To know America, go to the diner.

  My wife and I went to the diner the other night. It's a Greek diner. And the woman who seats us is as Greek as they come. She looks like Olympia Dukakis, only with darker hair. She may not be gum-smacking sassy like Carla from Cheers, but she has that same no-bull shit way about her. I wish she were our neighbor. Anyway, she points to an available booth as if to say, "Would you like to sit there?" but my wife gently cringes. My wife tries not to sound bitchy, but she's had a tough day and the booth is next to a bunch of kids that seem to have had too much sugar. So my wife tells her we'd prefer to sit at the counter. The lady says, "Not a problem. I know exactly what you mean and I don't blame ya one bit."

    We're seated, settled on our stools and flipping through the menu. A dad enters the diner and mills about the entrance. He's looking for someone. He starts whispering to one of the waiters, pointing to four boys at the opposite end of the counter from us. The boys are about 12 or 13 years old, and one of them must be his son. As he's talking to the waiter, he's hiding behind the cake tower the way someone would hide behind a tree, careful the boys don't spot him. I figure that it's a big deal for the boys to be free from adult supervision and dad wants to respect that; so I also figure he's a pretty cool dad. He asks the waiter to send over milkshakes and straws. It must be his son's birthday. He gives the waiter a ten-dollar bill, smiles a sneaky grin and slips out.
    Our meals arrive – my wife got the omelet and I got the lamb special. On the other side of the counter, a Spanish speaking bus boy shines the wine glasses as if they are crystal. After each goblet gets a vigorous wipe, he holds the glass up to the light, repeating the exercise until there are no spots and nothing but sparkles. It's the kind of fussing you'd see in fancy restaurants where the wine is way more expensive than any wine that will go into a glass at the Mt. Kisco Coach Diner. Point is, we expect this sort of thing in a fancy restaurant; here it's something to admire.
    A guy takes the stool next to us. We gather from the way that he talks to the waiter that he is a regular. We're regulars, too. In a diner, regulars talk to one another. You know who else is a regular? The governor. Twice we've seen him in here, but we haven't seen him in awhile, so we ask the guy if he's seen the governor lately. The guy tells us that, just last Sunday, the governor was in here, sitting in his usual booth in the corner with his girlfriend, very much to themselves. Suddenly, I get it. I know why the governor likes the diner. He likes the diner because it feels like all of New York is under a single roof. He's home. He's got the Greek owner, and whatever Greek cousins need work, the South Americans and an assortment of locals all in the same pot. It's all here, a big stew of hard working people. I conclude I like a governor who likes a diner. I especially like that he comes here and is inconspicuous, because another politician might use this place to glom a little authenticity to his image. This governor is here to break bread.
    A little while later, the guy tells us about the diner's expansion, which is going to add 50 seats. We ask him if the diner is going to have to close for renovations. He tells us that he heard it would close next month for two weeks. He tells us that, not only is the diner expanding, but the whole place is getting a sprucing up. I find this encouraging, because this isn't some tech company or some alternative energy company; this is the old world economy that's expanding and I like knowing some folks are bullish about meat loaf and mash potatoes. "I'm sure it's going to be nice," I tell the guy.
    For dessert, my wife and I indulge in rice pudding. I admit that if my wife was watching, I'd have it topped with whipped cream, but when we spoon it up, I don't at all feel like I've settled. It so good. It reminds me of my grandmother who used to buy rice pudding from Horn & Hardart's, a store that is sadly no longer around. When I was little, I would make such a fuss over that rice pudding that whenever our family visited my grandparents, Nanny made sure there was Horn & Hardart's in the fridge. It made me feel special.
    Like a lot of good diners, you pay on the way out. We leave a good tip at the table and exit toward the register. We slide over our check and some cash and the guy in charge gives us our change. He tells us to help ourselves to a cookie from the bowl. The cookies have sprinkles on them but we have to decline. He says they're free. I tell him I will help myself to a toothpick.
    We are so full.