Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 74214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“Personal driver and personal chef… and personal security guard.”
“All positions I’m enjoying holding,” he assured me as he took the jug handle to spit the car back out on the other side of the street so we could pull into the parking lot of the diner.
I passed it every day since I’d been in Navesink Bank. It was a gaudy silver structure with a domed foyer and big picture windows lining all the sides.
I’d been oddly fascinated by it each time I drove by, wondering about the people inside.
Was the man sitting alone, cradling a cup of coffee and looking off into the night, just enjoying a quiet moment to himself, mourning a love lost, or was he waiting for a date that might not come? Was the server going to offer him a conciliatory smile before passing him the check?
Were the group of rowdy girls there after a night of clubbing? Were they celebrating a birthday? An engagement? Or maybe a recent breakup?
As we were led by a middle-aged server over to a window seat, I couldn’t help but wonder what people might think of us as they drove by.
Would we look like colleagues? Friends? Or would someone see our chemistry, the delicate beginnings of a new connection?
“Okay. So, what does a real Jersian order at the diner?”
“That is entirely up to you. I have a cousin who has never ordered anything but a grilled cheese and fries; my mom is a BLT kind of person; breakfast is always a popular choice, though.”
“What do you recommend?”
“The coffee. It’s bitter and borderline undrinkable. But that’s the charm of it.”
“Bitter coffee. Check. What else?”
“Well, I’m assuming you’ve never had disco fries before.”
“I don’t even know what disco fries are.”
“They’re fries topped with melted mozzarella cheese and brown gravy.”
“Brown gravy?” I asked, dubious.
“Trust me. It’s just something you have to experience to understand. But we will order pizza fries too, just in case they aren’t a hit for you.”
I flipped through the massive laminated menu—complete with pictures and little stories—feeling a little overwhelmed by the options.
“What are ‘fat’ sandwiches?” I wondered aloud.
“Sandwiches that have either meat or a veggie burger, cheese, veg, fries, and mozzarella sticks.”
“Well, that sounds perfect for my first diner sandwich then.”
I settled on the ‘Fat Albert,’ which featured a veggie burger along with the veg, cheese, fries, and mozzarella sticks.
We sipped our awful coffee as I flipped through the little tabletop jukebox full of oldies.
“Do people actually eat the desserts in that case?” I asked, eyeing the front counter where we were meant to pay with its long glass dessert case.
“What else would they do with it?”
“Well, it could just be for display.”
“To be honest, I’ve never had dessert from a diner, save for ice cream, and I don’t know anyone else who has either. I’d be dubious about the freshness.”
“What about the little boxes of cereal?” I asked, spotting the individual ones lined up on a shelf over the coffee station.
“You can order those.”
“Why would someone order cereal from a diner?”
“I’ve seen it. Not at this one, but the one up by the bars. Drunk people order weird shit.”
“Do you go to diners often?” I asked.
“Not anymore. But, fuck, we spent nearly every night at one when we were teens and early adults. There’s not much else to do around here before you’re of drinking age. So we’d hang around in parks until dark then make our way to a diner to spend a few more hours before heading home.”
“Your mom wasn’t offended you guys got food outside of the house?”
“My mom loves cooking. But I think even she was thankful for a break here and there. Especially when we were teens. It was insane how much food we could put away back then. She was forever standing in that kitchen. But I guess that’s all moms.”
“Well, not all moms.”
“Your mom didn’t cook?”
“Well, with how little she ate, she didn’t exactly spend a lot of time actually cooking. She did a big meal prep at the beginning of the week, making salads for every lunch and dinner. In the mornings, she would pour some egg whites in a pan and mix in spinach.”
“No cheese?”
“No cheese.”
“Just for her?”
“No, that’s what we all had to eat in the morning. No, it’s okay,” I said when he tried to cover up the disgusted look that crept across his handsome face. “It really was disgusting. I kind of dry heave anytime I see an egg white omelet now.”
The food came then, big plates full of fried, fatty, saucy, delicious treats. And I couldn’t help but realize just how different my life had become in just a few months as Dante clinked his disco fry with mine before I tried one for the first time.
There was no more food guilt. No worries about being too stationary, too lazy. My conversations did still often revolve around food, but not about the fat and protein content, but about how much I liked certain dishes over others.