Denny’s

I’ve always been fond of diners. Miss Florence Diner (Flo’s), Florence (Northampton), Massachusetts; Miss Bellows Falls Diner, Bellows Falls, Vermont; Empire Diner, Chelsea, Manhattan. Earthy Americana, unpretentious, local. Denny’s was invariably a place my friends and I would ridicule, a restaurant that, I suppose, symbolized the worst of the American diet, but also the Corporatization of Breakfast. I’m old enough to remember when the American Breakfast meant something. But I digress.

Having failed to shop for groceries yesterday, I found myself in the unenviable position of being breakfastless. I’m one of those people who needs to eat immediately upon arising, and am pretty useless until I’ve fed myself. I don’t know of any place in Monterey to get a cheap breakfast. Do such places still exist? When I lived in downtown Cincinnati, there was a hole in the wall down a gritty side street that offered a breakfast of two eggs, toast, and coffee (bottomless) for $.99. I’m afraid those days are over. But I’m not quite prepared for the Grand Slam.

Generally, I hew pretty close to the philosophy that has made America great, that of supporting small, independent businesses. But I was lusting after a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, home fries and a colossal glass of juice, and I figured I could get a cheap, or at least relatively cheap, breakfast at Denny’s.

I’ve eaten at Denny’s twice in my life; once, appropriately, in the dead of night, and once, when I had an insane craving for mashed potatoes and gravy. I’m not proud of myself.

I figured I would be clever, order a couple of sides, and get out cheaply, so I enjoined the waiter to fetch me two scrambled eggs, hash browns and a large juice, half orange, half grapefruit. Weakening with malnourishment, not unlike Knut Hamsun’s starving writer hero in “Hunger,” the anticipation was delicious and intoxicating, mythic.

As I sat, companionless, in my diminutive booth, I became aware of the sounds around me, a symphony of clattering dishes, conversation, a child’s cry, laughter. I noticed the others in the restaurant: A couple of couples and a child sharing a booth; a large, Mexican (?) family; an old man, sitting alone; an odd-looking young man, his face a miasma of pimples; a middle aged couple, expressionless, sitting across from each other, perhaps only their newspapers separating them. I espied the Econolodge across the street, a long green and blue wooden structure. A woman emerged onto the balcony, looking around, and a flood of memories rushed in: all the travels of childhood, the seemingly eternal journeying of my life, my love of motel rooms, the smell of the linen, the pool, the cheap perfumed soap.

Why was I so enamored of restaurants? I had always loved “eating out.” As a kid, I remember seeing a truck that proclaimed in bold, black Helvetica, “EAT OUT OFTEN.” That became my credo. I would beg my parents to take us out to eat after church, using every trick at my disposal to con them into a lunch out. Once in a while it worked.

I suppose a restaurant symbolizes community, a place where people come together for one of the most basic of all human activities. It is a Communion of sorts, even if the Grand Slam Breakfast doesn’t promise Eternal Life.

I stared at the menu. Lots of Slams. Original Pancake Puppies. Moon Over My Hammy. The menu is brilliantly designed to stuff you so full that you can’t possibly think, let alone move. I stuck to my original intention, and simply ordered the eggs and hash browns. The aroma of the food around me was causing me to swoon.

The iced water and large juice arrived, late, in green plastic Coke glasses, followed by the eggs and potatoes. I have to say, the food was pretty good. Basic, but wholesome, and it felt good to eat. I kept glancing over at the attractive woman across the room, checking out the other diners, gazing out the window, letting my mind roam and roam and roam. I felt mildly guilty for eating unborn chickens, and imagined, or tried not to imagine, how their parents had been treated at the factory prison farms where they were doing life. I made a bad joke to myself about eating free-range potatoes.

When the check arrived, I was shocked that it exceeded ten dollars. So much for my budget. I paid the bill, dropped a couple of bucks on the table, and, satisfied, walked out into the gray streets of Monterey, ready to face the morning.