On Being A Regular
/My first time was in college, and it began almost by accident. I had stopped at the Magic Wok in the student union for Diet Coke because the Subway line was extremely long. The girl in front of me ordered pad thai - a dish I had never eaten, having been raised in an Ohio town with limited (at best) ethnic cuisine. The dish, steaming from its styrofoam container, smelled greasily intriguing. I was hungover (it was a Wednesday, after all), and felt a sudden uncontrollable need for the pad thai. And so I ordered it. And I did so again a few days later when the Subway line was too long. And a few days after that. I didn't realize how low I'd sunk until a few months into the addiction, when I saw the young woman and man behind the counter at Magic Wok snicker as I approached and begin to prepare the dish before I'd even placed an order. "I'll have a Diet Coke," I stated firmly when I reached the counter. I never returned to the Magic Wok.
The experience, though mildly traumatizing, taught me an important lesson:
one must tread lightly on the path to restaurant regular.
When I first moved to Chicago I was overwhelmed by its gastronomical bounty. There were so many options! I couldn’t possibly try all of the places on my ever-growing list - let alone return to them multiple times. There was therefore no chance of developing the type of relationship, rapport, with a restaurant required to become a regular. This didn’t bother me - I was new to the city, it was quantity over quality at the time.
This was true of my late-night, drunken culinary pursuits as well. Burritos, cheese fries, an entire Pequod’s pan pizza (hot or cold) - I’d eat whatever was nearby. And that did not change with the substitution of Cheesie’s Pub & Grub - the self-proclaimed “Home of America’s Best Grilled Cheese!” - in the narrow, one-room space near Belmont and Sheffield once occupied by Tradicion, another late-night dining favorite.
I stopped into Cheesie’s a few times shortly after it opened, but was never impressed by its offerings. The bread was too thick, the cheese not nearly melty enough, the dipping sauce portion less generous than I’d prefer. Still, it was convenient, so I admit I visited after-hours on more than one occasion. Let me assure you, though, that this was not Magic Wok-level patronage. Far from it. In fact, the Cheesie’s closed shortly after it opened for renovation and expansion, and remained closed for months. What would it have taken, then, for one to make an impression on the staff in those first few months? To deserve special treatment?
It’s a question I’ve been asking myself for years.
It was late June, 2012. I hadn’t visited Cheesie’s in what seemed like ages - since well before the renovations. Some co-workers and I were heavily intoxicated after hours of drinking and merriment at a work function, and someone (it was me) suggested we head to Belmont for some late-night grilled cheese. It was the night before the Pride parade, so when we arrived the neighborhood was abuzz with activity. The line for Cheesie’s was out the door.
So we waited.
As we neared the counter we began to discuss our orders. “What do you recommend?” my co-workers inquired, knowing I lived nearby. “Well, I’ve only been here a few times,” I responded casually, “but the fried pickles are pretty good.” When it was my turn to order I chose the fried pickles, and threw in “The Caprese” grilled cheese, with extra dipping sauce, for good measure. As I reached for my credit card, the man behind the counter smiled at me.
“It’s Serena, right?”
I froze.
Nodding, panicking a little, I glanced back to find my co-workers wide-eyed, leaning in.
“Well,” the Cheesie’s cashier continued, “we’ve got this new program – a VIP program.”
The man handed me a 90s-style slap bracelet adorned with the Cheesie’s mascot – an anthropomorphized grilled cheese – which stared up at me with a knowing, mocking grin.
“This is our VIP slap bracelet. Use it for 10% off any order – including this one.”
I quietly accepted the slap bracelet, and paid for my unexpectedly discounted order. I couldn’t yet bring myself to look my co-workers in the eye, but I could hear their astonished laughter behind me. Slapping my new shame onto my wrist, I left to find us a table, and to reflect on my life.
To this day I carry that slap bracelet around - my scarlet letter burning from inside my purse. I’d like to tell you that I never returned to the Cheesie’s, but I have. And each time I covertly flash that slap bracelet to the cashier, reluctantly accepting my 10% discount.
And, hey, could I get an extra dipping sauce? I’m a VIP.