Places in the Heart

As I sat with Ella at Braum’s last Friday, I looked around the room and realized that we weren’t the only ones there with a Braum’s story.

I see the elderly man who comes in every Friday at 4:45. He sits at the same tall table facing the window and eats dinner by himself. Then, he puts on a Braum’s apron and starts to work stocking shelves in the Fresh Market section. I don’t know his story. It seems sad to me, but that’s not fair to him. Maybe this is his happy place. Maybe he is alone now and Braum’s is all he has. Maybe he just wants to work, and what better to work than an ice cream parlor that makes kids happy?

And then I thought about the other places that house my memories.

I thought about Ferrell’s Ice Cream where we always had our family birthday parties when I was a kid.

I thought about Crystal’s Pizza where we had all our friend’s birthday parties when we were growing up.

I thought about the Spirit Grill, where my buddy Adrian bought me drinks after my dad died. And I remembered how he went running with me in the neighborhood around the bar even though he isn’t a runner. He knew I needed a run.

To an outsider walking in for the first time, they would probably think it’s just another dark room with bar taps and nicotine-scented walls even though smoking hasn’t been allowed there in over a decade.  But it’s a place where two friends grew closer by forming an unbreakable bond over the loss of their dads.

I thought about eating lunch with that same buddy a few weeks ago at a Thai place in the most non-descript strip mall in Irving. A random viewer eyeing that location on Google Maps would never think twice about that location. But that was the same strip mall as the sandwich shop my Dad always took me to when I still lived at home. There is nothing revolutionary about a sandwich at Sub A in Irving, but I sat in my truck in the parking lot for several minutes remembering that Dad always ordered the grinder and how I would give my right arm just to have one more sandwich with him there.

I thought about Abacus, where Michelle and I had our first date. That place will always be special, and it isn’t because the lobster shooters were so fantastic. It’s where two friends dined alone for the first time and realized that the label “friends” wasn’t going to apply anymore.

Every year we went back on our anniversary. Our waiter always asked us what brought us in today. We told them that we had our first date there and always came back on our anniversary to celebrate. And every year, the waiter came back with a copy of the menu signed by the chef congratulating us and thanking us for sharing the special occasion with them.

Abacus closed down. There is a new restaurant in that same location, but it isn’t the same.

And then it hit me. It always makes me sad to read about a bar or restaurant closing, even if it’s a place I rarely visited. Now I know why. A restaurant or bar is not just a building. It’s more than a kitchen or a long counter in the back and a bunch of tables and chairs in front. It’s a collection of stories and memories.

It’s a couple on their first date.

It’s a couple on their last date. (I didn’t say all the memories were good ones).

It’s a boy looking across the room and seeing his future wife for the first time.

It’s a group of childhood friends reconnecting over drinks after not seeing each other for years.

It’s a girl sitting by herself at the corner table of a coffee shop writing the next great American novel.

It’s two people meeting for a drink and discussing a shared idea that will become the next business that you read about in the newspaper every day.

It’s a father comforting his daughter over ice cream after she had a bad day at school.

So, maybe instead of staying home tonight, I’ll take the family somewhere for dinner and order another memory.