Greasy Spoon
It’s not every day that I head to a diner for breakfast. Most days, breakfast is an afterthought, and I spend more time eyeballing my coffee than eggs, bacon, or the occasional sausage McMuffin from the Golden Arches. However, sometimes you must let go, undo the belt a notch or two, and head to your local greasy spoon for something more hearty.
My town has a diner that epitomizes the “townie aesthetic.” On the walls are pictures of the diner’s bumper stickers from all over the world, the two TVs are showing last night’s sports (congrats, Iowa), and the wait staff has been there for years. They’re familiar, like the set of slippers I wear every day, and the only constant is how terrible their coffee is. This is heaven in the confines of a strip mall.
I’ve been coming to this diner for a decade now. I’ve watched the menu evolve from a sticky plastic-covered mess into a bifold 11x17 menu with good font kerning, legibility, and fewer foreign substances. I’ve always eaten their omelettes as I’m not generally prone to enjoying pancakes, french toast, or other foodstuffs in the same way. Besides, omelettes are the perfect test food: if you fuck them up, you really shouldn’t be running a diner.
The omelettes are named after the various people who’ve returned from the place. My usual, the “Everton,” is perhaps a surname or even a place. Lord only knows, but the combination of salty feta with spinach and onion isn’t something you’d choose to pass up. I noticed today that it was no longer on the menu, replaced by “The Paul,” no doubt in honour of the owner. With slight modifications, I got my Everton in the guise of Paul, and all was right with the world.
On a slight tangent, I’d like to discuss diner coffee briefly. In the general scale order of paint thinner to terroir, diners usually occupy a space below Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts and well below your favourite Fellow or Blue Bottle brew. Hell, even McDonald’s manages to provide some passable brew (though I’m pretty sure Paul Newman is rolling in his grave somewhere over how badly that stuff tastes). I can only fathom that there’s a global cabal run by Sysco Foods or otherwise that has decided that shit coffee is de rigueur in these establishments, and they’ll continue propagating it to the unwashed masses as long as possible. But I digress.
If there’s a message in this narrative, it’s this: sometimes, you must return to that old, familiar place and sit for a spell. You need to imbibe in the sticky vinyl, the faded menus, and the artery-clogging joys of a cheesy omelette to face the day better. Sometimes, just walking through those sticker-laden doors is enough to bring back the flood of purpose you once had and renew a sense of purpose for the next few days. It’s not an every-day or even an every-month type event. However, when you decide to take the journey, slide into that booth, and imbibe on the caloric bounty proffered, you’re returning to your foundation.
We all need these spots, the familiar haunts that have existed at the fringes of our personal development. We all need the moments they offer: peace amongst the chaos, satiation amongst the maniacal, and contentment amongst the driven. Perhaps the days ahead are best faced with a plate from your local and a cup of go-juice from the bowels of Satan himself. Who knows? I can tell you that today, of all the days this year, was the day I needed this the most.
May it ever be so.
