Extra Cheese

When Tommy's departed, our staff was torn. Most of us knew we would miss the atmosphere of this familiar late-night institution. But few of us would miss the grease that seemed to permeate all of Tommy's edible offerings.

We waited, wistfully and nervously, for Tommy's reincarnation. We suffered through long walks to Au Bon Pain for our late-night coffee runs. We lamented the loss of our lime rickeys.

Finally, we got the word that Tommy's House of Pizza had opened its doors. We tried to like it--really, we did. We gave it the benefit of the doubt. But we've come to a sad conclusion. When it metamorphized into a pizzeria, Tommy's lost all of its atmosphere. It lost none of its grease.

The place is far too bright for any self-respecting late-night dive. The friendly blinks of the video games--still there, thank goodness--get lost in the incandescent glare of the firefly lamps. Mirrors on the wall? Swiveling stools? Fake-wood tile? Cleanliness? Tommy's is supposed to be grimy, not cheesy.

The prices are also totally out of whack. Two dollars for a slice. Five dollars for a sandwich. Tommy would have gone on an oat bran diet before he charged $6 for a hamburger.

The staff of the new Tommy's is--how should we put this?--friendly. A little too friendly, we think. Part of Tommy's old charm lay in its rudeness. We don't want to be asked how we like our food. We have certain expectations: gruff service, unapologetic, a rude yelp at closing time.

And the pizza? Well, it nearly drowns in grease. Grease dribbles onto napkins, onto tabletops, onto shirts. Grease stains reflect unflatteringly in the wall-length mirrors.

We figured we'd miss the real Tommy's, and we were right. We'd gladly put up with greasy burgers in the dark and dusty grime. Tommy, come back. It's not too late to right this tragic wrong.