Love Letter to the Alamo Drafthouse

Dear Alamo Drafthouse,

Am I ever happier than when I'm with you? Seeing a film is already one of my favorite things in life, but for someone to bring me a burger and a beer while doing so, well it's almost too much pleasure for one person to bear. It all started last year when I was visiting Austin and realized it was wrong—just plain wrong—to pass up the opportunity to eat deep fried pickles while watching a horror film at midnight, and our relationship has only grown and deepened from there. Jalepeno poppers for the Lee Scratch Perry documentary. Pizza made Mary Bronstein's Yeast. I even had a nice Cesar salad during Jake Mahaffy's Wellness. Your servers are quiet angels, bringing savory treats in the darkness.

Oh Drafthouse. I live in San Francisco.  It's not like there aren't many fine movie theaters there. Sundance recently bought the Kabuki Cinema, and for a while I reveled in the ability to order a gin and tonic before a show. Felt lucky to luxuriate on an oversized leather couch while waiting for a friend to emerge from the tastefully lit bathroom. Marveled at the sophisticated flavors of gelato offered at the snack bar. But it's just not the same, Drafthouse. I know that there I will only ever see trailers for quiet, character driven films before the main attraction. Will Farrell will never threaten to poke me with a cattle prod if I talk during the film. I will never be invited to learn the Thriller dance with my fellow audience members. And while the Kabuki's blackberry cabernet gelato may be delicious, your deep fried pickles are somehow more so. Like San Francisco itself, the Kabuki is almost too tasteful...like my friend who couldn't understand why I went to see Old School. You, on the other hand, have a five o'clock shadow and a knife in your back pocket, Alamo Drafthouse. You listen to old Bruce Springsteen records and you know how to fix my car, I just know it.

In fact, I hope that I will not scare you off, Drafthouse, when I say that I want to take our relationship to the next level. That while it was wonderful—unforgettable even—when the bottle of Lone Star almost slipped through my fingers because of the sheer amount of popcorn butter that coated them, I want to experience more. I want to sip Proseco while watching the Godfather. Nibble fish tacos during Jaws. And I know that you'll bring all this to me and more, Drafthouse. Take me in no matter where I've been or what I've done. Let me slip into anonymity and dream those 90 minute dreams with you, while a feast appears before me as if by magic. "Last call," one of your dark angels will whisper exactly one half hour before the film ends, and I won't miss the opportunity. But that was only the matinée, Alamo Drafthouse. That vast empire, night, is still in front of us. Three more screenings to go.