The Old Coot is on a sabbatical few a few weeks; the “vintage” article that follows was originally published in December, 2002.
A Few weeks ago I took three of my grandchildren, Jake –5, Hannah- 3 and Abby – 2, to MacDonald’s for lunch. It was the day Jake and Hannah’s sister Callie was born; my part in the process was to watch the kids while my daughter, Wendy, was at the hospital. I sat at the table trying to entertain the antsy threesome while Abby’s mother, Kelly, waited in line for our “fast food” order. It was the longest thirty minutes of my life. I like going to MacDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s and all the other fast food restaurants, but I think it’s time that we admit the obvious and stop referring to them as “fast.” Fast applies to the service at Harris’s Diner; a small locally owned restaurant, housed in a Quonset hut like building next to the fire station in Owego, the village where I live. It doesn’t provide customer parking, special menu items for kids or an indoor playground, yet it beats the pants off the national fast food chains.
I’m not a regular at Sam Harris’s diner; I only stop by every once in a while for breakfast. Sometimes, I wander in at six am; it doesn’t open until seven. The lights are down low and Sam isn’t around, but customers are hanging out at the counter and at tables in the back, drinking coffee, shooting the breeze and reading the paper. They have keys to the place. The coffee urns are full. The “regulars” made it. At 6:45 Sam comes in, trades insults with a few of the rabble and goes in the back room to do some prep work. I sit at the counter with a choice seat near the grill, a cup of coffee before me, having been served by one of the gracious regulars. Sam flicks on the lights and fires up the grill. He starts things in motion by piling on a mountain of home fries and a dozen strips of bacon. He knows what the regulars want. Hazel, Sam’s faithful waitress, comes in at seven on the dot, ready to wait tables and bus the dirty dishes, a tough job for a gal well past retirement age, but one she does with class and a big smile.
I sit with my coffee and watch the show. I don’t think there is anything more entertaining than a good grill man, and Sam is one of the best. He’s cracking eggs with one hand, flipping pancakes with the other and discussing last night’s Yankee game with a customer across the room. Regulars stream in, trade insults back and forth, head for the rack of coffee pots behind the counter and help themselves, using their very own personalized cups stored on a shelf above the pots. Hazel glides around, exchanging pleasantries and taking orders, but Sam takes mine since I’m right behind him. The average time between giving your order and getting it is less than ten minutes. In my case, sitting at the counter, I get my two eggs over light, home fries, ham and toast in five. This is fast food. Hazel drops off the check when the food is served. You never have to wait for her to get around to it, like in most restaurants. A pile of bills and change lie in a heap next to the cash register. Customers settle up themselves, making change and leaving the meal ticket as they pass the register on their way out. The “regulars” even go so far as to open Sam’s cash register when they can’t make correct change from the pile of cash on the counter. It sure beats watching fast food workers scan computerized cash registers for a picture of French fries so they can tally up your bill.
