newyorkette

That’s me in the mirror. And just in case you doubt it, this story has a happy ending.

In a bid to furnish my new apartment, I made the journey on the free shuttle from Port Authority to Ikea yesterday. I came back burdened with just enough stuff to make me very, very sorry that the 1 train route suddenly developed “signal problems” at 96th street, spitting me out 30 blocks and two buses away from home. Starving, my muscles aching as I strained to hold onto three heavy wooden venetian blinds, a backpack and giant tote of indispensable doodads I’d spent too much money on, I climbed up the stairs to the street and asked a man walking a fat black labrador (which is how I knew he was a local) where the closest diner was. He pointed me to Key West Diner.

Having spent the last two weeks breakfasting, lunching, and even dining at my local diner (which I’ll review next week), I’ve grown to see the diner as the weary artist’s refuge and solace. At my diner, the greek owner calls me “kukla.” So what if the eggs are a different price every day? They know how to make a girl feel at home-away-from-home.

So I pulled open the first door to the Key West Diner seeking similar hospitality. As I struggled with it, the manager, a portly man with a goatee, watched me from not four feet away on the other side of the second door. He took a half-hearted step forward, then changed his mind and let me struggle towards the second door as he leaned back against the counter of the cashier. As I proceeded to wrestle with this door, he looked as if he might yet come hold it open for me, but again changed his mind and stayed put. When I was finally inside, I was peeved.

“Thank you,” I said, “You’re so helpful.”
“What did you say?” he shot back, apparently expecting me to back down.
“I said, you’re so helpful,” to answer his question.
“I was trying,” he mumbled.
“Well, you weren’t trying very hard,” simple frankness obliged me to point out.
“Not really,” he said, and walked away.

Needless to say, I’d have liked to sashay myself right out of there, but I was dizzy with hunger, having foregone the “Swedish Food Market” at the exit after the cashiers at Ikea. There would be no sashaying till I was fed. I politely ordered some eggs from the waitress behind the counter, and started writing this review. My first negative review, I thought. Fine.

And so I ate, and I steamed, and I wrote in my little notebook, and I snapped a photo. Tears welled up at one point before the calories were absorbed—I get emotional when too hungry—but were quelled by irrational musings that Gawker would be interested in the shabby behavior of an Upper West Side diner manager, and that this manager actually reads Gawker. I fairly chortled to myself as I imagined him, red-faced, “gawkered.” Ha, ha! Ha, ha! You’ve been gawkered, you big meany! (I confirm: there’s no limit to the delusional inner ravings of a hungry, slighted woman.)

As I looked at my toast I realized it was unbuttered: this is what I hate about the Upper West Side. They’re rude, and you have to butter your own goddam toast! The Upper West Side just takes all the pleasure out of life! Upper West Side turpissima! Nostre vite gaudia abstulisti omnia!

I was thus engaged in wallowing in the depths and heights of self-righteous aggrievance when it abruptly occured to me that I might not have enough cash on me to pay for these grudgeful eggs. I supposed they’d take a credit card, but though there was no reason to fear any of my three credit cards being declined, Murphey’s Law decreed this could very well be the one time it could happen. The hair at the back of my head was just about to get that prickly, panicky feeling when something wonderful happened.

The mean old manager, who had been avoiding my glance all this time, walked up to me with hands and eyebrows upturned and said, “I want to apologize. I was very rude to you earlier. I really should have helped you. Please, this meal is on me.”

Not only was I relieved not to have to worry about how much cash I had on me anymore, but I was rather moved. I felt tears of emotion trying to come up—alright, I guess I’ll weep over anything! I shook his hand. I allowed to him that I was also in a terrible mood because the subway stopped working and I was overloaded and hungry. I thanked him and left a big tip for the waitress, who was oblivious to it all, as a proper diner waitress should be. (As it turned out, I did have the cash. And yes, he held the doors for me on my way out, saying, “This time we’ll do it right.”)

So, is this a negative review or a positive review? Let me put it this way. A good man is a man who knows when to apologize, and does so, genuinely and unambiguously. Which is more than can be said for the President or the Pope, bless their souls. So, will I go back?

Yes! Eggs are eggs—it’s people that make a diner.

I’ll remember to ask them to butter my toast.

Key West Diner
2532 Broadway, at 94th Street
“Welcome! Enjoy a great dining experience…”

Posted Monday, October 9th, 2006 at 6:21 am under tables for one: when you vant to/must eat alone. Feel free to trackback from your own site. All images on newyorkette.com are the intellectual property of Carolita Johnson, and you must ask (and receive) express permission to use them or reproduce them in any way whatsoever.