Ode to the Midtown Diner (and Philly Diners in General)

It's 10:45 pm and I made it to Philly in one piece. I must say, it's been like 3 or 4 years since I took the Chinatown bus, and wow did I forget how ghetto it is. Like, three of the overhead reading lights on the whole bus work, the seats are tiny, the whole thing is dirty as hell, the TVs are covered in graffitti...and dear god, the bathroom shouldn't even be spoken about. All I can say is, thank goodness for the hand sanitizer I keep in my bag at all times.

At least they make good time. I got in at quarter to ten. I'm staying with my friend Heather this weekend who is currently crashing with my beloved South Philly boys while she's performing in Candide at the Arden. The show is like 3 hours long, so I figure I've got a while to kill before she can meet me. (Actually, I suppose I could've gone straight to the boys'--I still have a key to their house, after all. I'm not sure if they realize this, though, so I decide to lay low.)

Unfortunately, if Philly were a person it would be a seventy year-old man with bunions and bad eyesight who sits in the park and yells at people and goes to bed at 7:00. There is a serious shortage of establishments that actually stay open past 9pm...even on a Saturday (bars excluded of course, and they only stay open 'til 2.) So Starbucks is out, as is the bookstore. I can't really afford to go somewhere and be waited on as I always feel guilty ordering less than $20 worth of stuff at a restaurant--a sum that seems so indulgent to me now. I miss the days when I could afford to take myself out to a $50 dinner at a decent restaurant.

Pondering what to do as I walked down 11th st., the answer suddenly presented itself.

Midtown Diner!

So many memories of drunken post-party grilled cheese sandwichs at the midtown run through my head and I feel a warm sense of comfort and familiarity wash over me. One New Year's Day post-sleepover, a large group of us trekked across the drunken chaos of the annual Mummer's Parade on Broad Street to drown our hangovers in coffee and oj and pancakes. Last fall while I was subletting Kati's old apartment on South Street, I locked myself out of the apartment and didn't realize until returning home from work at 1:00am. So I went to Midtown and waited for Kati to return from Delaware so I could crash on her couch and drop by the real estate office in the morning for their extra key. Shivering in the early fall AC (that seems unnecessary to me) and miserably sipping hot chocolate, I felt safe in the fluorescent glow of the Midtown.

The diner hags at Midtown are the best. No one compares to authentic Philly waitresses. With their flat nasal accents, peroxide-fried hair and trademark smoker's coughs, they're the friendliest gals you could ever hope to meet.

"Yous ready to order, Hon?" Love it.

They let me plug my dying phone into the outlet at the service station and brought me decaf and apple pie with ice cream which I ordered in hopes of soothing my cramps with sugar and carbs. I desperately needed to use the restroom and realized as after the fact that I'd left my bags at the table unattended without thinking anything of it. Cell phone on the table. It seemed perfectly safe to me. I was as comfortable as in my own home.

Yeah, yeah I know it's Philly, I should never leave my stuff unwatched. I do know better than that. There's not much there to steal, I figure. My point is, I wasn't even conscious of it. There truly is so much comfort in familiarity.

New York diners just aren't the same. They're cleaner and sleeker and the food is better and the owners are all immigrants. There is something so distinctly American about Philly diners. At Philly diners the food is generally bad, often the service is worse, but there is so much charm in it all. Plus they're always open, the only places in Philly that you can always count on to be open when you need it most.

Mmm. How've you been, Philly? Did you miss me? I hate to admit it, but I've missed you. You know I always do. You're my first love, after all.