The following is an online extra from the May issue of Richmond magazine, heading to newsstands now.
Delivery driver Matt Poland manning the phones at Tarrant's Cafe downtown (Photo by Eileen Mellon)
On Friday March 2, I shadowed three-year delivery driver, Matthew Poland, 29, from Tarrant’s Cafe downtown.
5:58 p.m. I arrive at the red-and-white half-dome marquee marked "Tarrant’s carry-out and delivery." I'm a stickler for time, so I'm a few minutes early.
6:00 p.m. A tall, stocky man with a maroon baseball cap enters the tiny takeout area, and the kitchen exclaims, “Poland!” I quickly discover Matthew’s nickname and understand why everyone seemed confused when I showed up asking for Matthew.
6:01 p.m. “Matthew, not Matt … I’ve never really liked Matt,” he says. “And Poland like the country.” “I’m Eileen, not Ellen,” I say. “And Mellon, like the fruit.”
6:20 p.m. “Let’s do this,” Poland says. “Driving in the city is adventurous.” I buckle up. We’re off for the first delivery to the 3100 block of Hanover Ave. Tarrant's only delivers within 3 miles – I come to realize just how far 3 miles spans in the city.
6:29 p.m. Food is delivered, and Poland accidentally doesn’t shut the door all the way. He jokingly says, “You’re making me nervous.”
6:34 p.m. I try to ease his nerves (and mine). “Where’d you grow up?” I ask. I discover we both grew up in Hampton Roads (our high school soccer teams were rivals). He attended North Carolina State for Environmental Technology, but it didn’t work out and he returned home to be close to his family.
6:40 p.m. It’s clear that the night is picking up. The back counter is decorated with takeout bags, dangling to-go tickets are taped to the shelf, and Poland and the other delivery driver converse to designate a plan of attack for the night.
6:43 p.m. “Off to the states we go,” Poland says, referring to a nickname for the streets with state names off of South Meadow. The smell of pizza is pungent and fills the car — my stomach grumbles.
6:52 p.m. The pizza is dropped off (I’m jealous). “Ever heard of the chicken Caesar wrap hole?” Poland asks with a smirk on his face. “People order it once and get sucked in for the next five orders or so. It’s a vicious cycle.” You’ve been warned, folks.
7:03 p.m. The general manager jokes that he’s never seen Poland talk so much. Poland sheepishly smiles.
7:18 p.m. Delivery to the Hotel John Marshall. “This guy always orders from us," Poland says. "He lives on the top floor, and I always bring it all the way up to him." I’m told not everyone receives this treatment (it pays to be a regular). The man tips 40 percent.
7:22 p.m. Poland tells me about another regular, and I sense he's protective of her. He won’t reveal her name, which I respect. “She always gets the ahi tuna appetizer, and her son gets a calzone," says Poland. "She’ll order for lunch, and sometimes again for dinner in the same day.” He modestly shares she left him a hefty tip once that aided him in going on a trip to France with his family.
7:23 p.m. It’s becoming apparent Poland is much more than a delivery driver; he's a safe haven for the standing order, the bearer of a communal experience and a faithful confidant.
7:28 p.m. Back at Tarrant’s everyone is in the weeds. The frantic mood is punctuated by the nonstop ringing phones, cooks face a screen of tickets, and the takeout area is filled with overflow diners. We wait.
8:01 p.m. Onward with three orders. First stop, the Berry-Burk Apartments, dropping off an order for a woman who “always gets an entree and dessert,” says Poland. A Friday-night treat. Delivery logistics: Even though she didn’t order first, because the other orders are in Manchester she gets lucky and gets her food first.
8:07 p.m. I ask Poland how he gets through the evenings when he's driving. “It may sound nerdy, but I really like the Dungeon and Dragons podcasts," he says. "Also, 'This American Life' on NPR. I find them soothing.”
8:23 p.m. Delivery isn’t just with a car, or so I learn. We walk a pizza together a few doors down from Tarrant’s and fight the blustering wind. They don’t tip.
9:06 p.m. “Hazards are a delivery driver’s best friend,” says Poland as he parks the car in the midst of the madness at the booming Graduate Richmond hotel. Three orders, all for Kelly; three different Kellys, to be exact (What are the odds?). They know how to tip.
9:46 p.m. I ask Poland what's kept him at his job. “Tarrant’s is a great family. At this point in my life I can’t think of any place I’d rather be."
10:02 p.m. Last delivery of the night. Poland fist-bumps me, smiles, and we exchange goodbyes.
