BREAKFAST AT THE DINER — #1
Once a week for a long long time, I’ve had a huge and unhealthy breakfast at my favorite diner. Lately, though, the diner has been closed by order of the county, thanks to the the coronavirus.
They haven’t even been taking “to-go” orders, so I’ve been doing without — and doing without has been awful. I want my omelet and pancakes and a bottomless cup of coffee.
Doing without breakfast at the diner has been the pandemic’s biggest impact on my lousy life, unless you count working from home, and a friend’s hospitalization, and the death of an old man I’d known since I was a kid.
A couple of weeks into the apocalypse, I happened to be driving past the diner one afternoon. The windows were dark, of course, the building deserted. On a sudden whim, I pulled my car into the empty parking lot.
Rooting through hatchback behind the back seat, I found an index card, and scribbled a note: “I miss the breakfasts. Call me when you’re open or doing carry-out, and I’ll be your first customer.” Added my phone number, and slipped the note under the darkened diner’s door.
Then I forgot about it for two months, until my phone rang at 6:05 on a Monday morning. I didn’t answer, of course. Nobody ever calls except telemarketers and bill collectors, so I never answer the phone, and at that early hour, I assumed it was a death in the family, which is news that could definitely wait.
I listened as the answering machine answered: “This is Bob at Bob’s Diner. We’re open again. Ordinary hours, 6 to 1.” <click>
The diner is about ten minutes from home, and I was there in eleven minutes. The extra minute is how long it took me to put on pants and shoes.
My breakfast was perfect, but was I worried? You’re damned right, I was worried. There’s a plague going around, so I ordered my omelet and hotcakes to go, and wore a mask all the time I was inside the restaurant, then hurried out with my bag and a hurried “Thank you!”
Was I gonna die?
I drove home, washed my hands, and microwaved my breakfast to get it piping hot again. As I ate it, I realized that I was gonna die, whether I eat at the diner or don’t. And it wasn’t just breakfast I’d been missing. It was the diner itself. And the coffee refills.
That was a week ago, and I’ve decided that if you live your life entirely without risk, that ain’t much of a life, so this morning I risked it again. And even riskier, I went back to the diner, coronavirus be damned, and my order wasn’t be “to go.”
The virus can kiss my butt. I’m going to eat breakfast at the diner, like a person.
♦ ♦ ♦
And so, there I was, walking into the diner, just like before the virus, and just like years and years before that.
The waitress smiled and said hello. Suddenly, there was coffee. A few minutes later, there was food.
There weren’t many customers, which is good, I guess. Less chance of catching the killer infection, and less of the ordinary annoyance of strangers talking about their lives and breakfasts. Less talking, which might be good or might not, depending on what’s overheard. I usually kinda like listening in, though.
The owner said “Hi” to me while I was eating, but didn’t wait for an answer, so I didn’t answer. He’s a gruff, no-nonsense, gravelly-voiced guy — and maybe the kind of man who’d poo-poo the pandemic precautions? We’ve had a few conversations over the years I’ve been eating here, and the closest he’s come to discussing politics was when he once brusquely said, “I don’t like to discuss politics,” so I was a little concerned about how the diner might handle the pandemic.
Happy to report, they’re doing everything safe and smart. The staff wears masks. The tables were devoid of condiments, because some say the virus might lurk on a ketchup container, so I had to ask for salt and pepper and cream for my coffee. Everything was wiped with a bleachy solution before being placed on the counter.
The waitress, always masked, came within six feet only when passing by, or when pouring my coffee. When I finished my meal, she took the menu that had been near me and gave it a thorough wipe-down, even though I hadn’t touched it. I hadn’t touched it not from fear, but because, in a diner like this, regular customers order “the usual.”
Everything about breakfast felt safer than my visit to the Post Office a few weeks ago, and less risky than shopping in a grocery store or going to my workplace, so I’ll be back for another omelet next week.
Breakfast at the diner has been my habit for a long time, once a week every week, and I want that habit back.
Key to having a worry-free restaurant experience during the apocalypse, is to go during off-peak hours. The diner opens at 6AM, but on weekdays it’s never busy until a little before 7, and indeed, there was one other customer when I arrived, and two when I left at 6:45. For about twenty minutes in between it was only me.
I was more worried about the dangers of eating inside a restaurant before eating inside the restaurant, than afterwards.
So, bottom line and TL/DR, if you choose a well-run eatery and avoid their busiest times, you don’t have to wait until the pandemic is over to enjoy a restaurant meal inside a restaurant. Or at least, I don’t have to.
Also, decent people leave a generous tip.
5/29/2020
Republished 1/4/2025
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