Kate just posted something amazing over at her blog. Making a trip back to her native Boston, she made a solemn pilgrimage to one of our favorite eating spots of all time. Newbury Pizza was a rare breed in that increasingly corporately-owned town — relaxed, inexpensive, and astonishing high quality for greasy corner store pizza. Kate says:

I considered sushi at the place formerly known for its $1 sushi selections (now $2 and up), and then, in a fit of nostalgia, decided on Newbury Pizza. Walking up Newbury Street, I noticed many of the shops had disappeared and been replaced with hip clothing stores or high-end kitchen supply shops. There were few vacancies. I saw Lucky Jeans ahead, and remembered the directions Jesse and I used to repeat: If you hit Lucky, you’ve passed it.

Jesse and I used to meet during lunch whenever possible, grab a couple slices and a couple cans of soda, and sit on the stoop next door in the sun. We’d have a breather for an hour during our hectic days, some time to check in and remind ourselves that it wasn’t the whole world that sucked. We would gossip and complain, and we’d laugh until our bellies hurt. I didn’t have many lighthearted moments during that time of my life, and lunches with Jesse regrounded me.

As Kate ably points out, our favorite restaurants are necessary respites that remind us of our humanity. Work days sap that strength as we focus all of our energies on projects and politics and other such meaningless frivolity. But when chosen wisely, lunch hours can be sacred oases. Yet we rarely stop to recognize how important our lunchtime places are. We all have our favorite bars and cafes, but for some reason we take the lunch counters and pizza-by-the-slice parlors for granted. Kate again:

As I walked up to the entrance of Newbury Pizza, I noticed the signage above the door was different. And the windows had new decals. And there was a little box with menus at the top of the stairs. My fondly-remembered pizza place had morphed into Bostone Pizza, a high-end place with square pieces of spinach pizza. I stood there for a moment, blocking the stairwell as I gazed down into the interior. No more old checkered tables, no more black vinyl chairs, no more banged-up, metal garbage can near the doorway. Most notable: no more big, greasy slices congealing on the counter. I turned away, despite my growling stomach. I was not going to eat at this overtly pretentious and outrageously overpriced lunch spot. It would have felt like a betrayal.

I had worried, at first, that the lilt of Boston springtime would beckon me home, that I would second-guess my decision to leave the city I had broken up with in a fit of passion nearly two years ago. But standing in front of the ashes of Newbury Pizza, I realized that there had been a subtle shift in the city in the past 20 months. I hadn’t noticed it before, when I was in town for just for dinner or drinks. It went beyond the new shops and cool restaurants, and had more to do with the monotony of what I had seen that day. In that moment, it was apparent to me that the working class had lost.

I crossed the street and bought a slice of pizza at Upper Crust, and the irony was not lost on me. I took my lunch to go, and headed for Back Bay station.

It may seem silly to most, since I doubt there are any AYCENYC readers who have ever been to Newbury Pizza. But you all do have something like it in your own lives. It’s the place where you go when you want a quick bite but you also want the experience to be whole, and happy. Our world is changing and it’s possible that every place to eat, drink, or buy a coffee will be a franchise inside of a few generations. We can hope that won’t happen. But in the meantime, fight the current — claim at least an hour of each day for yourself, and cherish that gooey slice while you can.