Living in New York, or any city for that matter, means you’re going to be moving a lot. Whether your rent is too high, your roommate’s sex is too loud, or the probable too frequent combination of the both—your suitcase is always half packed. And while this is never truly an issue for relationships, the shoes you borrowed from your college roommate three years ago can alternate weekends and happily celebrate two Christmases in both Brooklyn and Harlem; there is one thing you will never be able to get back: your delivery food.
Now, I know half of you are thinking, “I really don’t think there’s a difference between the lo mein from Golden City 4 and City Golden 4,” and the other half is thinking, “Oh my god I miss Golden City 4’s lo mein so much,” and you are both kind of right. But, despite them both containing high sodium and the option to be delivered in quart sized (#GodBlessAmerica), the personal connection between man and delivery man is undeniable. City Golden 4 wasn’t there for you when you were hungover until 4 pm that one Sunday, and when you called that on St. Patrick’s Day at 2 AM after eleven hours of drinking, who answered the phone? John Lee. And he didn’t judge you when you ordered enough food for three people, although he’s kind of used to that. BECAUSE HE KNOWS YOU THAT WELL.
I recently graduated college and moved out of my delivery range, and feel heartbroken that, despite ordering as much take out as humanly (poor adjective, because I’m a monster) possible, I never got the chance to bid farewell to the people that helped me get through my highest highs (too literally) and my lowest lows.
So goodbye, Mexican place that sent me a quart of Sangira in a plastic container, your burritos were never fully wrapped, but you never got too mad at me when I would drunkenly try to speak to you in Spanglish (I’m the worst). Farewell, my two Asian restaurants who I always had guilt over picking one over the other to order from, until a few months ago when I found out you were owned by the same person. You were my go-to dinner for when I just wanted to not do any work and feel like Carrie Bradshaw while binge-watching Sex and the City for the seventh time (running theme is I’m the worst). And the bagel place. Ah, can I count the ways? Or mental states that you saw me in? No. You accepted me flaws and all, telling me that my order of an ‘everything bagel with egg and cheese and vegetable cream cheese’ was weird and gross, but delivered it to me anyway. I’m sorry for always forgetting to put on pants when opening the door, and I’m especially sorry for the one delivery guy who I made try and fix my fallen shower rod to no avail (The worst, right?).
But with every seamless window closing, another tap opens. And I look forward to making new memories, with new ethnic food groups and even more indigestion. Because after all, maybe delivery food in general is our soulmates, and the various delivery people are just to have fun with and to scar emotionally forever.