DaytonDailyNews.com

You want to go where everybody knows your name.

If you're lucky, you have a place where it means something when you order the usual.

In this era of chain proliferation — from the look-at-me crowd on the porch of Bar Louie to the giant plastic reptile atop Adobe Gila's, there's something hollow about establishments that are just like their littermates.

The Southern Belle is a place all its own. From the oversized vintage poster of Jerry Lee Lewis (in a pose that's best not described here) to the bluesy jukebox (adding an album requires staff approval), the Southern Belle, 134 N. Patterson Blvd., Dayton, provides respite from the day-glo umbrella drinks and empty conversations of bars by the mall.

The morning after one hazy night at the Belle, I realized that I had left my purse under my bar stool. I grieved for my lost bag (the oversized Coach tote was given to me by my mother — no way I could afford to replace it) but had dim hope that I called the Southern Belle as soon as it opened (the phone number was previously unpublished but can now be found at www.southernbelletavern .com) and recognized the gruff voice of Tom, the owner.

"Hi. I think I may have left my purse there last night," I stammered. Tom the owner makes me nervous.

"Is it big and black?" he barked.

"Uh-huh."

"We've got it. It's by the chips."

You want to go where everybody knows your name and they hang on to your purse for you.

When Lou, the door guy at the Belle, took another job with hours more suitable for his family, I knew I would miss that familiar, VIP feeling of knowing the door guy. When I dutifully removed my ID to show the new door guy, he waved me in and said, "I know you. You're family here."

You want to go where everybody knows your name, they hang on to your purse for you and the door guy remembers the regulars.

A few days after my warm reception from the new door guy, I headed to the Southern Belle with my husband and some of our friends. As we walked across the grass, my wedge sandal slipped on the uneven dirt, and I fell, like in those cartoons where the coyote notices he's gone off the edge of the cliff and moves his legs really fast trying to get back to solid ground. I knocked our friend Mike's cigarette out of his hand before coming to rest in a heap on the ground.

"I fell," I said pitifully as our group stared down at me.

Mike picked up his cigarette and extended his hand to me.

"Anything other than your pride hurt?" he asked.

"No, but my pride is really, really hurt."

Although our friends didn't hassle me, I dreaded the ridicule I was sure to receive from the door guy and the half-dozen smokers who were clustered around the entrance to the bar.

They all saw my spastic spill, but no one dogged me. Not one of them. The door guy managed to keep a straight face, and the smokers concentrated on what brought them outside of the bar in the first place.

You want to go where everybody knows your name, they hang on to your purse for you, the door guy remembers regulars and you don't get heckled for biting it.

I want to go to the Southern Belle.

Contact Christy Reynolds at christy reynoldsddn@yahoo.com.