I ate in a diner this week. I can't think of a place where I enjoy spending time away from home as much as when I'm in a diner. There are things about the diner that'll be predictable no matter where you are.
There will be at least a few people in the diner that know all the employees intimately. If you listen closely, their conversation is about their lives, what's important to them. Yes, sometimes its mundane baloney, but they are the regulars. Regulars earn respect in the diner. They sit at the counter. They get free refills.
Breakfast is served all day. Probably the biggest hook for me is breakfast at all hours. No 10:30am cutoff at the diner. Anyplace I can get strong coffee, eggs and bacon whenever I want them is on my list. Some of you who know I am dieting for my run at Survivor can rest assured, I ate as healthy as possible at the diner! I wanted bacon so bad. I could smell it. Not ordering bacon in a diner resulted in physical pain for me. But I didn't order it. Instead, I said a small prayer for pigs everywhere.
Stay as long as you want. There was a diner in Queens. Fresh Meadows, I think that I always felt like they wanted you to hustle and get the hell out. It was a busy place, so I got it. But I only ate there out of necessity. Typically it was when I was traveling with my boss because they had a decent matzoh ball soup and he digs that.
There was a diner in Parsippany New Jersey that I could walk to from my apartment back when I was a young pup. I would cross route 46 with my newspaper, pen and notebook. On my days off, I would spend two to three hours there at a clip. That was when my time was my own. No responsibility to anything but work and myself. I was very free but also wasteful. I could have done so much more with myself. I didn't value time as I do today. Anyway, the staff in that diner knew my name. They knew where I was from, what work I did. My order became unspoken. I would sit down, say hello and 6 minutes later, voilla, there it was. Fresh and hot. I got free refills, too.
There was a man sitting with about five women in the diner I visited this week. They were chatting when a man and his son, a four or five year-old from the looks of him, strolled in. Pausing at the table, they looked at each other and then the man with his son said, "Lou? You're Lou, right?"
What followed struck me.
"Yes. Yes I am."
"We did your driveway. About fifteen years ago?"
"I'd say that's about right."
"Holding up ok?"
"Me or the driveway?" Five ladies chuckled quietly. So did I.
"Both."
"Driveway's good. But I've got cracks and bumps like frost heaves on my knuckles and my knees."
"Nah. You look better than all that."
"Mind explainin' that to my knees?"
The paver and his son grabbed a booth. The guy with arthritis went back to his lady friends. I stared into my coffee. I've lived in the same town for over six years now. If I went into one of the local breakfast joints, would someone strike up a conversation, similar to the one I mentioned with me?
I reflected on my nomadic life up until the last ten years. Where are my roots? What's my legacy? How many more times will I move? Will I ever build relationships that are older than my car? There's something to be said for staying put. For investing in where you live. That old saying, "Work where you live, not live where you work" harkened back to me.
I read an article in the newspaper about Petricone's Pharmacy in Torrington, CT. They've been there for generations. The article impressed upon me the sense of community and service to those you live among. Joe Petricone Sr. commented that he loved that town. It motivates him to provide something his neighbors needed.
What do I provide to my neighbors? I pay my taxes. I mow my lawn and keep a decent yard. I put up a fence to keep my rugrats from running into the street. I pick up all the loser lottery tickets, beverage cans and McDonald's bags that get tossed on my lawn or on the curb around my property. But what value do I add? What's my contribution?
I think I'm good for more. I think we're all good for more. No matter how busy we think we are.
When my father comes down to visit my sister and I in Pennsylvania he usually stays with my sister. Since my sister's family usually sleeps in on the weekends and we don't we always go to the same diner. I usually end up waiting for hours until it is time to go to the diner.
ReplyDeleteThe last time he was down we were at the diner. He got steak and eggs and I got eggs benedict. The eggs benedict always comes with asparagus and a ton of home fries. I told him I couldn't finish it and would bring it home and give it to my dog for dinner.
He called over the waitress and said. "He can't finish it. He'd like to have it packed up so he can feed it to his dog."
I just rubbed my forehead since that implies that the food was bad. It wasn't, it was good but just too much.
She came back with a container for me to pack up my own food. My father said, "Do you know why they do that? This girl probably doesn't know this," as he pointed to the woman standing behind him, "because there were too many lawsuits. People were suing saying the waitresses were tampering with their food when they asked to take leftovers home."
I didn't say anything I just looked at him and thought, "You do realize we are coming back here tomorrow morning. Also, I live here, I sometimes run into these people."