Where Everybody Knows Your Name

When I moved to Greenpoint a dozen years ago, there was one bar around the corner from where I lived called Enid’s. It had opened in the nascent hipster days of 1999. It’s still around, still great, and I still go there. But now that I’m older, I just go there during the day to write or during the evening to have a summery drink like their famous frozen Harrison—I am not ashamed to admit my love for this pint glass of pink deliciousness. But my favorite thing about this scrappy joint that—like the neighborhood—grew increasingly nicer and more family-friendly is that they now have these specially made pens for the waitstaff to use, and on the pen it says, “Enid’s: Since Before You Moved Here.” Man, that is so snarky. And so funny. Especially since everybody who works at Enid’s has always been so nice.

Take this one bartender at Enid’s who worked there the first time I visited, and she still works there today. She looks exactly the same. And by exactly the same, I mean still stunningly modelesque. Over the years, I’ve gotten to know her but only as a regular and never as someone who hangs out with her outside the bar. This bartender—a charming woman named Indira who says she’s a “mix of West Indian, Indian, Native American, and African American”—has been there for me, even if she doesn’t know it. She’s always been cool to me, which is clutch when you’re at a cool bar full of cool people, and you’re at an age where that matters (nowadays, I don’t care . . . that much). Indira also did that thing that all the best bartenders do: she listened to me whine one night as I bellied up to the bar and cried in my beer after being dumped from a two-year relationship (which seemed like forever at the time). Indira was sympathetic, and she only charged me for a couple of my drinks (that night I had a few). She didn’t make me feel insignificant. She made me feel important. Those are the kind of gestures that really make you appreciate being a regular. When I entered the bar that night, in the back of my mind, I knew Indira would be there for me, not only because she’s a great bartender and good person but also because she knew I was a regular.

The twist on that little story is that while I used to be a regular at Enid’s, nowadays I’m much more of a regular at the bar that opened directly across the street called Bar Matchless. However, I’m only a regular at the Monday night free comedy show in their back room, which is a converted garage; the bar used to be a repair shop. And the sweet part of this little twist is that I’m a regular at Matchless with my lovely wife Suzanne. (Suck it, stupid lady who dumped me and made me cry to Indira at Enid’s!)

Like true regulars, Suzanne and I have an entire routine at Broken Comedy at Matchless. On the way in, I always say hi to the bouncer Chris. In response, he always says in a super-smooth and deep voice, “There he is.” Right off the bat, that is awesome because Chris is a big black dude with a braided goatee that if you were to make fun of it, he looks like he would take his giant hands and twist you into a body-braid. On my way out, I always say, “Have a good night, Chris,” and he always responds, “Be safe.” Again, awesome. Yes, giant bouncer man, I will be safe. Y’never know when you got to wreck some dudes, right? (Says the little white dude—me—in his head.)

For two years, Suzanne and I have been going to Broken Comedy every Monday night. Earlier in this book, I interviewed one of the show’s hosts, Nimesh Patel. Over time, Suzanne and I became friendly with Nimesh and his cohost Mike Denny. In fact, we’ve become a regular part of their routines. Denny will sometimes talk to me from the stage, and Nimesh likes to lie to the crowd by pointing us out (always sitting in the second row of seats) and claiming that Suzanne and I either got engaged or married at the show. He does this with a straight face, and the crowd of mostly young twentysomethings totally eats it up. They actually applaud. In response, I take off my hat and wave like I’m a freakin’ military vet back from serving our country on their behalf. (Yes, I made this sacrifice for you . . .) I think it’s hilarious. Every time.

Broken Comedy and Matchless mean something to me. It’s special and intimate. Before every show, I pound fists with Denny and Nimesh. I check in with the bartender. (How many times has she told me she had to move to a new place in Brooklyn? I’ve lost count.) After every show, I get hugs and handshakes from Nimesh and Denny. As I’ve continued to live in this rapidly changing neighborhood, I’ve seen so many of my friends get priced out and forced to move away. (I’m lucky. I’ve got an amazing landlord who, despite the condo infiltration, never raised the rent.) I’ve also grown older. I don’t go out like I used to. Monday nights are one of the only nights I actually stay out late. And by “late,” I mean I dip around 11 p.m. when the show ends, and I always say, “Thanks, but no thanks,” when Nimesh asks if I’m sticking around to party. My friends are now getting married and having kids. Their lives are becoming increasingly complicated and consumed. Monday nights at Matchless are really one of the only times and places where I get to see the same people regularly. Even though it’s not so much a hang as it’s a hello, this regular exchange is one of the only ones I’ve got anymore, and it really matters to me. It keeps me from being too depressed at the idea that as you get older, you hang out with your friends a whole lot less. It’s also nice to think of yourself as important every now and then.

And that’s the thing: feeling important. I can’t tell you how many times I interviewed a regular and at some point they’d say, “It’s like that show Cheers . ‘You want to go where everybody knows your name.’” Nearly everybody said that, and so I left it out of all the interviews except a couple. It’s one of those sayings that’s cliché but true. Indira at Enid’s knew my name. And they know my name across the street at Matchless. And just as with the regulars I interviewed, that makes you feel important. Why? It’s just a cool bar, right? It’s just a hip restaurant. It’s just a trendy shop. Sure, it’s all those things, but when they know your name, that’s when you get a verbal recognition that you belong somewhere. The regulars really get that.

This might surprise you, but I can sometimes be a bit of a curmudgeon. (Sort of weird for a guy who’s spent the last few years meeting up with strangers to talk.) It’s just that I’ve always been uptight. And the beauty of Brooklyn and New York is that here it’s so easy to go to a place where nobody knows your name. The thing is, if that’s all I had, I know I’d wish so hard that I could go to a place where at least somebody knew my name. We all need that.