To All the Diners I’ve Loved Before
I have a hearty appetite for nostalgia, and there are few things more nostalgic to me than diners. All you have to do is search “diner aesthetic” on Pinterest, and you’ll see. Shades of red, fluorescent neon lights, window stools, one milkshake / two straws, the stainless steel napkin holder. Ethel Cain’s “Thoroughfare” is also good source material:
And every small-town diner
Saw our faces at least once or twice
Just like the start of a new week, this story begins on a Sunday.
Vinny’s
The only thing I could find about the diner of my youth is a blurb in a business directory that reads: “Permanently closed. Employees: 5” along with the address. How quickly a place that once held so many family memories can be simplified to employees: 5 with an apathetic shrug. The Vinny’s forever etched in my memory was a small family-run diner on the corner of a busy road that served the best unfussy breakfast dishes in the zip code. It’s where, every Sunday after church, I ordered a pork roll, egg, and cheese on extra toasted white bread with hot chocolate.
Not much has changed, except now I get a slightly burnt everything bagel in place of toast, and coffee in place of a hot chocolate, because I didn’t drink coffee when I was seven. I’m sure the brew at Vinny’s was like any diner coffee: steaming hot and slightly bitter. My favorite kind. When it closed, my family switched to going to the bagel chain down the road. The head chef went off menu one too many times, and inspectors got wind of it so they closed eventually, too. Closures happen, but the Sunday breakfast rituals stay the same.
Broad Street
Have you ever been to an ABBA night? Wall-to-wall twentysomethings in sequin tops screaming “Money, Money, Money” with glitter smattered on cheeks. Vodka cranberries are spilling over white plastic cups as we fight for carved out spaces on the dancefloor in a 1,000 square foot bar. I’ll admit I went to the bathroom halfway through “Dancing Queen”. Afterwards, our crew gathered on the sidewalk to smoke cigarettes, take pictures with the flash on with strangers who gave us the cigarettes, and decide our next move. Someone suggested Broad Street Diner, a once 24-hour, now not, diner down the road from this bar that welcomed many post-bar-night gaggles of half-drunk patrons. Suddenly starving for a carbohydrate, we sat at a long table and recapped the night, taking more selfies over shared plates of fries and glasses of ice water that outnumbered the table. I documented this night more than most, totaling at least a 100 pictures and videos from the pregame up to the 3 AM diner excursion. I knew even then I’d never see most of those people again—some of the best nights are like that.
Nameless
Meeting a friend at a halfway point is about as unsexy as dining out can get. Its purpose is purely utilitarian. We’re not picking the place in hopes of having the best meal of our lives, we’re here in the name of convenience; to get in face time before we retreat back to our respective cities. This framing isn’t meant to be negative, I’ve actually had some of my favorite moments with friends at uncool halfway points on the side of a highway. One such place that comes to mind is nameless (to me), but not meaningless. On a map, its name always goes over my head, but its neon sign and sprawling interior is enough to guide me on my ride there.
At random points in the past five years, I’ve met friends here who hail from the same town two hours away. There’s something so diner about driving to a diner in the middle of the week after work, knowing you’ll get pancakes and split fries with maybe a decaf coffee but most likely a Diet Coke instead. A milkshake isn’t off the table. Neither are mozzarella sticks. The night drive home leaves you feeling full for multiple reasons other than the greasy food. You put on Melodrama, and time feels soft, suspended in air.
To All
Diners are part of Americana from yesteryear. They’re for hungry people, for club rats, for loners, for workers, for those who yearn for uncomplication. At some point, maybe you’re all of these things or none of them, and yet you still walk into a diner and think “this is where I’m meant to be.”
Rebecca is a writer, marketer, and sometimes event coordinator based in Philadelphia. She writes Don’t Copy Me, a weekly newsletter about recommendations and life on Substack, and you can follow her on Instagram @itsrebeccap.