One of the things I missed about home when I moved down south was the New York diner. Authentic diners are run by gruff Greek people and are usually open all night long. They have huge menus and always give you a good portion.
Interestingly, I have a typical New York diner,
The Olympic, right around the block from my house. Buddy and I pass it every day on our walks, but until this morning I had never eaten there. Not particularly intrigued by what I saw in the refrigerator this morning, I decided to check it out.
It was filled with people at lunchtime. I got a seat at the counter and a (presumably) Greek man with a heavy accent took my order. I ordered eggs and hash and once we got past a slight language barrier, hash brown potatoes too. My food came amazingly fast and I settled in to enjoy a hot meal and read the
Daily News.A few minutes later an elderly man came in and sat at the counter next to me. He was clearly a regular -- the counterman recognized him right away.
"You want soup?" he asked.
"What do you have today?"
"We got the clam chowder, chicken noodle and beef barley."
"No bean soup?" the old man asked with downcast eyes.
"No," said the counterman.
"OK, I'll have the chicken noodle."
The old man's hands shook as he settled in at the counter. He never took off his coat. Now that I think about it, I wonder if he did that because he was cold sitting by the door, or because he needed help taking off his coat. Almost immediately, I noticed he began to mutter to himself.
In a barely audible voice, he looked towards the counterman who was down at the kitchen window. "Can I get that to-go?" he whispered. He couldn't get anyone's attention.
I decided I should help, but just as I decided to jump in, a bowl of soup arrived. "He wanted that to go, I think," I said. The server looked at the old man, and in a resigned tone, he waved his hand and said sadly, "oh, don't worry about it." He took his soup and struggled to open his little cellophane-wrapped saltines.
"It's not like the old days. It's hard to get anything decent anymore. Not like the old days."
I smiled and nodded.
He dug his spoon through his soup, examining all the bits of pasta in his bowl: "Chicken
noodle alright." he said.
"All noodles and no chicken?" I asked. He just grunted at me.
I went back to finishing up my lunch and then noticed that he couldn't open the crackers. I leaned over and helped him open up all his cracker packets.
He didn't waste anytime getting through his soup. As he asked for his check, I asked him, "Good soup here?"
He shrugged. "That's the problem. You just can't get anything decent anymore. Not like the old days." I nodded. He gathered up his things and paused before he got up to leave. "Thanks for your help," he said to me.
"Don't mention it," I said. I watched him wander back out onto Eighth Avenue.
I wonder if I'll be eating soup at the counter at the Olympic in 40 years. I wonder if I'm living in
my good old days.
I was standing in the drugstore when a family came in and walked past me. The young teen-aged boy stopped in front of the candy aisle.
