Fast Food-The New Breed Of Diners
by
R. T. Hamilton Brown
© 2009 by R. T. Hamilton Brown
I recently read a dissertation about the demise of the old fashioned diner. It lamented that the polished metal and scuffed linoleum counter tops of the pseudo retired railroad car diner had faded from everyday life and the patchwork of characters who inhabited these culinary graveyards have disappeared with them.
Not so, say I, a later day frequenter of today's modern diners that are made out of brick, stone, machine made hand hewn timbers, and acres of glass plate. These architecturally correct diners are created to enhance the existing neighborhoods with their muted colors and no signs over twenty-three feet seven inches high. They provide a stunning local focal point that was fought tooth and nail, albeit artificial, by the local citizenry with their strict zoning requirements and their cry of, "Hell no, it won't go." The same good folks now practically live in them after the "SUPER SPECIAL GRAND OPENING OF OUR ONE-THOUSANDTH EMPORIUM OF EPICUREAN DELIGHTS." Yes, you know what I'm talking about, today's Fast Food Restaurants, a loose use of a term if I ever saw one. When the school bus drops off a load of crazed teens, fast flies out the window, real food hopefully sustains the body, and a restaurant has tablecloths, wait persons, a chef, and floors that are not slick with special sauce. The diner lives on in a new suit, most with names recognizable all over the world. Some of them are a one-of-a-kind local endeavor trying to look like big brother, but not quite as big and bright and high tech.
Try one yourself, not for a fast semi-hot meal; but for the fun of watching the different cast of characters who are always drifting in, standing in line to order and then walking around looking for that perfect seat that suits their mood of the day. You will see the Gretta Garbo type who wants to be alone and finds the most out-of-the-way table way back behind the trash can next to the toilets. And of course, her opposite, Sharon Stove, she will walk in with her high heels clacking on the tile floor and do a genuine pirouette as she gets in line. She will usually find a booth for six and sit at the outside seat so that her shapely crossed legs will get the most exposure. Which will just suit 340 pound Oliver Ogle who isn't really hungry, but will eat two double cheeseburgers, monster fries and a super shake just so that he can sit at the teeny weenie table for one just down from those killer legs. Poor Ollie, he keeps dropping his napkin and has to lean way down to pick it up. Poor Sharon, she doesn't mind sharing her beauty with the world; but this is just a little too much. It takes about seventeen of those little paper napkins to cover her nice knob free knees from the visual drool dripping out of Ollie's eyes.
About then the ROM storm the counter. ROM, Retired Old Men, who are converging on their favorite meeting place. They each have a senior citizen discount card and a coupon from the AARP newsletter. Each has his own cup to save an extra two cents on the saving of a paper cup. Of course they will drink about two gallons apiece just in free refills. The manager will update his profit and loss graph every fifteen minutes and has a few chest pains when he breaks the lead of his red pencil. These old geezers find every chair not bolted down and they form a circle that not even General Patton could break through while they rattle on about the same things they rattled on about the day before, and the day before that, and, well you know how it goes.
If you watch closely you'll see the Cadillac, the Jaguar, the Mercedes, and the Porsche drive in and park all catty wampus so that no one else can get close enough to mar their shiny sides. Four gents in three piece suits and Gucci loafers will converge on the hapless order taker and order Martinis and Shusi. This will send them into fits of hilarity and uninhibited back slapping as they acknowledge the panic on the order taker's face and then in all seriousness order coffee, nothing else, just coffee. At least they didn't whip out their Presidents Club discount cards or coupons out of Forbes. They find a table for four, sit down and spread out enough paper and mini computers to equip the Pentagon. Soon the meeting is underway, cell phones ring, calls come in, calls go out, everyone begins to shout, and somewhere millions of dollars change hands. Three hours and six free refills apiece they wrap it up and celebrate their cunning with a Big Lunch, hamburger, fries, cola, and a side of slaw. Too bad they didn't see the Fast Food semi drop its load in front of their four poorly parked cars. They'll be spending the next four hours there. Making sure the forklift doesn't stab one of their yuppiemobiles.
A little later, after pre-school, the mommies come on in. Their little charges are sent into Plastic Playland with enough food for Somalia while the mommies order salads and iced tea, decaff of course. Which throws everything up for grabs while the search goes on for the special tea bags that the manager bought out of his own pocket for these ladies. Naturally they can't be found and the tea served up is plain old tea. No one notices, until they're all on a caffeine high and making more noise than all their offspring in the playland, who they leave behind when Sondrah reminds one and all about the big sale at Patties Petit Parlor.
On one of my many trips around our fair city, a larger than average citadel of midwestern viewpoint with a perfect circle thing in the center and fifty some miles of interstate bypass in a not so perfect circle around the perimeter, led me to the Golden Arches near the site of a national drag race meet. The drive up window line was filled with would be drag racers, snarling throaty roaring under muffled engines drowning out the orders given to the smiling clown faced speaker, clutches popping, cars lurching, tail pipes with spark plugs throwing flames at Maude's Mercury. Tank tops, leather jackets, tight jeans, real cool sunglasses that block all the blue and ninety-five percent of all other light clinging to the sweaty grease covered bods of male and female alike. And it is only five o'clock in the morning. The staff is huddled at the edge the parking lot waiting their chance to dart across the driveway to their jobs. It would be safer crossing the eight-lane interstate at rush hour in a potato sack race. Yes, there it is, real America, inside, outside, and on top of the new age diner.
A trip downtown on another day to another quick cuisine establishment where I watched in wonderment as the lunch crowd from a local well-renowned art school came in for their midday meal. Our future artists, individualistic entities, forging their way into a life of expression and teaching. Each and everyone dressed alike, black shirts, black pants, black skirts, black shoes, and black underwear; I knew this only because it was worn outside the outerwear. I asked one of them if the school required all the students to wear uniforms nowadays. He looked at me in disbelief and said, "Noo way mann, that's an art school and they wouldn't want to limit us in any wayyy at allllll. We're freeee to dresss as we likeee. Weee doooo our ownnnn thinnngggg mannnn. We'ree coooooolllllll."
Okeydokey I thought, watching them move about as if they were mirror images of each other. Somehow the freedom I knew as a youth had been lost in their quest for individuality as they all opted for the look of today's budding artist with a uniform code stricter than the military. Can't you just see the outcry if they were told to dress alike, then you would see real individual choices.
Today's diners. Many more than those of yesterday, different shapes, colors and even a wider choice of food. They are filled with the same conglomerate of people, the same talk, even the same camaraderie for the regulars. The shape of the past has changed, is changing, and will seem totally different for the next generation. But, will it really change? Hang around and watch, it's fun.
Not so, say I, a later day frequenter of today's modern diners that are made out of brick, stone, machine made hand hewn timbers, and acres of glass plate. These architecturally correct diners are created to enhance the existing neighborhoods with their muted colors and no signs over twenty-three feet seven inches high. They provide a stunning local focal point that was fought tooth and nail, albeit artificial, by the local citizenry with their strict zoning requirements and their cry of, "Hell no, it won't go." The same good folks now practically live in them after the "SUPER SPECIAL GRAND OPENING OF OUR ONE-THOUSANDTH EMPORIUM OF EPICUREAN DELIGHTS." Yes, you know what I'm talking about, today's Fast Food Restaurants, a loose use of a term if I ever saw one. When the school bus drops off a load of crazed teens, fast flies out the window, real food hopefully sustains the body, and a restaurant has tablecloths, wait persons, a chef, and floors that are not slick with special sauce. The diner lives on in a new suit, most with names recognizable all over the world. Some of them are a one-of-a-kind local endeavor trying to look like big brother, but not quite as big and bright and high tech.
Try one yourself, not for a fast semi-hot meal; but for the fun of watching the different cast of characters who are always drifting in, standing in line to order and then walking around looking for that perfect seat that suits their mood of the day. You will see the Gretta Garbo type who wants to be alone and finds the most out-of-the-way table way back behind the trash can next to the toilets. And of course, her opposite, Sharon Stove, she will walk in with her high heels clacking on the tile floor and do a genuine pirouette as she gets in line. She will usually find a booth for six and sit at the outside seat so that her shapely crossed legs will get the most exposure. Which will just suit 340 pound Oliver Ogle who isn't really hungry, but will eat two double cheeseburgers, monster fries and a super shake just so that he can sit at the teeny weenie table for one just down from those killer legs. Poor Ollie, he keeps dropping his napkin and has to lean way down to pick it up. Poor Sharon, she doesn't mind sharing her beauty with the world; but this is just a little too much. It takes about seventeen of those little paper napkins to cover her nice knob free knees from the visual drool dripping out of Ollie's eyes.
About then the ROM storm the counter. ROM, Retired Old Men, who are converging on their favorite meeting place. They each have a senior citizen discount card and a coupon from the AARP newsletter. Each has his own cup to save an extra two cents on the saving of a paper cup. Of course they will drink about two gallons apiece just in free refills. The manager will update his profit and loss graph every fifteen minutes and has a few chest pains when he breaks the lead of his red pencil. These old geezers find every chair not bolted down and they form a circle that not even General Patton could break through while they rattle on about the same things they rattled on about the day before, and the day before that, and, well you know how it goes.
If you watch closely you'll see the Cadillac, the Jaguar, the Mercedes, and the Porsche drive in and park all catty wampus so that no one else can get close enough to mar their shiny sides. Four gents in three piece suits and Gucci loafers will converge on the hapless order taker and order Martinis and Shusi. This will send them into fits of hilarity and uninhibited back slapping as they acknowledge the panic on the order taker's face and then in all seriousness order coffee, nothing else, just coffee. At least they didn't whip out their Presidents Club discount cards or coupons out of Forbes. They find a table for four, sit down and spread out enough paper and mini computers to equip the Pentagon. Soon the meeting is underway, cell phones ring, calls come in, calls go out, everyone begins to shout, and somewhere millions of dollars change hands. Three hours and six free refills apiece they wrap it up and celebrate their cunning with a Big Lunch, hamburger, fries, cola, and a side of slaw. Too bad they didn't see the Fast Food semi drop its load in front of their four poorly parked cars. They'll be spending the next four hours there. Making sure the forklift doesn't stab one of their yuppiemobiles.
A little later, after pre-school, the mommies come on in. Their little charges are sent into Plastic Playland with enough food for Somalia while the mommies order salads and iced tea, decaff of course. Which throws everything up for grabs while the search goes on for the special tea bags that the manager bought out of his own pocket for these ladies. Naturally they can't be found and the tea served up is plain old tea. No one notices, until they're all on a caffeine high and making more noise than all their offspring in the playland, who they leave behind when Sondrah reminds one and all about the big sale at Patties Petit Parlor.
On one of my many trips around our fair city, a larger than average citadel of midwestern viewpoint with a perfect circle thing in the center and fifty some miles of interstate bypass in a not so perfect circle around the perimeter, led me to the Golden Arches near the site of a national drag race meet. The drive up window line was filled with would be drag racers, snarling throaty roaring under muffled engines drowning out the orders given to the smiling clown faced speaker, clutches popping, cars lurching, tail pipes with spark plugs throwing flames at Maude's Mercury. Tank tops, leather jackets, tight jeans, real cool sunglasses that block all the blue and ninety-five percent of all other light clinging to the sweaty grease covered bods of male and female alike. And it is only five o'clock in the morning. The staff is huddled at the edge the parking lot waiting their chance to dart across the driveway to their jobs. It would be safer crossing the eight-lane interstate at rush hour in a potato sack race. Yes, there it is, real America, inside, outside, and on top of the new age diner.
A trip downtown on another day to another quick cuisine establishment where I watched in wonderment as the lunch crowd from a local well-renowned art school came in for their midday meal. Our future artists, individualistic entities, forging their way into a life of expression and teaching. Each and everyone dressed alike, black shirts, black pants, black skirts, black shoes, and black underwear; I knew this only because it was worn outside the outerwear. I asked one of them if the school required all the students to wear uniforms nowadays. He looked at me in disbelief and said, "Noo way mann, that's an art school and they wouldn't want to limit us in any wayyy at allllll. We're freeee to dresss as we likeee. Weee doooo our ownnnn thinnngggg mannnn. We'ree coooooolllllll."
Okeydokey I thought, watching them move about as if they were mirror images of each other. Somehow the freedom I knew as a youth had been lost in their quest for individuality as they all opted for the look of today's budding artist with a uniform code stricter than the military. Can't you just see the outcry if they were told to dress alike, then you would see real individual choices.
Today's diners. Many more than those of yesterday, different shapes, colors and even a wider choice of food. They are filled with the same conglomerate of people, the same talk, even the same camaraderie for the regulars. The shape of the past has changed, is changing, and will seem totally different for the next generation. But, will it really change? Hang around and watch, it's fun.
