my puppy and waved through the window when said puppy pranced by on her daily walk. When it came time for me to move yet again, this time to Los Angeles, the hardest goodbye to make may have been to this close-knit cohort of baristas to whom I owed my sanity.
The psychologist in me knows this is because our human brains crave the sense of community that modern living has whittled away. One could argue that it’s nothing special, and that I’d feel just as at home in a synagogue or an intramural kickball league, but creating community that way is expensive and effortful to a point that makes it unsustainable for many, myself included. Meanwhile, frivolous as it may seem, paying $5 for a well-acquainted conversation and a cup of something hot feels well worth it. And maybe the frivolity is part of that, too. Finding organic friendships amid your daily ritual is a magic that organized gatherings can’t quite capture. It fills a hole in life that society would rather we commodify or ignore.
It’s been a few years since then. I still think of Printer’s Row often, though I’m sure that their thoughts of me have been replaced by the regulars who are still… well, regular. It’s a bittersweet notion.
The good news? On a recent trip to my new local coffee shop, the barista finally remembered my name.
