Since I moved to Boston in 2001, I’ve walked or ridden by
Charlie’s Sandwich Shoppe on Columbus St. almost every weekday. Over ten years,
300+ times a year, I’ve thought “what a cool sign. I should really stop there
some time for breakfast.” Usually, this occurs to me on my way home from work,
when I’m in no mood for sandwiches or eggs and they’re not open anyways.
I’d have been inside without issue back in the 1960s, when
Charlie’s was a 24-hour hotspot for black jazz musicians (who I imagine played
at places like Wally’s on Mass Ave.) and late-nighters. These days though,
their hours are limited to mornings and early afternoons.
The trend of “should have, didn’t” ended one morning last
week when I went for a ride before work. Riding by that classically designed
sign reminiscent of Cheers, but more authentic, I made a U-turn and locked my
bike up on a fence next to some renovated tenement-houses-turned-luxury-condos
and went in.
I was greeted at the door by a college-aged man who informed
me I could sit anywhere. The options were a long counter with diner stools that
may have inspired a scene or two in Grease,
or a variety of small table scattered throughout a small space. I scanned the
room – a couple of elderly men chatted over coffee and eggs at one table. A
family on vacation chatted at another over plates of everything. Two college
kids sat at the counter. I opted to join them, taking up the second-to-last
stool from the entrance to the very visible kitchen. A pretty but plain blonde
girl who couldn’t have been more than eighteen asked if I wanted coffee and
gave me a menu. I told her I did, and continued scanning the room. I spied a
number of tacky but appropriate signs, a woman who seemed to be in charge
scanning over the whole place but not really seeming to be doing anything, and
an older man cooking over four different pans. Above his head, directly in
front of me, was the same menu I was looking at written out on a whiteboard.
