My only neighborhood diner, the Wee Blew Inn, closed in July after 45 years of serving omelets, burgers, and fish fries. From its outside looks, the place had been withering away for a long time, which is why I never went there. There were missing letters in the place’s signage for years. I doubt that any owner who won't fix such a basic problem has much concern about cleanliness in the kitchen. Also, its windows were blacked out. What are such places trying to hide with this sinister look? The diner’s Facebook page, still up, is full of announcements that the place would be closed on various days of the week, due to staffing shortages. My only nearby option for morning coffee now is McDonald's, where it sometimes takes me three tries to get served. The kids working there aren't aware enough to feel with their fingers that they're giving me a beverage so lukewarm that I could chug it in about two seconds. Sometimes they argue with me when I say it's not hot, or give me a blank look. One of them told me that the coffee was just brewed, so I had to explain that it still wasn't hot. I'd never experienced such frustration at a diner.
My parents met at a Greek diner—the Athens Restaurant—in Corning, NY. Maybe that's why I've been attracted to diners since I was young. On Sundays, when we were visiting my grandparents’ home in nearby Auburn, New York, my grandfather and I would go to mass and then he'd take me to a diner for breakfast afterwards. Diner pancakes were the best. My mom would make them at home, but they didn't compare.
The Wee Blew Inn’s fate is indicative of the state of the diner. They're closing across the country, meaning an irreplaceable part of Americana is vanishing. We need more reminders of the past, but this one's fading out. Part of the attraction of the diner is its rejection of any trace of trendiness, providing comfort and stability to its customers. They don't do “farm to table,” “deconstructed” dishes, or fusion cuisine. More like meat and potatoes, non-artisanal coffee, and pie. Diners are synonymous with pies. In the TV show Twin Peaks, directed by David Lynch, Special Agent Dale Cooper was infatuated with the cherry pie at the Double R diner. “They got a cherry pie there that'll kill ya!” he exclaimed to another cop working on the investigation of the death of Laura Palmer. Lynch always had affinity for diners. They provide a setting of normalcy that's the perfect juxtaposition for the horror that's lurking in the background. This is the essence of Lynch's filmmaking technique.
When I lived in New York City, I frequented two types of diners. One was the ubiquitous Greek diner, which could be found all over Manhattan. I'd eat souvlakis or gyros at these places, but that was just one option. Burgers and fries were on the menu, along with meatloaf, turkey dinners, chicken parm, and much more. The huge size of the diner menu is one of its identifying characteristics. Greek diners have 10 to 15 appetizers, 10 to 20 breakfast items, 20 to 30 sandwiches/burgers, 20 to 30 entrees, 20 salads, and dozens of sides, desserts, and specials. Such variety leads to mediocrity, but the diner isn't the place for special meals. Food critics don't visit them.
Greeks and other immigrants fueled the explosion of diners in post-WWII America. While their children used to be happy to have the business handed down to them, that's no longer the case. With parents who worked hard to get them an education, the long, grueling days in the diner aren't attractive. When their parents retire from the business, that business often ends.
After college, I moved to St. Mark's Place, which is in Manhattan’s East Village. The Ukrainian diners on 2nd Avenue became my home away from home. I had minimal cooking skills, and a crummy little kitchen. At my two favorite places, Odessa and Leshko’s, I could get paprika roast chicken, two scoops of mashed potatoes, and a canned vegetable—all dished out from a steam table in the kitchen—for under $4. Breakfast—two eggs, toast, home fries, and coffee—was $1.50. I've never come across a better deal since those days.
Diners are cinematic. The diner is as key an element in American cinematic history as the car. Their lighting and geometry play beautifully on film, as do the neon signs, jukebox, the red stools anchored in checkered floors, and pies displayed on the counter. Filmmakers use diners in different ways. Quentin Tarantino likes to use them as places where crimes are plotted, as in Reservoir Dogs, where a gang of the criminals discuss Madonna and tipping etiquette in a diner where they've met to plan a heist. While in real life, people see diners as safe, warm refuges, some filmmakers, influenced by the Edward Hopper painting, Nighthawks, use them to signal urban loneliness and alienation. In Taxi Driver, director Martin Scorsese often has Travis sitting alone, looking isolated in a late-night diner. Wim Wenders uses diners in the same way in Paris, Texas. In Heat, Michael Mann has the diner as a place where lonely cops and criminals cross paths. In Five Easy Pieces, director Bob Rafelson reverses the cliché of the homey diner. A jaded diner waitress enrages Jack Nichoson’s character so much with her obstinacy that he clears the table with a sweep of his arm. Looking for a diner scene that's really funny? Check out the uncomfortable, weird Tom Waits and Iggy Pop conversation in Jim Jarmusch’s Coffee and Cigarettes, in which Waits tells Iggy that he's a doctor. “Music and medicine has always been my thing,” he says. “Living in that place where they overlap. A lot of people say it shows up in the music.”
One of the reasons diners are fading away is that they're not an attractive business proposition. National chains like Waffle House and Denny’s have taken a chunk of their customer base. Anyone with the cash to purchase a franchise for, say, a McDonald's, gets a turnkey operation in a successful national chain. Compare that with starting a diner and having to figure everything out from scratch. Another challenge for owners of the old-style, pre-fab diners is finding replacement parts. Many of the companies that once manufactured these structures are long gone.
My diner days are over at this point. Thinking back on all the conversations I've had in diners over the years, I can only remember the details of one. It was in Japan, at an outpost of the American 1950s-style diner chain, Johnny Rockets, whose burgers Anthony Bourdain once described as “soul destroying.” Visiting there with my Swiss buddy, Andre, we saw a small ad on the counter for a show by a singer named Jimmy Angel. As it happened, we'd just seen seventy-something-Elvis- lookalike Jimmy singing karaoke at some nearby joint in Tokyo. It was like something out of a David Lynch film. The onetime American teen idol had fallen so far from grace as to be reduced to this after once having a sold-out performance at the 56,000-seat Tokyo Dome. Curious, we chatted with Jimmy after his set. He showed us a scrapbook documenting his entire career. I asked him how he’d ended up in Japan. “Pat Boone sent me,” he replied, without either hesitation or explanation. What he didn't tell me, I'd later find out, is that Jimmy had fled to Japan, where he would remain for 30 years, to avoid an FBI investigation into his ties to the Joe Colombo crime family in NYC. Jimmy called Colombo his “godfather.” Later on, when we pointed out the little sign for Jimmy on the Johnny Rockets counter to the waitress, she said, “Oh, do you know Jimmy?” “We’re his biggest fans,” I said. “We follow him all over the world.”