We just got back from a road trip on which we decided to eat only at family diners along the way and back. These places are hidden treasures with simple menus, simple food, reasonable prices, and charming local color that you’ll never see when you stop at food chains. There are no trendy foods like quinoa on the menu, nor will the menu descriptions wax eloquent with phrases like “nestled in a bed of saffron-infused pilaf” or “seasoned with a melange of piquant balsamic vinegars.” There’s no waste of time in the local diner: you sit down, you look at the menu, you order, and a plate of wholesome tasty food comes quickly. In addition, there are no televisions on the walls and usually no music playing, two features of modern bars and restaurants that I dislike with a holy fervor. Like “Cheers,” these are hometown places where everybody knows your name, and you walk in as aliens and strangers.

We were at one of these diners having lunch and a couple of old fellows came shambling in (older than us, even). They sat in the booth behind us and one of them got my attention, saying, “Excuse me, Miss – what’s that you ordered? I might have to get one of those.” Ha ha! When the waitress came to their booth, she addressed them by name, asking how they were doing. The talkative fellow volunteered that he was okay, but had been having terrible vertigo and it even made him fall off his tractor once. She expressed concern and they had a little chat about his subsequent hospital visit and current state of health. Don’t ask me not to eavesdrop – there wasn’t a single private thing about it. The whole conversation was on public display and I felt blessed to be part of the audience.

At another place where we stopped for breakfast, our waiter was a young fellow with a tiny mustache, just the right amount of murmur in his tone, and a strong streak of quirk in his commentary. I ordered a couple waters for us while hubby was away from the table; he nodded and began walking away, but turned back as if struck with inspiration. “How about lemon?” he suggested, with an air of giving me an opportunity to walk on the wild side. “Sure,” I responded, “Throw some in.” When he came back, he apologized that the lemon slices were not, in fact, thrown in the water but were perched on the rim of the glass. “You could probably kidnap the lemon slice from his glass,” he said conspiratorially, since I was still alone. The menu featured a child’s drawing of the owner on the front. How charming is that? When I added hot chocolate to my order, the waiter murmured approvingly and said something about the exciting sprinkles that would be on the top of it. The owner of the place was also the cook; he came out to talk to us when we had a question on one of the orders.

We noticed that young people were usually not part of the patronage at these places and wondered if local family diners would be extinct in another generation. I sure hope not.

P.S. Only one of these places proved to be a sad exception to the rule: a small place that still found room for four televisions on the walls (each showing something different) and obnoxious music playing on top of all of that. RUDE!

I’ll probably delete this simple post with simple words and local color in the morning.