Diner Days
I too was born with a greasy spoon in my mouth. It might have been silver but it was greased up and full of oil.
“How you doing hun?” The waitress from West Philly would greet us, two mouths ready to eat. She’d then look at my dad and say “Hey Doc, you want the usual?” With no hesitation, it was always a “Yes, AND” before he’d go on a rant about how his son and the joys of having breakfast with his “chromosome.” To him, the routine was the joy. He’d come to his diner every morning and play the same actor in his elaborate play. He knew the waitresses and they knew him. They sympathized with his crazy and overworked schedule and he lent them an ear on their problems. There was comfort in the familiar, there was beauty in the consistency and there was joy in the mutually orchestrated acknowledgement. This was his life for 35 years.
We ate well growing up but my dad always knew where to find the local diner. You know, the kind of meal that’s underpriced and over salted. The kind of meal that puts the weight in the term “hearty meal.” A couple eggs any style, a few too many pieces of toast for your digestive system, some home fries that leave you full for two days and a bunch of heavy pours of black coffee that make your brain spin on all cylinders. We’d grab the paper from the drive way, usually having to peel off the dew soaked wet outer lining to get to the good stuff. We’d lay out the paper on the diner table. My dad would grab the front page, my brother would grab the sports page and I’d reach for the business section. If it was a weekend, I’d also grab the advertisement page and look through Circuit City’s latest offerings. I always gravitated toward the latest version of their camcorders and TVs. I’d also go hunting for PS2 game bundle deals. It was like window shopping without having to leave the table. I was plotting for my next allowance or gift certificate. This was before the internet spoiled all of the papered fun. Nonetheless, there was something special about reading with your fingers, getting the ink on your palms and having a double spread of oversized parchment laying next to your breakfast.
My dad always swore on a big breakfast to start his day. He’d routinely plow through a full days worth of work, see 30 patients and subsist solely on that one big hearty meal. He had has favorite spot and it was no less than 500 yards from our house. I think he was always scared to move because how could he live without his breakfast spots so close in reach?! Those were the days. He still frequents his morning breakfasts but times have changed and the places that he once knew are no longer. The places are disappearing and those triple stack pancakes are harder to come by. The pandemic knocked his favorite greasy spoon right out of his mouth. His diner tried to stick it out but the weight of the world was too much to bear. It’s devastating to see but I’m sure we’ll see another one pop up to serve the hungry morning feeders. There ain’t nothing like an old school diner.