Oh, I tried to fake it for a while. I kept returning to you — out of habit, inertia, nostalgia, who knows — but I’m realizing that lying to myself isn’t doing either of us any favors. Sticking around only hurts both of us.
This breakup is a positive thing, really: We can go our separate ways and each be happier. My leaving will make room for new customers who will appreciate you. You deserve people who love you for who you are, who don’t wish that you’d change. And I deserve to spend money someplace where I won’t walk away feeling disappointed, resentful, or misunderstood.
I know what you’re thinking: What did I do wrong? It’s not one thing; not really. It’s more a series of tiny paper cuts. I owe you an explanation, so let me try here.
You dazzled me in the beginning, beguiling me with your sleek design and attentive service. I couldn’t believe I’d found someplace that seemed to understand me so well, from the soundtrack (Steely Dan!) to the menu (sauce flights!).
We seemed made for each other, and more than that: You really cared. You remembered my name. My favorite seat. When you told me about the specials, you looked me in the eye. When you suggested a dish, you were honest. Transparent. Vulnerable. There was a sense of trust.
You were really trying, and even the occasional missteps — a warm cocktail, a forgotten appetizer — were easy to overlook. They didn’t seem like red flags, just the normal wrinkles of a new relationship. I was enraptured.
So enraptured, in fact, that I was willing to go to great lengths to make the relationship work. Your parking was bad, but I didn’t mind circling the block a few times. You booked up 30 days in advance, so I’d sit at my laptop, ready to pounce, as soon as reservations opened. But, hey, you commanded respect. I felt special, chosen even, when you made space for me. And let’s be honest: You weren’t particularly kid-friendly, either, but that was OK. I would gladly steal away and get a baby sitter.
Why did I care so much? Because, each time I walked in, I felt special. I’d fantasize about how the evening would play out as I got ready: What I’d order; the mood; the vibe. Approaching you, my pulse would quicken. And, stepping inside, there was always a buzz in the air. You were crowded, effervescent, delighted to see me.
And, each time I left, I’d plot my return: When could I see you again? It was hard to stay away, and what started as an occasional visit turned into a comfortable routine. You were “my” place, and truth be told, I enjoyed showing you off. I took friends to you; co-workers. I recommended you to neighbors; I described your best table; your perfect dish. And then I’d listen — OK, maybe a bit jealously — when they described your evening together. But all was forgiven when you remembered my birthday.
Who can say when it all changed? There were small disappointments: a few beloved dishes, switched out. A favorite server, replaced by someone else who said all the same lines — about the drinks, the specials, how many dishes to order — but in a slightly different way. The large, glassy ice cubes, shining like diamonds in my margarita, were replaced by crushed pebbles, cold and raw as they slid down my throat. The thrill was gone.
But I kept coming back. I didn’t want to admit what I knew was true. You had changed. The staff was new. The menu was different. The original chef? On to new horizons, I think, though I didn’t have the heart to ask: I was probably afraid to know the truth.
I’m not blaming you. Restaurants evolve. And, you know what? I’d changed, too. I’m not blameless here, not by a long shot. My nights began to fill up, with kids’ sports and practices. I couldn’t drink the way I used to in my younger years, so your amazing cocktails started to feel lost on me. Time that I used to spend refreshing my Resy app was occupied with registering for summer camps and soccer. Keeping our connection alive began to feel like work, especially when you started to post constantly on Instagram in a voice I couldn’t quite recognize.
But every relationship has a final act, and ours is no different. It was a couple months ago. Do you remember? I’d come to you with friends, eager to show them what I loved about you. I’d talked up your variety; the creativity. I promised them that they’d love you, the way I once loved you. But as I convinced them, I wondered: Was I convincing myself, too?
When we arrived, nobody recognized us. When we were asked if we’d visited before, I nearly said no — that’s how unfamiliar you felt. When asked if we had any allergies, I winced. You’d forgotten everything I’d told you about the grapefruit. But still, we ordered, and I told myself: Everything will get back to normal as soon as we eat. Just be open-minded, even though the prices had crept up, too.
The dishes came out quickly and haphazardly, almost as if you couldn’t wait to get rid of us. Some of them were cold. The portions were smaller, too. Were you withholding part of yourself? I think so.
And, all the while, my phone was dinging. One kid wondered how to turn on the oven. Another one wanted more time on a gaming app. I was distracted, fatigued. But there was one spectacular seafood dish — a signature, one that always stayed on the menu — and, as usual, it was sublime. Maybe, maybe, we could make it work. But when you brought us the check without even asking about dessert, I knew it was really over.
Walking out, past the luminescent bar, I think I knew I’d never see you again. I turned over my shoulder, gazing at the clatter of happy diners, saying a silent farewell to a place where I no longer belonged. Some were probably discovering you for the first time. But my time here was over, and I knew it. I closed the door and stepped onto the sidewalk, a sidewalk I knew so well, for the last time.
Sometimes, I still drive by you and feel a pang. If it’s dark out, I glance inside your windows and see people inside where I used to sit, framed with the yellow-amber light that I loved so much. And I smile, wishing you the best.
I don’t want to destroy you with a Yelp! review. I am not bitter. You have talent and good intentions. You are a proud independent neighborhood restaurant with a point of view, and, for a long time, you were special to me.
But I think we want different things: You want to make money and turn over more tables. Who can blame you? And, at this stage of my life, I need comfort. My budget has changed; my appetites have, too.
It’s time for goodbye. I’m grateful for our time together, and no — there isn’t a new restaurant to take your place. Really! I’m still figuring out what I want. In the meantime, I promise I won’t tell anyone about that time you charged me twice for scallops. I’ll still follow you on social media. And I’ll still recommend you to other people, hoping that one of them loves you the way I used to.
Wistfully,
Your former regular
P.S. I think you still have a pair of my pink Goodr sunglasses. Could you mail them back to me?
Kara Baskin can be reached at kara.baskin@globe.com. Follow her @kcbaskin.
Dining and Cooking