Diners and other dives

Why an all-night diner beats a four-star restaurant -- two words: community and equality.

Don't get me wrong -- I do love fine food; Jeffrey Steingarten is one of my favorite writers. But reading this article in the Los Angeles Times brought back fun memories from college -- namely, playing cheap pool at Gene's (where you banged your cue stick on the floor to get the table reset) followed by consuming questionable food at the T Room (AKA the TT, Tea Room, Texas Tea Room, or Texas Inn) at some ungodly hour. At the T Room, a retro diner complete with the lingo yelled by charming waitresses named Flo (at least, they could be named Flo), most of my friends loved the oddball sandwich called the cheesy western (whoever thought that one up must have stock in Tums): It was a burger topped with a fried egg and this horrid-looking mustard-relish sauce that made whatever that topping is on a Big Mac look appetizing. I stuck with the "hots" (hot dogs), which looked suspect, topped with even more suspect-looking chili. I have no idea, upon recollection, why. Here's one blogger with similar memories.

But back to the greatness of these fine eating establishments. Regarding equality, as this reviewer notes, ". . . when you get the urge, it all works, sitting there on a stool in a tiny restaurant, breathing second-hand smoke and passing pleasantries with a homeless drunk on one side of you and a bank president on the other. That's culture; that's atmosphere." Well, I'll skip the second-hand smoke, but it sounds to me like an establishment a certain carpenter might have frequented. (No, I'm not trying to pull a "WWJD?" I don't know that. ... Neither do you.)

Maybe "WWJD?" was what these guys had in mind, as described in the Times article:

At the counter this night is Esmeralda Cordova, a sad-eyed singer-songwriter sipping from a bowl of tomato-basil soup. A late-night regular, she appreciates Fred 62's easygoing comfort: "The great thing about diners is you can come by yourself and no one feels sorry for you," she explains. "It's not like a restaurant."

Her waitress returns with the bill, sheepishly explaining that two gentlemen have paid her tab and left a note. Inside, a hand-printed paragraph explains that Jesus loves her and that, although she seemed troubled, things will get better. The note is unsigned, and the men responsible are gone.

Well, that's a bold and presumptuous move by those mystery men. I got to remember that, though, next time I'm in a diner, to put on a sad face and see if I can finagle a free meal. ( : But this songwriter touches on the richness of diners: that you encounter community even when you're looking for isolation. You're not there to see and be seen and stand out; you're there to blend in and join in, find common ground. And get a greasy meal you can no longer get from the fast-food restaurants scrambling to avoid the next Big Tobacco: Big Fat. Makes some of those weird orange "hots" at the T Room sound appetizing again.

A diner is about the only place where you can see "night-crawling hipsters, post-rehearsal musicians and coffee-addled high school kids alike," as well as "rumpled hipsters [who] sit with punks in hoodies while miniskirted club kids chatter near couples in their 40s from the neighborhood." Another place might be -- or at least should be -- a well-mixed church. In this suburban age where every congregant or parishioner is wearing the same wardrobe from Banana Republic or Urban Outfitters, that would be refreshing.

(This post first appeared at The Point.)