I am a creature of habit, especially when it comes to eating and drinking.

Every Monday (work permitting), I head to Dempsey’s in the East Village, where I hit up the happy hour before heading to nearby Spice Thai (formerly Sea Thai), where I get the same exact thing every week: tup tim fritters and chicken pad thai. Every time I’m in Boston, I go to Anna’s, where I’ve been getting the same burrito for ten-plus years: super steak, extra cheese, pinto beans, lettuce, no tomato, sour cream, no hot sauce, side of guacamole, medium orange soda. When writing my book, it took me a little while, but I figured out the perfect drink combination that would keep me writing without getting me too bombed or sexually aggressive: two pints of vodka cran (good for the kidneys), followed by 15,000 pints of Guinness. And every Friday night, if I know I’m going out on a big one, I’ll pre-game the exact same way: two vodka (sugar-free) red bulls followed by as many Bud bombers as I can drink before I need to go out (my friends used to joke that my “Friday Night Special” was when I’d hit up the bodega on my way home from work and pick up the two sugar free red bulls and a six pack of bombers – and I wonder why I ejaculate maybe 30% of the time when I have sex while drunk).

I could go on and on about how this desire for order or routine extends to other parts of my life – how I walk to and from work the same way every time, how if I don’t get upgraded on flights I sit in the same seat each time, how when I masturbate I put the same knuckle not necessarily in my ass but certainly very close to it, etc – but I think you get the point. I love me some routine. I don’t think it’s because I’m superstitious or OCD. And it’s not like I’m unwilling to try new things. But I like what I like, and there is something comforting in knowing that every time I go to Dempsey’s, it’s going to be good; that every time I get the pad thai from Spice/Sea, I’m going to enjoy it. You know? I’m not crazy. Swear. (At least not with this stuff.)

But of all the eating and drinking I do here in NYC, there is one institution that stands above the rest: Rosario’s, the pizza place on the Lower East Side that I’ve been frequenting since I first moved to the neighborhood in 2002. I don’t know what first drew me to it – likely the proximity to my apartment, and nothing else – but it’s actually really, really good pizza. Not only that, they have an appealing variety of foods that taste especially good while drunk, like various types of pizza (the bianca slice with spinach and ricotta; the sofia slice with tomatoes, basil and mozzarella; the barbeque chicken pizza; and even the bacon cheeseburger pizza), all sorts of rolls, the frankie and cheese (a hot dog wrapped in a slice of cheese and baked in a crust), and, of course, the Jamaican-style beef patty (not a picture of an actual Rosario’s beef patty).

With this variety of options, just like with the drinking while writing the book, it took me a while to figure out the perfect combination of Rosario’s food that, when drunk, can nearly bring me to climax without so much as going near my genitals: a plain slice plus a beef patty, the latter with cheese and a side of sauce. Yes, maybe going with the plain slice instead of one of the more exotic (or more fatty) slices is a wuss move, but a) I think the simple plain slice is exquisite and b) the beef patty is no joke. As it exists in its regular form, the beef patty is ground beef enveloped in a flaky crust. That, in itself, is unappealing to me, as it’s too dry. So I have the gentleman behind the counter open up the beef patty (sort of take the top off), throw in a fist-full of mozzarella cheese, and let that melt for a while. Then, we add the side of pizza sauce in which to dip the now cheese-packed beef patty. Approximate total calories in the place slice: 400. Approximate total calories in the beef patty with cheese and side of sauce: 31,691. Approximate number of orgasms achieved after consuming both: zero.

(I’ve said before that I have little tolerance for those who when drunk want to fight – either verbally or physically – or otherwise cause trouble. After a certain point of drunkenness, I want to do one of two things: eat or make-out. Rosario’s has long been a more than suitable consolation prize when no female looking to get back at her dad or her ex or who lost her friends and doesn’t really know where she is can be found during the course of the night.)

I’m 30 years old now, and I’ve come to realize that I don’t think I’m capable of love. But I think I can get pretty close, as long as “close” is a Rosario’s slice and beef patty around 3:38am after having an appetizer of ten to fifteen Anheuser-Busch products. To me, this is heaven. But just like heaven, there are some problems. In heaven’s case, it’s the abundance of minorities who have been persecuted for hundreds of years on earth and who now walk around thinking that they only the goddamn place in the afterlife. In the case of the Rosario’s slice-beef patty combo, not only is this food extremely heavy, but the beef patty is one of those things that tastes much, much better while drunk.* So therefore, when I hit up Rosario’s during the week while sober – something I do only rarely, as I know I’m going to eat the slice-beef patty combo once a weekend – I don’t like to get it, and instead get something else. But, as I said, I hit up Rosario’s mostly on the weekends when drunk for the slice ‘n patty.

(*I’m tempted to make the “kinda like female genitalia” joke here. Also tempted to make the “also like male genitalia” joke as well, but I have no experience with that. No experience drunk, I mean. All my experiences have been sober. Stone, cold sober.)

Every weekend that I’ve been in NYC since I moved back here in December, I’ve gone to Rosario’s drunk at least one night for the slice and beef patty. Each time, I’ve tipped egregiously – usually three or four bucks on the $4.75 bill (I like tipping, I like the food, and this is one meal in NYC that’s not totally overpriced). And now, proudly, I have developed a regular: every time I walk into Rosario’s, even if the line is fifteen people deep, any one of three guys who work behind the counter will look at me and nod, I’ll nod back, and they’ll start making my order. It is, in short, badass.

Having a regular is very, very good. Sure, it saves me a bunch of time, but it also makes me feel cool – I am a part of something, a family, a fixture in a place where everyone knows my name, or at least my order (not to mention that it amazes my friends to no end) (obviously, it doesn’t take much to impress my friends). As you can imagine, once I discovered that I had a regular there, I only frequented Rosario’s more, on the weekends, while drunk, when the beef patty was appropriate. Now, it’s more automatic than ever – I walk in, and they start my meal right away.

But what if I don’t want the slice and beef patty? What if I’m not drunk out of my mind, sending misspelled texts messages to various friends and acquaintances, swaying back and forth? What if it’s a weeknight and I want something less heavy, like two sofia slices? I mean, I love my regular order, but it’s about the equivalent of eating of eating half a cheesecake – fun every so often, especially when drunk, but every time you have a slice of one? Not so much.

And herein lies the problem.

Recently, I stopped into Rosario’s on weekday to NOT get my regular, but something else, something “lighter.” As soon as I entered, they started making my order, but I had to stop them, saying instead that I wanted something else. It was, as you might imagine, incredibly awkward, as the Mexican-type guys behind the counter looked at me, crestfallen, disappointed, as a child might look after being told there is no Santa. Then I felt bad, and was nearly compelled to say, “No – it’s ok! I was kidding! Throw some cheese on the beef patty and let’s do it!” But the moment was spoiled. I ordered outside my regular and something, somewhere deep inside of each of us, changed.

And I wanted to make it right. So that weekend, I went in, searching for eye contact with any of the employees that so tenderly prepared my regular for each week before. Once eye contact was made with one of the employees (we’ll call him Juan), Juan looked at me, and, rather than nodding, furrowed his brow in confusion. From the back of the line, over the roar of a dozen or so drunks looking for their late night grease fix, I said, “No, it’s cool! Beef patty!” He didn’t hear me and shook his head, and instead grabbed a beef patty with his spatula and hoisted it into the air, as if to say, ”Yes?” I nodded and gave him the thumbs up – and all was made right with the world.

But now I am trapped by my “regular.” I don’t want to run the risk of losing it again, so for the rest of my life, every time I walk into Rosario’s, I have to keep it real and get my slice and beef patty; if I want something different, I have to eat elsewhere (and, as of this writing, I have done so twice).

Is this ideal? No. Would I like to enjoy some of the other foods Rosario’s has to offer? Absolutely. But would I ever betray Juan and my other friends again by straying from my regular? Not a chance.

(And now I’m starving.)