Met my friend Jeff after work Friday at the Allegheny Elks on the North Side.

For their legendary fish fry. 

Got there a few minutes before he did, so took my place — reverently — at the end of the long line already hugging the side of the building.

While waiting for Jeff to arrive, I took in the majesty of the people standing in front of me, Friday shining under a perfectly Pittsburgh grey sky, the kind that’s never far from rain. 

Curly haired babies, old bald heads and everything in between, seasoned with splashes of black and gold even though all our teams pretty much suck.

It’s the rarest kinds of lines. 

The kind you actually don’t mind waiting in. 

Perfect for catching up with good friends at the end of a long week. 

Imbued with the purest of expectations, for a payoff that’s as close to a sure thing this broken world offers. 

The kind of line that, even if it was longer, you’d be OK with it.

At least I would. 

Jeff joined me after just a few minutes, our big, multi-second hug officially christening my weekend.

We fell into catching up … 

“Happy Anniversary!” 

“Mary says hello …”

“Going to see …”

“Food was uh-mazing …” 

You know, the important stuff.

Didn’t care how long it took us to gain entrance, but when we did ….

The warmth and aromas greeted us like a gentle kiss on the forehead. 

Perfectly preserved as if by pickling, the interior of any Elks Club worth its salt. 

The vestibule adorned with framed photos going back to black and white decades of past Exalted Rulers and their fellow leaders. An old stand-up sign with white magnetic letters highlighting the current crop, including the name of the lodge’s organist. 

I bet she throws down. 

The hand-written menu presenting you with the most important choices you will make this Friday. No possibility of a wrong answer. Neighbor in line said they even have a friend who swears by the stewed tomatoes. I take her word, knowing I’ll never find out as long as mac and cheese, french fries and cole slaw are headlining.

The line inside is also perfectly timed … to allow proper deliberation over your two sides and which of the holy (lower case ’t’) trinity gets voted off stage.

It’s cash only. 

Perfectly priced platters that, regardless of the domination you break, leave you with some singles to choose an individually wrapped, $1 each home made chocolate chip cookie (or two … or three) from the basket in front of the ladies settling you up. 

Even that’s so much better than automatically factoring a cookie into the price. 

There will never not be magic to putting your hand in the cookie jar. 

After paying you leave with your number to forage for a seat. 

We found a couple at the bar. 

Cue angel chorus.

Glorious wide oval, three bartenders persistently bantering and pouring like jazz musicians having a good night, one of ‘em wearing a Chico’s Bail Bonds t-shirt that hi-fived our childhoods. 

Just like waiting in line, waiting for our food was pure gift, zero inconvenience.

From our seats at the bar, we had an open site line to the Allegheny Elks’ house band — members of the Pittsburgh Banjo Club. Accompanied by a bass player and a trumpet player, they strummed old-timey songs as joyfully as you can imagine. 

For me, I equate seeing the Pittsburgh Banjo Club at the Allegheny Elks during Lent akin to seeing Sinatra at the Sands with Count Basie on New Year’s Eve. 

Took me back to when I was six or seven years old, sitting next to my sister Missy on the black piano bench in the living room while she played old songs from a thick songbook. We’d sing the corniest songs — poorly, but with gusto — together as she played.

Waiting for our fish sandwiches, I swear I knew the words to just about every tune the PBC was laying down (“Hello, my baby, hello my honey, ” … “I”m lookin’ over, a four-leaf clover,” … “By the light … of the sil-ver-ee moon ….”). 

Um, polkas included …. zing, boom, tararrel. 

I only wished Missy was there to sing along with me. 

Being the next-to-last Friday before Easter, the place was poppin’ … so it took a long time for the food to come … not that we noticed or even cared.

Gave us time to secure enough provisions to line the bar in front of us with tiny filled cups of Heinz, tartar, malt vinegar, along with packets of hot sauce … 

… and clink glasses of cold beer straight from the tap.  

By the time the food arrived, I was quoting Kurt Vonnegut quoting Fats Waller. 

“Somebody shoot me while I’m happy.” 

For the fish sandwich, they put the empty big bun on top of the ridiculously wide fish, leaving it for you to assemble. 

That’s a glorious bit of experience design right there, giving the audience the satisfaction of placing the final piece of the puzzle. 

You have about twice as much fish as surface area on the bun, which is, of course, somehow, the perfect proportions.

Though you are hungry, though you’ve waited a long time in line and sitting at the bar … you take your sweet time.

You savor.  

You chat between bites. 

You go back for more malt vinegar. 

You smile maybe your week’s widest grin when the bartender asks you if you’re ok if he uses the same glass when you switch over to Yuengling for your second beer.

Your smile gets wider when he says, “I knew you were a good people,” when you answer Yes. 

You ask the female bartender if anyone ever orders the grilled fish, and she testifies that, yes, people do, and yes it’s quite good, and really, she’s not BS-ing, and to validate her testimony, mentions that she’s sleeping with the grill guy.

You bless their unborn children. 

You let yourself fall back in love with the world for a moment when the lady waiting for her pitcher next to you comments that, at first, she mistook your clear plastic cup of malt vinegar — stacked three high on top of its empties — for Jack Daniels … thinking I was already three shots deep and not even halfway through my sandwich.

You politely correct her while confessing, “But, I like the way you think.”

And by the time you’re calling it, with just a couple bites left on the plate, you’re already re-thinking some of the major decisions you’ve recently made in your life. 

“Next time, I think I’m going mac and cheese for both of my sides,” said Jeff, as the universe joined me in silently nodding in agreement. 

You peel yourself off your stools, taking a last deep glorious inhale and a good look around before you backwash out the bar, through the dining area and vestibule, and back out outside to the long sidewalk …

… where the grey sky has gone dark, and the temperature has dipped a few more degrees to remind you that you are alive on the North Side on a Friday night … 

… and a multi-second hug goodbye later — the satisfying last piece in a perfect puzzle — that you were in good company.