July 29, 2015 Article

The Old Coot visits a memory.

By Merlin Lessler

Five years ago (July 30, 2010) Bill’s Diner, at the corner of Central Ave. and Fox Street, was destroyed by fire. It was a popular hangout for a lot of local people. I first visited it in 2004 and wrote the following. I still love places where they call you honey.

The old coot loves places where they call you honey.

Published in December 2004.

I went to a local restaurant the other day. I had never been there before, but it felt “old coot” friendly the minute I walked through the door. I grabbed a stool at the counter where I could watch the short order cook. He (Bill) had the grill going full blast, a pile of home fries were heaped at one end, pan cakes bubbled at the other and in between, a dozen eggs cracked and sizzled. The morning paper was sprawled along the Formica at my elbow. A waitress came over with a menu under her arm and an ironstone coffee mug in her hand; strong black coffee was steaming and slopping over the side. "Do you want a menu, Honey? Or, do you know what you want?"

I love places where they call you "Honey." You know right away it's the real deal: good food, low cost, no frills. She wrote up my order and handed it to the cook. "This is for the old guy over there and he's in a hurry," she told him, though I'd never said anything of the kind. She gave me a wink and wove through the tables dangling a coffee pot, topping off patron’s cups throughout the diner. I reflected on what a nice atmosphere this was as I waited for my eggs. It was so much better than the restaurants with a name like La Trattoria or Lenny’s Bistro, where a red vested waiter stands in front of your table and announces, "I'm Phillip; I'll be your server,” and then goes through a litany of specials the chef has prepared, “especially for me,” not just naming the entrees, but listing the ingredients. When he's done, I usually order coffee and make plans to escape.

You know you're in a good place when the waitress uses restaurant codes: Adam & Eve on a raft, BLT - hold the mayo, cup of Joe and make those eggs do the tango. You know you're in a good place when the waitress complains about being on her feet all day, "My dogs are really barking." You know you are in a good place when the waitress insults you, "Do you want a regular spoon for your oatmeal or one as big as your mouth?"

The food critics never review these places. They don't know who makes the best hot roast beef sandwich, the tastiest meatloaf or where you can depend on a clam chowder special on Friday, a throw back to the era when meat was taboo for Catholics. The only places the food critics venture are those with white suited chefs, not T-shirted short order cooks – those with servers that have an attitude, not waitresses with “tired dogs”  - those with fancy gourmet names conjured up by ad writers, not namesakes of the owners, like Bill’s or Sam’s (as we locals call the Harris Diner). It’s still an American truism, eat where the trucks are parked out front; you’ll know the food is good and the waitresses will call you “Honey!”