For dinner, Tommy's Lunch. Tommy's attracts the really alienated Adams House types and hangers-on, not because of its food which, at best, is ordinary, but because of its extras--the jukebox, the pinball machine, and big Tommy himself. Regulars claim that the Seeburg Stereo Jukebox is without doubt "the best box in the Square." At full volume, it provides total sound. Even the roast beef moves. Right next to the box is a great pinball machine, next to the box is a great pinball machine, Midway's Two Man Rodeo. You can always get a game at Tommy's, but be sure that you're not being hustled by an expert. The Redo has inspired a cult of pinball addicts whose kingpin is Bob Willing '67, the fastest man on the flippers in Cambridge. Most pinballers never score above 500 points. Last year he racked up 2785 points, a record which should never be broken.

A monument to bountiful eating, the proprietor, Tommy, is a welcome contrast to his sour counter assistants. A congenial jokester who knows all his steady clients, Tommy is always willing to do a favor for those he likes. The store will cash small checks for destitute and hungry students. And, several years ago, Tommy spread two checkered table cloths, lighted candles, and personally served a blacktie dinner for some Poonies.

For a big man, as they say, he moves pretty well. Shelves of bowling trophies attest to his ability, and when hippies get out of line, Tommy can mix with the best. Last year, for example, a stoned hanger-on entered Tommy's one night, leaped up on the counter, and tried to kick Tommy in the face. Tommy snatched his leg out from under him, dumping him back on the floor. The assailant smashed the first person to reach him. Moving out from behind the counter, Tommy took him by the neck, threw him down, and jumped on him. The Big Splash. Ten minutes later, when the cops arrived, Tommy was still sitting on him.

Shishkebab

Above both entrances to Tommy's, signs proclaim that shishkebab is the specialty of the house. Blitman goes up ot the counter and asks for shishkebab. "We're all out," says Tommy. Shishkebab is a standing joke at Tommy's. They never serve it there. Blitman orders a hamburger plate. For only 85c he gets two hamburgers, one bun, two pads of butter, lettuce and tomato, mayonnaise, and french fries. A fifteen cent coke brings the price of dinner to one dollar even.

After dinner there is an agonizing wait of six hours before Blitman can eat again. At midnight, he throws down a book and heads for Elsie's to get a snack. Elsie's, the proverbial hole in the wall, is just around the corner from Hazen's. But that's where the similarity ends. Elsie's is dirty. The grimy floor is overlaid with green sawdust and the cramped cooking area is about as immaculate. Elsie's is uncomfortable. When there are more than about nine people, you have to eat standing up. But Elsie's has good food at low prices. Spectacular food. Creme cheese and caviar sandwiches. Chopped liver. Beer Wurst. Knackwurst, Bratwurst. Wurst Salad. Just plain Wurst. Knackwurst, Bavarian oxtail soup. Danish Cakes. Cheese cake. The fast, efficient members of the counter gang have the dedicated air of European innkeepers. People who patronize Elsie's are serious about eating and only the uncouth order hamburgers. They like Cossack hats, don't laugh very much, and are of an intellectual bent. They actually enjoy standing up to eat. For them Elsie's is a Bavarian outpost in Harvard Square.

Blitman orders a roast beef special and cheese cake to go. The order is passed along by the counter people and finally disappears into a cranny near the big black stove. Then out of the confusion of cardboard boxes comes the special. Thirty seconds flat.

Clutching his 70c bag of goodies, Blitman walks down to Cahaly's. He goes past the soups and cereals to the freezer. A quart of chocolate milk for 33c. This will be a feast. On the way out Blitman stops to watch the Johnny Carson Show on Cahaly's minitube. Speaking around his cigar, Ralph Cahaly tries to sell Blitman one of his modern aerodynamic red snow shovels. Blitman doesn't need one. He pays for the milk, counts his change three times, and leaves.

The end of Joe Blitman's day is a foregone conclusion. At three in the morning, he puts on his wrap-around sunglasses, jams The Sot Weed Factor into his pocket, and goes to the Bick. Since that first cup of coffee at the UR he has spent $4.45 on food and tips. Now he will end it all at the Bick.

There is something refreshingly obscene about the Bick at three in the morning. A film of dirty water covers the proliferating H's on the tile floor. The fluorescent lights shine unmercifully on the naked orange, brown, and green wall panels. And the pastoral murals along both sides of the room are somebody's idea of a bad joke.

Blitman pushes through the double set of doors and walks slowly down the Bick's wedding aisle. The scenery is great. Beneath one table an expanse of smooth pink thigh under a black mini-skirt. Off in the corner the inevitable lonely old man crouched over the Record-American, looking more forlorn for his old fashioned brown suit. A table of Negroes with conked hair and nail-head stovepipes. A bearded student reading The Mill on the Floss. Two gas station attendants just off the late shift. The whole crew.

Behind the counter "Our Special juicy grilled Steak Plate" is coming down to make way for Scrambled Eggs and Bacon. And one blatantly red jello with stiff whipped cream topping goes begging in the ice bin.

Fried Egg Special

The 60-year-old mop man wears new Texas Wranglers beneath a soiled white apron, and the cook's slick black hair doesn't quite hide his bald spot. Blitman orders a Fried Egg Special. Two eggs over, hashed browns, one tough English muffin, a packet of marmalade, and regular coffee. Fifty-five cents. Joe Blitman has done Harvard on five dollars a day. The mop man sneezes into his shirt sleeve.

Blitman takes his faded green tray up to the front of the Bick. As a rule, the old people and adults don't stray far from the counter. The hoods, hippies, and students head, for the plate glass windows. But at some point. The young meet the old. That's the beauty of the Bick.