Mother's

The only time the natural light of the sun appears is through the large glass window in front and the skylight in back. Beyond that, it’s all soft light baby, with low lit bar lamps and candles at the tables. You may not have come to Mother’s to eat, but you certainly come to drink.

For years now, Mother’s has been the trendy little restaurant on near Allentown that everybody went to. People liked going to Mother’s to be sure, but it was more of that grand pronouncement, “I’m going to Mother’s,” that was the phrase of self-superiority and snobbishness. People wanted to be seen at Mother’s to let everybody else know that they were important. It was like a secret handshake to get into the club, especially if you couldn’t afford the membership rates at the Buffalo Club a block away.

It sounds amazing that a “trendy” social spot would stay that way for years, but really, the crowds just changed when the young professionals moved on to other trendy places (or that trendy institution family that gets all the play these days), while the politicians and asskissing elite moved in.

After a self-imposed sabbatical of several years, Julie and I returned to Mother’s Friday night for a few cocktails with friends. When I regularly went to Mother’s years ago, it didn’t get that crowded until 7 or 8 p.m., usually when people came in for dinner. Now, the prime real estate at the bar is occupied by 5 p.m. The bar opens at 4, for Pete’s sake.

While we were waiting for our other friends to come, the tendency to eavesdrop was extraordinarily difficult to resist. So we didn’t. Our prey that day was a group of older, well-coifed city workers that would namedrop like they were tossing little anvils around to make a point.

“Byron!” KLANG. “Rocco’s son-in-law!” KLANG. “Do I need to talk to Frank Clark about you?” THREATENING KLANG! “Peter Cutler!” KLANG … ow, my foot!

It’s so nice to see all these city workers on a first-name basis with the leadership, but apparently not so friendly that the same leaders would hang out with them.

The really creepy part of this whole scene was how vaguely incestuous all this was. When we got there, two older men were talking to two women who appeared to be in their late 30s, maybe early 40s. Besides awful ice breakers these guys were lobbing their way, like “So is it difficult to deal with sexual harassment?” (Hello, Sonny Crocket!), the strange moment came when one of the ladies gave her phone number to one of the guys, who was married with a ring. Not only did this tall brunette give her number, she gave her business card and wrote on the back her home and cell phone numbers. This woman clearly wants a call back.

Minutes later, her assumed boyfriend walks in the door after a round of golf, and the brunette is all over him now. This is not a situation that was limited to her … as more men and women from the city came in, they were all hugging and touching each other. Most were flirting with each other. Hey, something for the water cooler on Monday morning, right?

Of course, it wasn’t that long ago when I was one of these wanna-be pretentious douchebags that would talk about how influential they are at the office while talking to members of the opposite sex (or in some cases, the same sex). Oh, don’t get me wrong, there are still some of those traits remaining in me at times, but I’ve downgraded my “wanna-be” status to “like to be.”

Back in those days, I was 25, and the whole world was in front of me. My little crew would meet up at Mother’s every Friday afternoon for drinks. The use of afternoon is key in this case, as we’d frequently open the place up at 4 p.m. A few drinks were poured, (or in my one friend’s case, opened), and we’d talk about the week’s events … commenting on how naïve people can be, trash whatever trend was going on at that point, live up to our anti-authoritative stance. Not unlike the people we were watching Friday, we were this tight little group of cynics that occasionally grew incestuous, adding to the drama. We’re still hanging out with most of the same crew, but now there’s 30 percent less incestuous drama. At 25, we saw all the angles. We were young, we were smart, and we sure as hell we’re going to let anybody tell us what to do.

We were drunk. We were dicks.

It seems ridiculous to think that life can change so much in five years, but here I am at 30, and everybody I know looks at things in a different way now. At 25, you’re invincible and ready to change the world. At 30, you more than likely dealt with some, if not all, of these things: Marriage. Divorce. Birth. Death. Layoffs. Illness. Fidelity. Infidelity. The Mortgage. Plumbing. The decision to buy beer for a night, or fruits and vegetables for the week. Debt (or, at least, the realization you won’t be out of debt for a while). Life Insurance. Accountants. 401Ks. “If I increase my weekly deposit by $5, I should retire with $1.5 million, based on the current rate of return!” Pampered Chef parties.

All of these things change your perspective on life and how you live your life. It’s not to say that we were suddenly endowed with magnificent culmination of all wisdom, but I’d like to think that we’re a little bit smarter than we were before. We also have a little more compassion for the struggles we all go through.

There’s still some of the 25-year-old in me, the one that is cynical, untrusting of anybody over 30 and ready to change the world. Well, I’m going to be 31 in a few months, so a third of that plan is already out the window. But while I’ve adjusted my motivations, I would still like to change the world in some fashion, so that’s when I bring out the 25-year-old in me, to remind me of where I came from and where I would like to go. This time, I’ll manage that young punk better.

That’s why I still like going to my old haunts like Mother’s every once in a while. These moments will not only bring back memories, but also serve as a reminder of why you moved on. When my friends got to Mother’s, we went over to Prespa on Delaware, and I can’t wait until that becomes the new place to be seen.