Whither the Diner?

Cause for Concern

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There’s been talk recently about diners. There was an excellent Helen Rosner piece in the New Yorker and then there was this terrific Pete Wells Times story about patty melts, which feels diner adjacent. A diner is not something we generally talk much about unless an old one is being reimagined by some chef of the moment.

I’d rather not have a diner reimagined (any more than I want a new version of prep). I don’t want to know the chef’s name (a diner has a cook not a chef), there shouldn’t be an Instagram account or anything on the menu that your grandfather wouldn’t recognize. Natural wine and diners are not good bedfellows. In fact, ordering wine of any kind at a diner is asking for trouble—didn't I see this label on an Alaska Air flight?

A New York diner should be a welcome and reassuring sight, part of a neighborhood, like a park, that’s been there as long as anybody can remember. And, like a park, it shouldn’t advertise or scheme or update itself. Nobody goes to a diner to be surprised. I find it funny when people even look at a diner’s menu. Don’t they know what they want when they ease into the leatherette banquette? But what most people want, these days, is not found in a diner. A salad will be better outside the diner’s walls but certain things, like a grilled cheese, are better within.

There was a time in my life, a few apartments ago, when I realized over dinner at the Waverly, that I had eaten all three meals of the day there. That can’t be good, can it? Now the Waverly, for some reason, undertook a renovation about a decade ago. It’s still outdated, just slightly less than before. Diners, as a rule, probably shouldn’t be renovated. Decor within throwing distance of the 1980s is asking for trouble.

I’m now in a low-grade feud with the Waverly. I didn’t mind when they started advertising things on their windows with neon signs and illustrations. Though that misses the point—you don’t spontaneously decide to stop in for roast chicken. More importantly, the Waverly is no longer open 24 hours. For years, I knew the Waverly could be counted on for pre-fishing breakfast. I would take a fried egg sandwich with me on the ferry to Breezy Point to fish in Jamaica Bay (I wrote about this in The Optimist). I’m sure this has something to do with the pandemic—but they’ve never posted new hours and I feel slightly betrayed. I’ve stared into the Waverly with its lights on at 6am excited about breakfast only to find that the door was locked. I didn’t know the door could lock. Dear reader, this was very upsetting. Very upsetting! What’s next, will the Empire State Building no longer be illuminated at night?

They also have an irregular policy when it comes to seating arrangements. Waverly diners are familiar with the layout: Large booths for four diners (two on a side) and small booths for two (one on each side). The small booths, in winter, with jackets and bags, are a little small. And if the place is mostly empty I, like any rational person, prefer to sit in a large booth. I can spread out the newspaper—and diners go well with newspapers—and enjoy some space. I’m not setting up a computer and settling in for hours, I’ll be out before the lunch rush. Yet I keep getting herded into a solo booth in a mostly empty diner. This kind of thing, I’m embarrassed to say, makes me furious. Sit me in a good table and I’ll tip 50% (which is right in a diner) as I normally do.

In any case, after having gone to the place for two decades, the Waverly and I are on a break. There are other options. It turns out the Sixth Avenue outpost of Papaya Dog serves a fried egg sandwich in the morning. It’s not great, but it doesn’t have to be, since you’re eating it standing up and have no right to complain. Now, for some reason, the Papaya Dog has gotten into the ice cream business and a large part of their triangular space is now devoted to gelato and sorbet and I don’t know what. But the breakfast menu (which was rather stealth anyway) is now off the board.

So I was open to a relationship with a new diner. I didn’t have to go far. On the other side of Sixth Avenue is another diner that I don’t even know the name of. I’ve walked by it about 400 times. It’s across from the IFC theater in an old brick building and I’ve always associated it with NYU students. In any case, because IFC wasn’t showing the film I went to see for some reason, (“We’ve withdrawn that screening,” the ticket lady told me mysteriously), I crossed the street and, living dangerously, tried this diner. It felt like I was rooting against my Vikings or putting an olive in a vodka martini (instead of a twist in gin, the way God intended). It felt like cheating.

Now all diners are mostly alike but their differences matter. Are they cash only? Do they save money and not use Heintz ketchup? Are they filled with schoolboys in uniforms (Three Guys on Madison)? Do they make turkey clubs that cost a small fortune (The Viand across from the old Barneys)? Is John Waters sitting at the counter (the old Joe Jr.s further up Sixth)?

At this new place we got off on the right foot because the man said the magic words “Sit wherever you like.” “In this large booth?” I clarified. “Yes, of course.” Promising. The fried egg and cheese was perfectly fine, though there’s not a lot of mystery here. There was more room than the Waverly. But familiar elements—students talking, people on their own schedule—remained. It did feel slightly strange, I was on the wrong side of the street, but I got over that.

There are so many places to eat fast and well in New York—ramen, food trucks, pizza—that the diner is up against it. I gather there are some healthy salad places, but my rule is that if a restaurant has an app then I won’t be patronizing that restaurant. Daily Provisions improves on a lot of what the diner does, but not really, because everybody there is on a computer. And any place where people are on computers is an awful place to eat or drink. There is no possibility of atmosphere in a workspace. None.

Nobody should eat three meals a day at a diner. That was true decades ago and remains true. Even once a week is pushing it. But the diner will always have a place in my heart. It remains one of the few places where people in New York come together that are welcoming but anonymous. I’m very happy that a diner has no idea how to make a flat white. It’s not ironically lowbrow or secretly excellent and should never sell merch. A diner should be right down the middle, a welcome sight in a world that moves far too fast.

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