Ode to Ray's

Ray’s, you beautiful fryer of delicious slabs of cod. You mixer and frother of creamy milkshakes.

Batter those fish and slide them to me across the stainless steel counter.

Years ago, on Friday night with the Mrs., I remember getting your fish and a half to go with the creamy tartar sauce in a little plastic container with a lid. I remember taking the meal back to the house in sunset seagull North Everett. Stomach grumbling in anticipation. The greasy paper bag and unwrapping that thick cod in the crinkly checkerboard-print wax paper.

Cracking open a fridge-chilled can of PBR. Sitting on plastic folding chairs in the sunroom on the second-story of the beautiful, creaky old house on Lombard Avenue with the sea breeze blowing in. Orange evening light.

Afterward, probably watched African Queen or some crazy old DVD from the Everett Public Library.

Ray’s, I won’t pretend that your onion rings don’t pop into my thoughts at random intervals throughout the week. I won’t say that I’m above occasionally ordering a double fish and going to town while sitting on a park bench at Legion.

Ray's. Your cute little red picnic tables in the glassed-in booth. The giant vintage novelty soda pop advertisements on the wall. The little room heats up like a terrarium and there’s something about the napkin dispensers. A view across the street of the cinderblock Blue Moon Tavern with the neon Rainier sign in the window (Blue Moon's back patio and that one karaoke night where there appeared the living incarnation of Frank Sinatra, like a lifelong karaoke student of 'Ol Blue Eyes, who killed it, shook my hand for singing Lou Reed's Walk on the Wild Side. You got it, buddy).

Big feels, Ray’s.

Please always be in my neighborhood.