Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I looked forward hungrily to meeting Lew and Enid, our friends from New York City, at Carmichael’s Steakhouse in Chicago last night. We hadn’t seen each other since May; and Carmichael’s seemed like the perfect place to catch up on each other’s lives. For some reason, the restaurant always brings out the silliness in us.

Earl and I drove in from Michigan in the late afternoon, enduring the setting sun that planted itself smack in the middle of our windshield. Lew and Enid came even farther, but they also had business reasons to be in town. Dinner with us with the exception.

It was still light when we pulled in front of the steakhouse. Normally, a valet comes running out to park Earl’s Lexus. But last night, for various reasons, we drove my little Neon instead. No valet sprinted to the curb. No doorman greeted us.

I didn’t take it personally, but I did take note and wondered if Carmichael’s were having trouble attracting diners. Then again, it was Sunday so maybe the valet union doesn’t allow its members to work on the Sabbath. Regardless, we parked the car and went it.

The four of us arrived within moments of each other and, after the requisite hugging, were led to our table. “The piano is missing,” said Earl, smiling. The piano had always been the one thing he didn’t like about Carmichael’s. Too loud.

But the subtle changes didn’t stop there. The menu offerings were also different, to the point where the planked salmon I always order had disappeared. Salads no longer come with entrees. Sandwiches have arrived.

Over drinks, which were as good as I remember, we settled in for a wonderful evening with friends. That was just as good as ever too. However, when we parted I felt a little sad that the Carmichael’s we’d known when we all lived in Chicago isn’t the one we visited last night. Thomas Wolfe was right when he said, “You can’t go home again.”

It applies to favorite restaurants too.