"The Laundromat"
At 3:19 on the last Wednesday of Winter, I am first in line at the Laundromat. Across the street stands Gus' Discount Tackle, a Dish Network satellite perched on its roof, reticent of the time capsule the Outer Richmond embodies. Beside Gus' is the Balboa Theatre, where on Friday you can see Paul Thomas Anderson's debut film, "Hard 8," in which an orphaned John C Reilly finds refuge in the man who orphaned him, in 35 mm. Anyway, if nostalgia is a disease and A.I.'s a cancer, then what is the corner of 37th and Balboa? Today, it's a place where hundreds of people will each wait hours in the cold for a burger--a smash burger!
The Laundromat spins vinyl, pours wine with cool labels, bakes square pizzas, draws crowds like Sonic Youth, at the Fillmore, in the 80s. With respect to Arsicault on a farmer's market Sunday, Laundromat's crowd-clout is just different. A true anecdote: last month I placed a to-go order, came to pick it up, and saw Mayor Lurie packed in at the bar, standing, waiting for seat, his Chris Hemsworth-lookin-a$$ bodyguard standing on his tip-toes by the window, keeping watch, talking into his fist.
I'm not here for a burger. I'm here to know why the crowds come.
They open at 5. Tall white curtains shroud the restaurant's murky windows. Their logo uses bubble-gum font. Death-metal music pulses gently through the cracked door.
At 4:16 and the second guy in line asks me if I'm here for smash burgers. I invite him to sit with me. It's twelve blocks to the ocean. He asks me what I'm writing. The clouds have calcified into a bone-white dome, the color of talc.
The line grows, but waiting in line feels different when you're first. Here so early, I can't tell if I'm more Timothee Chalamet royalty, or Tim Robinson cringe. I make friends with a guy in a GOT CHEESE? t shirt. I tell him, I'm waiting for a Director of Operations to come out in a headset and tablet to tell us how we'll proceed when the doors open. This doesn't happen, but a rookie in the waiting game does, inadvertently, I think, try to cut the line, at the other side of the door. My friend kindly shows him the line, now reaching to end of the block. I think about Shirley Jackson's scapegoating-masterpiece, "The Lottery." The things we could do to this dude. There's be no one on his side.
At 4:50 a Waymo parks in front of the tackle shop. From where I'm sitting, the Dish Network satellite sits right above the spinning thing above the Waymo. A woman gets out, tells her friends of the day's crisis: she'd put an actual Laundromat on the Waymo app; it was on the other side of town, and she didn't even notice, it was a whole big thing.
36 million cows a year are slaughtered for burgers.
At 4:59 the staff draws the curtains, and it's so cinematic. The doors swing open, a waiter in Doc Martens and Ben Davis beckons me inside. They ask me how it feels to be the first one in; I say life's beauty resides in surprise.
At the bar I order a wine--natural--that tastes an amalgamation of boxed sherry and day-old kombucha. It's sixteen dollars, and not great. It seems intent on beating climate change to its own conclusion, where wine exists at the end of partnership between vintner and vine, a preview of what it will taste like when the tree is not green, but dry (Luke 23:31).
Lou Reed on the turn table. Big huge plants up high on the wall.
Now the burger is in front of me. The side is potato salad and I eat that first. It's disappointing in the way of an opening band before your favorite band ever--it's lame, but it's not ruining your night.
The smash burger. I am eating it. What does it taste like? The flavors follow one another like a roman candle, a kaleidoscope of moments where this illegitimate, ba$tard country has reached its beautiful potential. It tastes like high school baseball on a well-kept field, like a Grandmother an Alabama rocking chair, like a trans girl who weeps in bliss when winning prom queen. The meat is tender as a father's apology. The potato buns are soft as a mother's scarf. Obviously, of course, this is why the crowds come. It is so, so good.
Halfway through, my burger falls apart. But it's really very easy to put it back together, and keep going.
And right as I'm starting to put language to these feelings, a bartender clears my plate, and places the check above the novel I'd brought, which, totally incidentally, is DeLillo's debut: "Americana." It was 5:19, and time to give my seat to the next guy with an Amex. I paid and tipped, and walked back to my apartment in the Winter's last rain, losing the feeling, licking my teeth. read more