Thursday, 25 January 2007 | Fix(ed)

If you were to ask me how many restaurants were in New York City, I'd have to say seven, because I can only think of seven. Whenever I find a restaurant I really like, I tend to develop tunnel vision and become weirdly loyal to it, so much that I'm not inclined to shop around.

I think it has more to do with familiarity than with loyalty, though. Maybe it's laziness? I don't think so, because I'm genuinely in love with all the places on my list. Maybe that's what it is -- devotion to the thing I like, but more for my behalf than for the sake of showing allegiance.

Somehow new restaurants and menu items find a way to creep onto the list, despite that I always eat the same stuff: someone else chooses a restaurant (which is a relief), and I have a new opportunity to discover the rare dish that's able to barrel its way through my peculiar checklist. It always starts with a menu item, and I suppose that's where it usually ends, too.

I'm honestly kind of embarrassed that I'm so utterly routine that even the man who sells muffins on the corner near my office building tacitly knows what my first, second, and third choice muffin is. And I hardly ever even eat muffins. It's also strange because, on the whole, I'm really pretty adventurous. I can tell you don't believe me, but it's true.

Out of all the places I frequent, my lunch place is by far the most critical to my routine and (maybe this is going too far) my happiness. It's close, it's cheap, it's the perfect amount of food, I don't have to make decisions, my lunch comes in very little packaging, and the people there are exceptionally friendly. We all know each other's names and hometowns (we represent exactly two: Raleigh and Mexico City), and they know my particular order without me having to make a sound. My feet know about my approval of this place, and lead me to it regularly without any extra encouragement from my mind.

A couple weeks ago, I arrived at my restaurant only to find its doors locked and bearing an unsettling sign that read, "Notice: Closed by order of the Commissioner of Heath and Mental Hygiene."

I stared at the sign for what felt like a long time, unsure of what to do, or what to make of the words "mental hygiene." I felt a little wounded, as if it were an affront to me personally, and I was unsure as to how to find a suitable replacement. I assumed the proclamation meant a permanent change for me, and I spent the rest of the week bouncing from one inferior establishment to another, paying three times the price for lunch and feeling dumb for becoming so dependent.

As it turns out, my restaurant reopened immediately. Apparently they fixed whatever problem I probably don't want to know about and went on with business the very next day, while I was ignorantly and reluctantly visiting the chain restaurant competition.

After I learned of my restaurant's resurrection, a couple friends suggested that, if nothing else, maybe the scare would make me appreciate the place more. But I don't have that problem at all -- in fact, I have the opposite. I appreciate things to death, which stems from my irrational belief that if I don't take something for granted, then it won't go away. While it spares me from regret in one obvious way, I think it makes me excessively lament on what life would be like without that thing, so much that I sometimes forget to relax and enjoy it.