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Marketing

I wasn't wearing an Aloha shirt and sandals-with-socks, but I did have a Big-Ass SLR (tm), and thus we were both instantly identified as folks who Aren't From Around These Parts. "So what brings you here?" the owner asked.

It was a question that I didn't particularly want to answer. We had a fascinating response sitting right in our holsters, of course. But when you say "We're trying to visit ten diners in one day" you run the enormous risk of being mis-identified as a Colossal Diner Bore or a Roadside America Big Bag O'Gas.

Look, here's why I like diners: they nail the compulsories. Stereotypically, they're not interested in making you a short stack of pancakes cooked with artesian-style whole grains on a stone-floured hardwood-fired grill, served with a kiwi/loganberry compote and the Penguin edition of "Boswell's London Journal." No, they want to serve you the most perfect stack of ordinary pancakes you've ever eaten. Ditto for a BLT, a club sandwich, or a slice of apple pie. Diners are all about simple food done exactly right. Plus, you can usually get in and out of there for less than seven dollars, the staff is almost always genuinely friendly, and unlike TGI Bennihoogans franchises, if God chose to amuse Himself by teleporting you from one diner to another, you'd realize the differences almost immediately.

(Ihnatko stands up, buttons and smooths his shirt, adjusts his glasses, and then proceeds, after clearing his throat and then taking a preparatory breath.)

I do not visit diners out of a sense of nostalgia. "Remember the Fifties?" says the bag-o-gas. "The tailfins on the cars! Elvis on the jukebox! An ice-cold Coke cost five cents, and a red-haired waitress named 'Betty' served you hamburgers at your favorite corner diner." This sort of blatherol is usually oozed out by some stuffed product of the hair-care industry, usually wearing rented bluejeans and a wry, thoughful grin that had to be applied surgically, introducing some sort of show on the White Guy Channel. Either that, or it's a lead-in to a pitch for some sort of adult-incontinence product. Whenever I hear this stuff, I can taste copper.

Oh, and another thing: I do believe that in principle, you should give your consumer dollars to locally-owned business whenever possible. But when I walk into a diner, I do not, repeat, do not smugly pat myself on the back for sticking it to...hang on, there's got to be a website somewhere with exactly the sort of phrase I'm looking for...ah! "The vampiritic Wal*Mart death-spiral of multinatural corporate America and its relentless and savage ongoing assault on Main Street businesses."

I swear to God: I'm just there for the grilled chicken club and a Coke. Diners get my money through the wholesome, old-fashioned method of providing a fantastic product at a low price. If I learn later that everything in my favorite diner, from the parsley sprigs to the busted jukeboxes on the tables, were built and supplied by the Halliburton Corporation, it wouldn't dent my enthusiasm one jot.

I close this harangue by stressing that if you like diners or buildings from the 1930's that are shaped like animals, and you like them for what they are, not for how you think you're supposed to feel about them, then you are clearly neither a Colossal Diner Bore nor a Roadside America Big Bag O'Gas. You are welcome to join me on my next roadtrip.

But back to our narrative. I was a bit timid about being mistaken for some bastard in an RV who had read about the Riverside in "Reader's Digest" or something. Also, it was probably a dicey thing to assume that anybody else would find this whole Diner Decathalon story interesting.

("But what about us?" you ask, dear reader. Well, you're reading this on the Internet, and thus have waived any right to be entertained and/or informed. Onward.)

"We're driving two hours to Connecticut just to meet a friend for breakfast," I lied. "She's been going on and on about this diner she likes, and we thought we'd stop here on the way in case the food sucks."

Gloriously, this was exactly the opening that the proprietor needed to pull out the photo albums: IE, any opening whatsoever,

Oh, yes, I forgot: another great thing about diners is that there's often an intense and cheerful pride of ownership. He showed us photos of the first diner he ever owned, and a diner book where it got featured attention...and a few years ago, they shot a movie with Dustin Hoffman and Dennis Franz here!

So instead of making a quick whistle-stop out of the Riverside, we stayed there rather longer than we imagined, looking at pictures and hearing stories. The Riverside was actually the Times Square Diner before the film company came along and upgraded the entire outside for the cameras. The big new neon sign was a thousandfold improvement over the old one so he decided to just keep the sign and l

Soft Boiled Chicken Egg. Found this in 7-Eleven.

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Hong Kong • ™/ '10