BREAKFAST AT THE DINER #54

Kirstin was nowhere to be seen, and Harvey said, “Hey, Chief,” so I knew instantly that breakfast would be a little worse. It would still be good, though. Always is.

Half a dozen people were at the counter, but there was room for one more, so I occupied a stool and Harvey said, “Coffee?”

”With cream,” I said. “No sugar, please.”

Soon there was coffee and cream, and Harvey said, “Back in a mo’,” and disappeared. Glancing around, I noticed Knitting-Needle, three stools to my north, was eating french toast. Also I noticed that the french toast looked terrific.

”Is that as good as it looks?” I asked her. She was chewing, so her response was a smile and a nod, and I decided to order french toast.

And also, how is it that I’ve been coming to this diner forever, tried every omelet they have and sometimes the daily special, but never ordered french toast?

Harvey returned and said, “Sorry, there was a spill. The special today is—”

“The special doesn’t matter,” I said. “French toast is what I want.”

”You’re usually an omelet,” he said, penciling the green order ticket, “but today you’re french toast. Got it.”

”No, I’m french toast and an omelet. Cheese omelet, please.”

He scribbled and said “Got it” again, and passed my order back to Slim in the kitchen.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

An old white man came in, and sat where the counter corners, making him elbow-adjacent to Knitting-Needle. She’s a middle-aged black woman, and to me she’s Knitting-Needle cuz she had a long pokey thing in her hair the first time I saw her. There’s been no pokey thing since, but she remains Knitting-Needle to me until I ask her name, which I never will.

She and the old white guy were talking like they’d known each other since Before Britney. He was prattling on about how he’d taken his Mastiff for a walk, then fell asleep on a bench in a park, and woke up when the dog started licking his head.

Kintting-Needle laughed, and told him about her Labrador Retriever that refuses to retrieve anything but empty tin cans from the trash, and other gifts she never asked for.

The white guy smiled, sipped his coffee, and stuck out his hand. “I’m Matt,” he said.

“I’m Elaine,” and I’m flabbergasted. They’de been talking and laughing for several minutes already, and they’d never met before? That’s a level of pre-friend friendliness I almost can’t comprehend. They were only talking about dogs, sure, but I never have that much to say to anyone until I’ve known ’em for at least a year.

♦ ♦ ♦

An old white guy at the counter was talking to another old guy while they ate. It was unclear whether they knew each other before breakfast, but that’s irrelevant at Bob’s Diner. People eat, people talk, I listen and take notes.

They talked mostly about bars they’d known and loved, but I’m not a bar guy so it was boring and I was barely listening. Then Harvey came ’round with coffee refills just as one of the old white guys mentioned a well-known local dive bar, the Half Moon Tavern.

”Hey, I worked there,” Harvey said, “like, twenty years ago.”

”Yeah?” said the old man. “I’ve been drinking there since I’ve been drinking,” which, looking at the guy, meant fifty years at least.

Harvey was wiping drips around the coffee machine, but he paused, held the wet rag in his hand, and sized the guy up. “I probably mixed you a Bloody Mary,” he said.

The old man tilts his head like Lassie, perplexed, and says, “That’s how I always start the night. How did you know?”

Harvey said, “Ya got Bloody Mary written all over ya,” and then he slid an omelet in front of me, and a side of french toast on a separate plate.

♦ ♦ ♦

The french toast was a revelation. The first bite was a life-changing moment. It was buttery, eggy, sweety, cinnamony, on thick Texas-toast style bread, and it was one of the five finest things ever inside my mouth. There will be no more pancakes for me at the diner, though they have great pancakes.

My omelet and hash browns were great, too, but that’s ordinary. The french toast is the headline here. Oh my golly.

”You were so right about this,” I said to Knitting-Needle, as she was paying, tipping, and leaving.

“They know how to do the french toast,” she said.

”Damn right,” I said, and then she was gone.

♦ ♦ ♦

A couple of Republican men were jabbering at the back table, retelling each other lies of a stolen election. One of them actually said, “Lets go, Brandon,” and the other one laughed like it’s funny, because for some people, that’s as funny as they get.

♦ ♦ ♦

A plump, gray-haired older woman sat at the counter, on the same stool where Knitting-Needle had been until a few minutes earlier. She glanced at me and smiled, and I’m old and fat and ugly, but still, when a woman smiles that’s your morning right there. I smiled back, but had nothing to say.

♦ ♦ ♦

A white man, 40-something, walked in but he didn’t sit down, just stood at the cash register. “How ya doin’, Rich?” Harvey aasked, walking toward the man.

“Hungry,” he said, “and in a hurry. Gimme two homewreckers on white, to go.”

Harvey wrote something on his green order pad, walked the order back, pinned it to the wheel, and also announced it to Slim, “Two homewreckers.”

There is nothing remotely like ‘homewrecker’ on the menu, and I was tempted to ask what the hell, but I didn’t have to. Phil, across the counter, had the same question and he’s never shy. “What’s a ‘homewrecker’?”

“Bacon-ham-sausage-egg sandwich,” Harvey answers, a little too loud, because now he’s in the dining room, bringing someone breakfast at a table behind me.

Phil looked confused, and I took a menu from beside the napkin dispenser to see for myself, but on the menu it’s just a bacon-ham-sausage-egg sandwich.

”Gotta be a story behind ‘homewrecker’,” Phil said.

”Not much of a story,” said the white man who’d ordered it. “I was on a city work crew, and we’d all come in and order it just about every morning before starting.”

”Hey, what ever happened to those guys?” Harvey asked, closer now, back behind the counter.

”Ah, some of ’em quit, one of ’em died, but I still come in.”

Phil cut through the crap and asked again, “And it’s called a ‘homewrecker’ because…?”

”One of the guys had a heart condition, and he wasn’t supposed to eat any of the ingredients, but he ordered it every time. He told us once that his wife had yelled at him about it.” Then, mocking an angry housewife, he said, “‘You probably ordered that sandwich you know will kill ya!’”

The phone rang, and Harvey walked off to answer it, but on his way he said over his shoulder, “And after that guy died, everyone started calling the sandwich a ‘homewrecker’.”

♦ ♦ ♦

I maybe moaned with pleasure while eating my french toast, cuz damn it was delicious. The lady a few stools away gave me a second smile, and said, “It’s that good, eh?”

”They know how to do the french toast,” I said, quoting Ms Needle. The lady studied me and sipped at her coffee, and I sipped at mine and went back to my magazine and breakfast.

After a few minutes of silence, the lady said, “What are you reading?” I peeled back the cover so she could see, Smithsonian, and she said it out loud. When I said nothing more, she said, “Well, anything interesting? What’s happening at the museum?”

OK, so she’s a chatty lady. A normal man would chat right back at her, but I hate chat and can’t do it without more effort than I had in me this morning. I kinda tried, though.

”The magazine isn’t really about the museum,” I said to the magazine, and then remembered to look at the lady. “It’s sorta science, sorta history…” and I let my voice trail off, and faded back into the article. I hoped we were done, but we weren’t.

She said, “Do you come here often?” and I thought Ah jeez, making conversation is awful enough, but that last line sounded almost like she’s coming on to me. She’s gotta be joking, right?

I looked at her again, and I was flattered and she was fine, but even the idea of flirting at my age makes me need a nap.

”I eat here once a week,” I said, and said no more. I have no experience rebuffing anyone’s advances, because no female has ever made advances, and please god, let there be quiet, and coffee and eggs.

She said nothing for long enough it qualified as an uncomfortable silence, so I lifted my eyeballs from the magazine and looked at her again. She was still smiling. Not a big smile, just half a sideways grin.

“You don’t talk much,” she said when our eyes contacted. It wasn’t quite a question.

”Sorry,” I say. “It’s a good breakfast, and that — that’s all I want.”

Hoping I hadn’t pissed her off or hurt her feelings, I looked at her again, gave her my sad face, and she was still wearing her fractional smile.

“Nothing’s wrong with a good breakfast,” she said, and took another sip of coffee while still looking at me. Then, thank Christ, she looked out the window and away from me.

♦ ♦ ♦

Next came Bouffant-Walker, and we said good morning to each other. He sat at his always-table, and started talking to nobody in particular, as he usually does.

A few minutes after his entrance, Big Hat walked in, always happy and exuberant.

Next was Hangover Harry, who — again — looked almost awake and not hung over at all. I might need to rename him.

I glanced at Phil, and he raised his eyebrows, like we’re in seventh grade and he was encouraging me to say more to that dame.

Chew, swallow, sigh. I don’t know any of these people, rarely talk to them, but they’re the faces at the diner. Familiar faces, and I sorta like them. That lady could’ve become another familiar face, and I was second-guessing myself for being a bit too brusque with her.

I slid tab and tip under my coffee cup, and as I passed behind her on my way toward the door I said, “Enjoy your breakfast, lady. Maybe we’ll see you again here some time.”

She didn’t say anything, but looked at me, still slightly smiling, and without a snarl. I haven’t made a new enemy, and that’s usually the best I can hope for.

1/10/2022

Breakfast at the Diner

itsdougholland.com
← PREVIOUS          NEXT →