I’m a sucker for a good diner, and Yelp has been Yelping that the Great American lives up to its name, so its been on my to-eat list for a while now.
Soon as I opened the door and walked inside, I was pretty sure I’d never be back. Three big-screen TVs were on the wall, and loud but lousy rock’n’roll was pumping through speakers at triple a comfortable volume.
Turning right around occurred to me, but it was 2 in the afternoon and I hadn’t eaten all day, so when a chipper middle-aged waitress appeared, smiled, and offered me a booth, I sat.
Then she was gone, and I looked around the restaurant. The music was repulsive, but the sound was off on the three TVs, and that’s a plus, or three plusses, I guess. One TV was showing a daytime talk show, another had a cooking show, and the third TV was off. That’s my favorite channel!
The space is large enough for a couple of dozen tables, and there were at least 30 other customers, but nobody was watching the TVs.
The restaurant’s full name is Great American Diner and Bar, and apparently, it’s primarily a bar. Not much décor — plain yellow walls in two shades of yellow, with all the booze in the world lined up on shelves to my right, and the kitchen straight ahead in my line of sight. Two minimalist chandeliers hang near the kitchen, but they’re industrial, not fancy.
It’s a working class bar, with a section near the front windows that seemed slightly more upscale — tall tables and chairs. Everything was a little too dark where I was seated, but an electric light had been built into my booth, and apparently every booth.
Breakfast was available, but when the waitress returned to take my order, I went with lunch — the house burger, called Great American. It comes with fries, and I also ordered a strawberry shake.
While waiting for my food, I tried to read at my table, but even leaning the book into the light from the in-table bulb, the booth was too dark for easy reading. The music sounded like dance tunes in a gay bar — no lyrics, just neverending electric guitar with rapid-fire drums — and so loud and unwanted, it was hard to focus my brain on the book anyway.
Sure, I’m old and weird and all, but if I hadn’t come alone a conversation would’ve been impossible in that setting. It would’ve been nothing but, “What?” “What?”
The shake came first, and fairly fast, in a fluted glass. The waitress also brought the metal cup the shake had been shaken in, explaining that she really wasn’t supposed to give me its six or eight extra ounces of shake, but since I looked like such a sweetie…
I do not look like a sweetie. This was tip talk, a performance intended to earn a more generous gratuity. She knew it, I knew it, but I appreciated the extra portion of shake, and also the extra effort she’d taken trying to sell me on a bigger tip. Her strategy worked, and she got a few extra bucks from me.
The shake was adequate but not great, vanilla with only hints at strawberry. It was sweet and cold and topped with whipped cream, though, and I sucked all of it through the straw until it slurped.
When the burger arrived, it was a mess. The patty was the shade of gray that happens when meat is grilled in its own fat without tidying it up. It was on a shiny brioche bun, with a blue-ribboned toothpick holding everything in place — generous onion slices, lettuce, pickles, an unidentified sauce. Then some mustard was added by me, and it was real mustard, none of that Dijon crap.
The burger was so juicy it was frickin’ wet. The bun-bottom was moist before my first bite, and the fatty, greasy patty squirted more liquid with every bite. By halfway through it, the burger was no longer structurally sound, and it soon deconstructed itself into separate piles of meat, lettuce, onions, thoroughly soaked bread bits, and grease.
I finished it with a fork, but finish it I did, and despite the messiness it was an OK burger. No puking afterwards. Its two pink tomato slices were 100% flavor-free, but that’s the way tomatoes are these days, which is why I usually say “Hold the tomatoes,” but I’d forgotten to say it at Great American.
The fries were hot and fine and perhaps slightly breaded. Completely competent, but nothing special.
That’s how I’d describe the whole lunch — completely competent, but nothing special, and all of it was overwhelmed by the loud music and darkness.
One other oddity: It’s been decades since smoking was legal in restaurants and bars in this state, but the last ten minutes of my meal came with the slight but unmistakable odor of cigarettes. Not enough to anger me or ruin the burger, but enough to make me twist my neck in every direction and wonder. Might’ve simply been a smoker’s stinky clothes, but an empty-booth buffer surrounded me, so the smoke remains an unsolved mystery.
Great American Diner & Bar
4752 California Ave SW, West Seattle
Food & drink: good
Price: OK
Service: good
Transit: #22, #50, #57, #128, #773, RapidRide #C
Verdict: NO.
3/25/2025
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