Last night I ordered a spicy sausage pizza for carry-out. The host­esses always rec­og­nize me and smile when I come in. The pizza was deli­cious. But this time, some­thing was dif­fer­ent. Within hours, the restau­rant would burn to the ground. When I walked past the smol­der­ing remains this morn­ing, just a block from my home, fire­fight­ers were paint­ing the area with ladder-mounted can­nons. I ate the left­overs, but it didn’t seem right.

If it’s true that you are what you eat, then this year I’m a changed man. Last night six of my neigh­bor­hood restau­rants were com­pletely destroyed, and a sev­enth hap­pens to be clos­ing. These are my go-to places—the restau­rants clos­est to my front door—and they are—were—a big part of what makes me so fond of this loca­tion. Among the losses:

• El Pelon Taque­ria, where I’ve been eat­ing bur­ri­tos to the strains of loud Banda music weekly for at least 5 years.
• Thornton’s Fen­way Grille, where I take every vis­i­tor for breakfast.
• Rod-Dee Thai Cui­sine, a very respectable Thai place.
• Sorento’s Ital­ian Gourmet, mak­ers of the finest pizza I’ve had in Boston.

An equally sur­real scene unfolded this evening as fire inves­ti­ga­tors fin­ished explor­ing the build­ings and util­ity crews repaired the infra­struc­ture. Flood­lights were erected. A team of rig­gers used huge portable cranes to lift—no, tear—the air con­di­tion­ing units free of the col­lapsed roof. A group of wait­resses hud­dled on the side­walk, cried, hugged each other, and took snap­shots. Some stood on the icy street drink­ing beers, obliv­i­ous to the police pres­ence. Strangers stopped strangers and exchanged sto­ries. A stack of ply­wood was deliv­ered. Trucks began to depart. The neigh­bor­hood is going to be quiet for a while.