There are days when nothing but a diner meal will do.
Dale Cooper understood that.
And Suzie and I most definitely understand that.
While I usually have the company of a cherished friend along for my diner adventures, there are occasional moments when that’s simply not possible or preferable.
Diners are made for solitary dining, and no one bats an eye at the strange fellow by his lonesome at the end of the long row of single chairs near the kitchen. You can blend in at a diner better than you can blend in almost anywhere else. In a diner, everyone is an oddity, therefore no one is.
Many an artist has plopped themselves into a diner and thought or wrote or crafted something of significance, something that was more than its greasy, fried origins. Maybe because a diner represents a slice of humanity, as perfectly imperfect as a slice of pie or cup of black coffee. It is where the magnificent and mediocre meet under one tin roof, slightly rusted, and beautiful in an ancient way.
