Mars 2112 sits on the periphery of the Times Square theme-restaurant scene, and it’s a bit of an oddball. It’s not part of a chain, like Hard Rock Cafe or Planet Hollywood, nor is it backed by a global mega-brand like the ESPN Zone. It’s simply an eatery about Mars—practically low-concept as far as Times Square is concerned.

I visited a few months ago, and as far as I know, the restaurant may not even exist anymore, although its aurally misbegotten website remains, so odds are good you can still get your Red Planet fix at 51st and Broadway. I went to Mars 2112 because I’d read a report that an Attack From Mars pinball machine (not to be confused with its successor, Revenge from Mars) was on the premises. I wanted to play.

For residents of the city, there’s obvious shame in visiting a theme restaurant, but typically when we do visit, we are accompanying some overeager friends or family from out of town. With a regimen of eye-rolling and bemused head-shaking, we can disassociate ourselves from our guests to let everyone know, hey, get a load of these lame other people, they don’t understand I am too cool for this scene, which I definitely am. Too cool, that is. Definitely.

But this time, I was alone, with no foil against whom to demonstrate my relative worldliness. And when I passed a faded sign outside the entrance that read, “Astrodelicious!” I broke out in a sweat and reassessed the situation. “You are visiting a theme restaurant—not even a top-tier theme restaurant, but rather one that bills itself as ‘astrodelicious’—in the middle of a weekday, by yourself.” I could have bailed right then. I forged on in the interest of journalism. The Mars 2112 hostess struck at the heart of my insecurity with this greeting:

“Hi, will somebody be joining you?”

She’s not even entertaining the possibility I could be alone, I thought. So I lied.

“Yes!” I said. Well done, John. You dodged that bullet. She doesn’t suspect a thing.

“OK, and what is their name?”

“Peter. He should be here in the next 20 minutes or so.” Excellent use of detail. Filling in the backstory. Nice.

“And you are…?”

“Andrew,” I said. What? Why are you still lying? OK, hold it together, you’re a passable Andrew. Just remember, you’re Andrew now. Andrew Andrew Andrew.

Mars 2112’s pinball is located in “Cyberstreet,” which is what they will call an arcade 104 years from now because by then the term “cyber” will be hilariously old-timey, just like today’s society thinks Teddy Roosevelt is a real gas. As expected, Cyberstreet did have an Attack from Mars, and it was in pretty good shape. I must have played for a solid 45 minutes before I felt sorry for the guy stuck on the very dirty Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein machine and finished up. He soon jumped over to the AFM.

AFM and Revenge From Mars were two of the last pinball machines that didn’t have a prominent entertainment license attached. (Attack From Mars has nothing to do with Mars Attacks!, the Tim Burton movie that was coincidentally released around the same time.) In the 1990s, pinball makers leaned more and more on movies and TV to provide the themes for their machines, and today, Stern doesn’t make any machines without big name backing. Just like the standalone concept of Mars 2112 is an oddball in Times Square, machines like Cactus Canyon and Medieval Madness have given way to Spider-Man and Wheel of Fortune.

Maybe theme-restaurant aficionados mourn the mega-brand trend in their field. If so, I feel their pain. For my part, I miss the days where a pinball machine featured original settings and characters like Rudy. Licensed pinballs are nothing new, and they’re not necessarily bad pins. Four of the top ten on the Internet Pinball Database’s top-rated machines have licensed themes, including the No. 1 machine (Twilight Zone) and the runner-up (Star Trek: The Next Generation). It was nice, though, when pinball was a creative venue unto itself, however modest.

By the way, while I was playing, I came to the slow realization that somebody named Peter could actually show up to the restaurant, and the hostess could bring him in to join me, and then the jig would be up. I cast worried glances at the entrance to Cyberstreet between every ball. Then, when Peter didn’t come, I invented a whole shtick to perform for the hostess when I walked out. It consisted of saying “So, Peter never showed up?! I guess he doesn’t have time for his old friend and business partner Andrew!” Then I would throw my arms up in astonishment and exasperation. But when I left, nobody looked in my direction, and I realized nobody cared. The end. Moral: Lying works great.