It’s about dinner time, and I’ve got a deep, gnawing desire for some diner food.
Give me a place where I can sit at a counter on a bolted down stool that spins. Give me some kitschy decor, an old Coke sign, and a large guy flipping burgers on a grille. Give me the smell of french fries snapping and crackling in a deep fryer. Give me a joint with a blue plate special, meat loaf and mashed potatoes and brown gravy on the daily menu, and fresh-baked pies on display in a circular glass case. Give me a nylon-uniformed waitress named Madge, or Gladys, or Bunny who calls me “Hon” and maybe snaps her gum, besides.
They call diner food comfort food, and that’s exactly what it is. Sometimes you have a hankering that only a piece of Swiss steak, some mac and cheese, a piece of coconut cream pie, and a hot cup of black coffee can satisfy.