That was certainly the case for the three priests who had come almost daily for 20 years, taking the same, pre-rush seats at the padded bar.
And for Russell Parr, in his pink polo shirt, from Yardley, Pa., who at Busch's - and Busch's only - had defiantly broken his off-season vow not to eat fried foods.
And William McMonagle, the retired court officer from Philadelphia, who had come for what he thought was one last bite of the place.
Developers had signed a deal to put up a dozen condos on the block-long site, envisioning smaller, presumably hipper eateries (maybe even a sports bar, for goodness' sake) at street level.
Busch's hands-on owners - Al Schettig and his wife, Kim, the stepdaughter of fourth-generation proprietor George Phillips - were conflicted: The hulking building sure took a lot of upkeep. Al, 63, wasn't a kid anymore. They could downsize; operate a storefront takeout from their prep kitchen across the street.
They had swallowed hard, agreed to sell, then put together a sentimental, 12-minute farewell video (on sale at the hostess stand).
Business jumped nearly 20 percent.
"It was the perfect storm," said Schettig, manning the clam-shucking station. "It was the going-out-of-business effect, the great weather, and . . . we've always had great food."
Ahem, neeever mind. A couple of weeks ago, on Aug. 17 to be precise, the Atlantic City Press broke the news that the whole deal had fallen through, that new-wave restaurateurs weren't stepping up, that the developers were stalled, that Busch's - unless a pot of financing money fell out of the sky - was going to have next season after all.
"Part of me," said Schettig, "was relieved."
Intense experience
