42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

Picture an unassuming Italian restaurant tucked into a space in an ubiquitous shopping plaza.

But Heather has read one good review on it. The only review of a pizza parlor she can find in town.
We have yet to find “the place.” The pizza place.

It has been two years. It shouldn’t be so hard. Fresno has a lot of good food across the spectrum. But pizza, hard to find.

So we go to a place touted in the review as “the place regulars go for pizza and a beer after work.”

10 heads at one table whip around to stare as the door opens. They look like they’re having a family reunion. Another set of people chat familiarly with the waiter, who, it turns out, is catching up with them and talking about his new job. It turns out he’s only working Saturdays as a favor to the owner, Tony.

Everyone knows Tony by sight. Everyone says hi to Tony.

We’re definitely the outsiders.

More people come in to pick up food, chat with Tony.

We don’t meet Tony, aren’t introduced. The food is pretty good. But I suspect you come for the relationship, the feeling of familiar things. The regulars order their regular, or surprise the waiter with a different choice this time.

I don’t know whether I’d like to be a regular anywhere. I don’t know if I’d find it comforting or creepy. I like anonymity.

I used to eat at the same places in a small town we’ll refer to as Dowagiac. A co-worker and I would eat at one or two places all the time, sometimes singlehandedly keeping them in business, it seemed. At one place, because I always ordered the same thing, the woman taking my order over the phone identified me as “the girl with the really long, brown hair, the one that works at the paper.”
Yeah. That was me, before the haircut.

And once I realized I was a regular there – known as much for my hair as my order of an 8-inch turkey sub on wheat with no mayo, no tomato, plus mustard — I quit going. It freaked me out.

Maybe I’m less shy now. I’m certainly more anonymous. My job at the paper is relegated to one without much outside glory; no byline, no public to be angry. And I live in a much bigger town, and my tastes in food have changed.

The only place I became a semi-regular at here, I had to boycott. Still haven’t been back. But we checked out a new Thai place just down the street, with late hours, and, as it turns out, much better food for a reasonable price without the water and the drama.

But now I can’t afford to be a regular. Maybe a semi-regular. To afford a mortgage, going out to eat has been cut back dramatically. I look at dishes in restaurants and wonder if I can make it better, cheaper myself.

A lot has changed since my days of the 8-inch turkey sandwich on wheat, minus the mayo, tomato, plus mustard. But I’ll still hold the mayo and tomato.