Let's Take a Day Trip

SAN BRUNO, Calif. — Last spring, my best friend — my little brother — Jordan “Meechie” Allen introduced me to a dessert I had never heard of before.

It was April 2025. I was heading to Burbank for a quick Alaska Airlines status run and, yes, a pedicure. I had an overnight layover in San Francisco, and since Meechie was living in the Bay Area at the time, I texted him to see if he was free for a late lunch.

I landed at San Francisco International Airport — upgraded to first class, which I proudly reminded him about — and told him to look for a black-and-white Toronto hat and a peacoat.

We decided on BJ’s Restaurant & Brewhouse in San Bruno, right near the airport.

Our palates were polar opposites. Meechie loved Mediterranean food and clean eating. I eat like a five-year-old — give me chicken fingers and fries, and I’m happy. I ordered wings and skipped the fries because I was watching my carbs at the time. He ordered something responsible. Probably a salad.

When we finished eating, he looked at me and said, “Let’s get a Pizookie.”

I had no idea what that was.

For the uninitiated, a Pizookie is BJ’s signature dessert — a thick, warm cookie baked in a deep-dish pan and topped with melting vanilla bean ice cream. It’s half pizza, half cookie. Pure indulgence.

We ordered one to share.

When the server brought it out with two spoons, I joked, “Not us sharing a dessert.”

Meechie laughed with that big, bright smile and said, “Stop being weird. You my bro.”

And we dug in.

We were almost ten years apart in age. I met him when he was 17. From Chicago, I became his confidant — the older brother he could call about anything. The good. The bad. The dark. The ugly. I mentored him, sometimes gave advice he didn’t ask for, and worried about him more than I probably should have.

He was hard-headed. If he decided he was going to do something, he’d do it his way.

He was also 6-foot-5, about 240 pounds, built like he should’ve been playing for the Miami Dolphins. I used to joke and ask if he had signed yet. But beneath that athletic frame was a gentle soul — sometimes too gentle for this world.

The next time we ate at BJ’s was Christmas Eve.

This time in Miami. My son Gregory was there and finally met “Mr. Jordan.” Something felt different that night. He seemed quieter. Reserved. I cracked jokes like always, but they didn’t stick.

We ended up arguing a little about a decision he had made. I told him I just didn’t want to see him get hurt.

He told me I worry too much.

He wasn’t wrong.

After we cooled off, we ordered Pizookies again — this time our own. It made sense in the moment. Now, I kind of wish we had shared.

We hugged before I left.

“I love you,” I told him. “We’ll link up soon.”

That was the last time I saw my best friend.

A week before he passed, we talked while I was in Santa Clarita and he was in Miami. We talked about the future. About growth. About mistakes. About my health. He encouraged me — that’s part of why I now drink 1.5 liters of water every day.

Midweek, he sent me a workout video.

On Friday, I texted him twice about something funny I wanted to laugh with him about.

He never responded.

I woke up in the early morning hours and noticed his location showed he was at the hospital. Later that day, his wife called me.

Meechie died in Miami.

I was in Chicago, trying to understand how someone so strong, so athletic, so alive could suddenly be gone.

Three weeks later, I flew back to the Bay Area for his visitation and funeral.

Before the service started, I went to BJ’s.

I asked to sit near the table where we had sat that spring. I ordered wings again. This time I added fries.

For dessert, I ordered a Pizookie.

I propped my phone up and watched the livestream of his funeral while sitting in that booth.

Halfway through the dessert, I had to put the spoon down.

I started crying.

Around me, televisions played sports highlights. Servers carried trays of food. People laughed and talked. And there I was, in a booth in San Bruno, mourning my brother over a warm cookie and melting ice cream.

I thought about our first Snapchat message.
About the jokes.
About the arguments.
About the hug on Christmas Eve.

I didn’t finish the dessert.

I ate my last Pizookie that day.

And I did it in his honor.