Earsdropping: on being a regular
I’ve always wanted to be a regular. I was reminded of this ongoing desire that follows me into each of my favorite shops when I earsdropped on a couple of regulars at a coffee shop near my college. These regulars were anything but — they were real comedians. The barista greeted them by name and confirmed their order aloud from memory. It dawned on one of the early-morning-commute comedians that they were going to get real spicy with their order today by changing their skim milk latte to oat — how oatrageous. Now, I can understand a granular change every once in a while so that the morning-coffee-run routine doesn’t get so tepid. But I wonder if they know how lucky they are. To be a regular.
I think my greatest obstacle is that I have too many favorite spots to frequent. I can say for sure that I would want to be a regular at a place that serves food. What feeds the soul better than something that also feeds the stomach? Would I be a regular at a coffee shop? I don’t think so. I appreciate the creature comforts of my kitchen at the start of my day. And I wouldn’t want those older generations to accuse me of being frivolous for buying too many avocado toasts. What about a nice restaurant? To me, that feels too indulgent. I get uncomfortable fairly quickly when people serve me, especially with pomp and circumstance. Maybe a classic Italian deli. One with a counter, where a guy named Sal would take my order in a yellowing undershirt and waist apron that hasn’t been washed since it was purchased. He’d be dripping with impatience as I couldn’t make up my mind because they all sound so good (even though at this point I’d have eaten them all three times over). With my order placed, he would begin to assemble the sandwich, carefully layering the ingredients to geological perfection. As he designs each layer, he’d pause and add a bit more, because I come here every week. After all, I am a regular. There’d be an artform to how he rolls the sandwich in butcher paper, cutting it in half to highlight the lustrous layers, before rolling it again and folding the ends in on themselves. I’d already have my exact change ready on the counter, and without looking up, he’d say, “See you again soon, Bryan”.
Reading this fantasy back, it doesn’t seem like much. There is a tired, hardworking man who makes delicious sandwiches really well and, most importantly, gives me a little bit more than anyone else. I guess that’s what would make me feel special as a regular. I’m a greedy little pig.
In a previous Earsdropping, I expressed my desire to better connect with Portland’s food community, wanting to be more than a fan. To me, a regular will always be a fan. A regular may come for community and connection, but there will always be the implicit transaction. In reality, you do have to buy something if you want your favorite spot to stay open.
If sitcoms of the 80s and 90s taught us anything, it’s that regulars were such a regular occurrence. What were their motivations for going back again and again? Did they also want a little extra on their Italian sub?
Cheers (1982-1993)
The show where everyone knew each other’s name. The main setting of the show, a bar in Boston, where the usual cast of characters ended their day and often spent their nights. They vented, argued, loved, and celebrated there. As characters and relationships came and went, the wood-clad bar was the constant in all of their ever-changing lives.
Seinfeld (1989-1998)
Monk’s coffee shop was a famous fixture in the show that the quartet of quirky thirty-somethings often found themselves going to. In a series that is often jokingly referred to as a show about nothing, their reasons for such habitual hangs at the coffee shop come down to the same conclusion — nothing. On countless occasions, the characters with stalemates of indifference, decide to just go to the coffee shop for the same order of tuna on toast, a bowl of cereal, or to get in a rage-induced battle with the longtime cashier Ruthie Cohen. One of the four, George, even develops a crush on a waitress who remembers his order.
The Simpsons (1989-)
Moe’s Tavern, the eponymous bar run by a cynical and humorless bartender was where you could find the show’s father figure, Homer Simpson, drunk and disillusioned most nights. Homer was known to drown most of his frustrations in endless pints at Moe’s while receiving questionable advice from Moe and other plastered patrons. Going to Moe’s was a go-to escape from family obligation or challenges for haphazard Homer.
Friends (1994-2004)
Sharing a New York locale similar to Seinfeld, the six stars of the show systematically started their days and jump-started their afternoons at their local coffee shop, Central Perk. Their regularity rooted in their desire to have extra social time with their friend, Rachel, who worked as a waitress at Central Perk. Although other workers, like barista Gunther, came and went throughout scenes, most of their experiences were insular to their group, staying around their uncontested central sofa seating. Though they had an in with the waitress, the service wasn’t the best, as they would often get the wrong order.
These regulars used the bars and coffee shops of their stomping grounds as transactional places. They used it as a meeting space, a seat outside of their living room, or a place to hide. I wonder how well they tipped as they spent hours of their life each week in this familiar forum.
Maybe being a regular should be less about what the space can do for us, and more about what we can offer to the space. If these places are so precious to us, as we transiently come and go from them, how might we be more intentional with paying homage to the locales we call our second home? Is it as simple as wiping our own table to remove the setting coffee ring or the confetti of shredded lettuce fodder? Is it more sincere as a nod, a wave, and a thank you as we step out? Or is it profound if we pause, take a good look around, and see the warmth that it brought to us?
