New York City, what a place. Grungy, over the top, loud – chic, modern, idyllic. This city has it all. What particularly fascinates me are the American diners. I wasn’t quite sure what made this concept so interesting to me. Here’s an anecdote and a few thoughts that came to me over breakfast during a visit a few years ago.
I stroll along a street in Brooklyn, past brownstone buildings and enter a diner. I sit down at the long counter. Seven people are working. The majority of them are Hispanic. I think I can recognize this not only by the language, but also by the frenetically cheerful way they move through the store. Maybe it’s a cliché. Other employees speak in their classic, strong “Noo Yawk” accent. I get my filter coffee, which is served in a normal-sized (read: extra-large) cup.
After ordering my bagel with fried egg and bacon, I turn back and forth on my bar stool and watch. I can hear the plates clattering as the dishwasher juggles them into the machine. Two older gentlemen enter the diner: “Hello Jerry, hello Bobby,” one of the waitresses greets them. I have to grin, as a tourist the first name immediately reminds me of the Seinfeld series. They sit down at the counter a few meters away from me.
They wait for their food and there is no mistaking that they are morning grouches. But the waitress knows them just too well and starts chatting to them. They flirt back (if you can call it that) but keep the grim expressions on their faces. It’s almost as if they want to test how far they can go before the waitress gets annoyed. But she doesn’t lose her cheerfulness. Only once does it get a little too much for her and she says in her wonderful Puerto Rican accent: “I’m going to smack Jerry and you right over the head!”
Shortly afterwards, they get their breakfast. Of course Bobby finds a reason to complain: “There’s far too much oil on the potatoes,” he says, making a hand gesture as if he were pouring a bottle of oil onto his plate. She knows what to do. “Bobby needs a bit of attention,” she says as she pours him some coffee. (Admittedly, he’s probably not entirely wrong with his comment – but hey, this is America!)
I wish I could stay a little longer, but I have to go. I grab my bill and get up to pay at the front. The waitress hasn’t missed my notebook and my curiosity and says, “If you come back tomorrow, you’ll get the same show. Right, Jerry and Bobby?” Jerry replies: “No, I won’t be there.” She: “Oh yes, you will be.” On the way out the door, two cops come towards me and buy bagels. We make brief eye contact and greet each other.
I now realize what I find so fascinating about diners. Firstly, there is the diversity of the guests: workers, pensioners, parents with children, people from seemingly all corners of the world or simply people who look like they’ve just come from a movie set. But more importantly, it seems as if no one is pretending or vainly emulating any pretensions. People come as they are. Happy or sad, friendly or snotty, quiet or loud. But above all, hungry.