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‘Make mine a malted’: Confessions of an unapologetic, lifelong ‘diner-diner’

‘Make mine a malted’: Confessions of an unapologetic, lifelong ‘diner-diner’

The routine is always the same when I meet someone new and tell them what I do for a living. “You must eat in a lot of restaurants every week,” they’ll say.

“No more than anyone else,” I’ll reply.

“You get to eat for free, right?”

“No, but ad agencies send me free DVDs with their commercials,” I’ll respond.

Then there’s a pause, as if the person is wondering whether I’m worth talking to after all.

“So what is your favorite restaurant anyway?” they’ll ask, just trying to be polite.

I tell them, and the response is typical: “But that’s just a diner!”

Yes, it’s a diner. And I love it. I happen to love all three diners in my neighborhood. I’d probably love diners in other neighborhoods if I’d stop being so parochial and wander off to explore the diners in other parts of Chicago.

I am a committed patron of diners, a “diner-diner,” so to speak.

At a diner I can get a genuine malted milk to go with my chopped steak and onions. In what other type of restaurant can you say, “Make mine a malted,” when asked for your drink order?

At my favorite diner I’ve ordered the roast beef platter, fish and chips, whitefish, cheeseburger platter, skirt steak, and the turkey entrée. The usual price is something like $5.99. Someday I plan to try the chicken-fried steak.

I use each of the neighborhood diners for different meals: one for breakfast, one for dinner, and the 24-hour one for late-night meals.

No matter what meal I order the portion is always right, even if it’s pasta. Italian restaurants serve way too much pasta. I’ve stopped ordering pasta in Italian restaurants because I can’t possibly eat the barrel of spaghetti they dump on my plate, and I’m too embarrassed to order a kid’s portion.

It’s not just the food, however, that draws me to diners. I like the waitresses, most of whom are middle-aged or older, who are forced to work hard because the diners are perpetually understaffed.

Judging by the meager tips I see other customers leave, the waitresses can’t be making much money. That saddens me, considering the amount of service they give.

They don’t have glamorous jobs, and the restaurants themselves rarely receive press coverage, unless a newspaper or TV station is doing a quick “cheap eats” roundup.

I hate the term “cheap eats” because it connotes bad food and questionable service, and I’ve always eaten good food and received great service.

What I like best is that the waitresses, underpaid and harried as they might be, still find a way to turn every meal into a “dining occasion,” which is no easy thing to do when I’m just having two eggs over easy with a side of bacon.

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