Restaurant customers losing more than just places to eat

I only cared about my favorites as I skimmed through the Courant’s article on the closing of 600 restaurants in Connecticut. While I felt for eateries that had to close their doors, I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I didn’t see any of my preferred locales on the list. Many readers likely did the same. But how will we feel when we do see our restaurant on the list? When the world opens back up and you want to go to your place, where will you go if it’s closed?

“Your place” is the restaurant where you got engaged or where you spent every birthday. If it closes, it will be a blow, not because you won’t be able to eat your favorite dinner one more time, but because a piece of who you are, your history, a sentimental setting in your life’s narrative will close its doors.

The facilities management company Vixxo says that its nationwide survey of more than 1,000 U.S. consumers “found that two in three Americans still prefer dining in restaurants (62%) over takeout or delivery (34%). The findings — which were surprisingly consistent across all demographic groups — suggest that people prefer their meals to be a memorable experience, despite the increase in online ordering and delivery services available.”

For me, those memorable experiences have been aplenty at Chuck’s Steak House in Rocky Hill. Every time I entered the dimly lit lobby with its dark wooden paneling and catch a whiff of sizzling steak coming from the dining room, I was instantly hit in the gut with a punch of blissful nostalgia.

If you dined at Chuck’s in the old days, your server would come over and deliver a bottle with the menu written in what looked like chalk on it. I would twirl the bottle around, peering at the options as though, after four decades, I was suddenly going to order anything but the chicken teriyaki. It wasn’t just because it was delicious, it was because I could taste in every bite a trip down memory lane: every childhood birthday, my high school graduation, the dinner with my father when I told him I was getting married.

I couldn’t help but remember, when I peered at the open grill, my first boyfriend, who worked as a cook there. I would feel an uncomfortable pang of regret when I thought about the night we were fighting and I stormed into the restaurant and yelled at him through an opening. I’m still embarrassed by the memory, but what I remember most about that night is the chicken teriyaki sandwich he gave to me in the back parking lot after we made up. I haven’t tasted a sandwich that good since.

One of the things I miss most about my place is the salad bar. This was not just any salad bar, it was the single most amazing part of every family dinner at Chuck’s Steak House. After COVID-19, the salad bar could become an ancient relic — a thing that we tell our grandchildren about. “We would stand very close to the person in line, waiting with a plate to scoop from a communal lineup of little buckets of veggies and dressings,” we will explain to their horrified little faces.

On the way out of Chuck’s, I would peek into the bar to see if I knew anyone; I always did. It might have been someone I hadn’t seen in years, or it might have been one of my best friends. Either way, this was just another perk of having my own place.

Although I just described my restaurant, you are most likely thinking about yours. We don’t have the power right now to support restaurants as much as we might like to. Let’s face it, it would cost a lot of money to order as much takeout as necessary to save an industry that is fighting against unspeakable hurdles. But do your part. Do what you can to save your place, and if you are so inclined, maybe save a friend’s place, too. If these restaurants all close, a piece of who we all are will be gone forever.