The Pickle Barrel is a Market Street landmark, a quirky little restaurant shaped like a triangle with curved windows and an outdoor terrace.

On Wednesday, I ate a cheeseburger there with an old friend.

The place hasn’t changed much in 20 years. Several coats of Polyurethane paint on the tabletops entomb the carved initials of generations of night owls.

For a few years in the 1980s, the Pickle Barrel was my hangout. It was a gathering place for reporters and editors of The Chattanooga Times who would drift down to the “PB” after work. Ordinarily, a few of us would still be around to shut the place down at 3 a.m.

Back then, the Pickle Barrel was a place where a regular customer could run a tab — credit cards were not ubiquitous among cash-strapped reporters in the 1980s. Once, I remember a reporter friend borrowing cash from the Pickle Barrel owner to buy an airplane ticket to chase a story in Pittsburgh.

Each night, as we waited for a stack of morning newspapers to arrive after midnight, reporters would swap war stories over hot chili and cold suds. These storytelling sessions grew increasingly spirited — and loud — as the night grew longer. Introverts became extroverts.

These gatherings were where young reporters would practice the bravado essential to the craft of newsgathering. Being an expert on every facet of the human condition, after all, requires some rehearsal.

I could occasionally raise a few laughs with a story about the time I ventured into Turner Funeral Home mistakenly thinking it was the Lions Club — OK, I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.

I can close my eyes and remember swapping stories with kid reporters who grew up to be Pulitzer Prize winners, news magazine bigwigs and big-city editors. Back then, we were all just pups, though, full of braggadocio and secret insecurities.

I guess it’s a sign of middle age that we are visited by feelings of nostalgia, but eating lunch at the Pickle Barrel this week nearly buried me in good memories.

In small-market journalism, the financial rewards are modest. Reporters often take jobs that pay less than a year’s expenses at a good college. If you strip away the fun, there isn’t much incentive to stay in the news business.

When I got back to the office after lunch Wednesday, I found myself wondering if the young reporters and editors in our newsroom are having fun. I hope so, because I helped recruit many of them to Chattanooga.

I cornered a couple of younger employees in the kitchen and asked point-blank: What do you do at night?

They assured me the torched had been passed. Young reporters still enjoy each other’s company and are inventive enough to find places to unwind.

It was a “duh” moment. “Relax, Pops,” was the message I took away.

So, yes, I’ll relax, but I’m comforted to know that while I’m at home snoring away, young people in Chattanooga who love the news are still laughing and telling stories deep into the night.