The Art of Being a Regular
I find myself alone at the Polo Bar in New York City, working on a cheeseburger and an extra dirty martini. From my corner table downstairs, I notice a couple at the table next to me. Probably in their early seventies, on a first name basis with the waiter. Their drinks arrive almost as soon as they sit. Clearly regulars. And it got me thinking…
I’ve written about The Art of Eating Alone, and the value of finding comfort in your own company. The last time I wrote about it, I was sitting alone in Miami at a hotel bar with a drink in front of me. There’s something about eating alone with a slight buzz that makes me want to observe and write. But there’s another side to that coin. If eating alone is about being invisible, about slipping quietly into the background of a room, then being a regular is about the opposite. It is about being seen… subtly, and finding a place where you belong. Both have their place.
The romantic in me believes everyone needs a place where they are known. Not in a big way, just in the small things that make life easier.. A bartender who remembers that you like a little more Campari in your Negroni than gin. A barista who starts your cappuccino before you even order. A waiter who slides you the corner table without asking because she already knows you prefer a view of the room with your back against a wall.
Being a regular isn’t about the food or the drink. It is about feeling that you belong. There’s no decision fatigue on what to order. You already know what you like here, and they already know how you like it. The comfort isn’t just in the meal, it is in being recognized.
Most people picture a regular as someone who lives around the corner. The guy who eats the same lunch every Wednesday, or the couple who always come in for their weekly date night. But being a regular can exist in places you don’t live too. Travelers know this better than anyone. if you spend enough time passing through a city, you start to leave small trails behind.
Theres a small token of pride when a bartender at a tapas restaurant in Barcelona says “welcome back” with a nod. It’s a special feeling. Whether it’s the subtlest of recognition or a large gesture, they both carry the same weight. For a brief moment, you’re not just a visitor.
That sense of familiarity hits differently when you’re on the road. Hotels blur together, airports definitely do, but one restaurant where they know your face stands out. When you travel often, restaurants can become your only sense of community and familiarity. Going back to the same ones again and again gives you a thread of stability, and once you reach the point of becoming a semi-regular, it shifts the way you feel about the city. It no longer feels like a stopover. It starts to feel a little bit like home.
Being a good regular doesn’t take much. You don’t act entitled, you show up often, tip well, and you respect the flow of the place. If you do that, over time, you’ll find yourself taken care of in ways that don’t show up on a receipt. A stronger pour, a better table, a plate of something new secretly landing at your table.
There’s a kind of magic in being a regular away from home. It makes the world feel smaller. You’re not just passing through, you’re part of the fabric of that place. And maybe that’s the art of it. Not just finding a corner that’s yours at home, but walking into a room halfway across the world and feeling like you never really left.
Achieved “regular” status this weekend when I walked into my usual deli on 2nd Ave and was hit with “the usual?” A nice feeling
no better feeling than being a regular and being taken care of