There’s nothing mystical about the pleasures of an all-night diner. It’s a haven for the silent camaraderie of insomnia, fried eggs and bad coffee, unchanged since Edward Hopper’s time. If you haven’t staggered into a diner at 4 a.m. robbed of sleep by strange circumstances, have you even lived? Jim Morrison wrote a lot about altered states of consciousness, surreal and dangerous episodes fueled by drugs, and not so much about the mundane stuff of life. But in the diner the strange bleeds over into the mundane, and even the Lizard King has to admire the restorative powers of a cheap breakfast. No matter what misadventures you’ve just had or what journey you’re still in the middle of, going into a diner is like pressing pause. You can step into a greasy bubble where time stands still, twitch-chug five or six cups of burned coffee, maybe eat an or some bacon, and observe the tableau of all the other human strays around you.
Sponsored by Denny’s.