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Yikes. How do I begin with Diner? From what I understand, and there’s little I do, this place is the Mecca of all things hipster and/or Williamsburg. From it, and because of it, Williamsburg evolved into what it is today. Other places emulate Diner, but none of them come close to offering what Diner effortlessly provides. For a long time it seemed like the only place any of us wanted to go. There was a two-year stretch where nothing compared. Too bad I’m not allowed in anymore. Haven’t been for four years or so. I won’t get into the details, let’s just say it’s a textbook case of cutting off my nose to spite my face. But much like my brief tenure years ago at Siberia Bar, the countless nights at Diner represent a high tide in my life. My banishment allowed me to move on, try other things, and eventually get over it. And not unlike breaking up with a really hot girl, it’s nostalgic in the shower but there is a lot of baggage that comes with going to Diner night after night. If you’re reading this blog and actually trying to find a good restaurant in Williamsburg, you can stop here. This is the best restaurant in Williamsburg, and as far as I’m concerned one of the most authentic New York City has to offer. The food is impeccable. The atmosphere is enviable. The service is, well, let’s just say the first two more than make up for the service. Below are just bits of letters, journal entries, etc… that I’d collected over the years eating at Diner.
09-05-05 –Letter to a friend… So we were supposed to meet this friend of A*****’s at Diner, who was going to give me the key to the apartment in Paris where we would be staying next week. I was quite excited, as it was my first trip overseas in a few years and I’d already taken off work for the trip so I had nothing better to do than get rip roaring drunk with a total stranger, a Parisian no less! It was like three and the sun was blasting through the screen door casting shadows that belong to late summer sun. I was having something in a Collins glass, maybe this drink they have with a twig of thyme, listening to the music and excited to get on with my trip. There’s nothing quite like having a day off before the departure overseas, especially when it’s three in the afternoon and you’re knocking back an expertly made cocktail watching young unfettered trim walk by in the late summer. Then, a hand slapped my back. I turned and to my surprise there’s A*****, his greasy hair and a goofy French smile standing there holding a key.
Holy shit the time we had. Stoli Orange shots abounded, and it wasn’t until my wife dragged me out by the ear did the possibility of leaving even occur. We must have ate, though the only thing I can remember about the night was the bar itself, crowded, sexy, alive, certainly a great precursor to Paris. Shot after shot of orange flavored vodka and sociable volume, people coming and going and not giving a shit. There is a pinnacle to a good night out, a time and place where it teeters from drunken obliviousness to fatigue. The beauty of this night was the way we teetered and maintained a perfect buzz the whole time….
06-15-04 --Letter to a friend… We decided to take our clothes off. Now granted, it was somewhat uncontestable because I was with three beautiful women. I’m pretty convinced robbing a bank is conceivable if you’re armed with three beautiful women. And I’m certain that you can get away with eating dinner shirtless….
10-10-04 --Jounal… I don’t know the condition that brought me to Diner that night, it was crowded or I would have refused sitting at the bar. I was stoned I think, getting a freebee from work and sneaking out early to write, look at internet porn, and smoke pot. S**** probably convinced me to have a drink. I ended up staying for dinner. Whatever the circumstances, one thing is for sure: it was by far the best meal I’ve had in the United States. Crushed potatoes, floating in a moat of creamed corn and bacon, with a thick roasted pork chop nestled right on top. I ate it at the bar, occasionally coming up for air or a swill of Wild Turkey. I followed it up with a slice of the chocolate cake. This meal is not oft repeated on the specials menu. And maybe, just maybe, this night at the bar was the only time I’ll ever eat it….
06-29-04 –Journal… Another large party. I feel like this is perhaps the tenth or eleventh in the last year. It seems as though my life centers around working enough to afford the three-hundred-dollar dinners spent at Diner. The server let it be known at Union Pool the other night that when we have these large parties we all get so drunk that our math is atrocious and their tips suffer greatly. Naturally, they’re thinking we’re going to take care of them as well as they took care of us. How are we supposed to know that they comped just about every drink they served? There are no prices on the menu.
10-06-05 --Email to Friend… I’m comfortable, too comfortable. I actually wore my “Fuck a Bitch” tee-shirt that Crazy L***** gave me for my birthday. I am lude with Wild Turkey logic, and now the servers see me coming and turn the other way.
11-5-05—Email to Friend (After being thrown out)… I wracked up enough points on my Amex to buy a McDonald’s franchise. And what did I receive in return? At the end of the day I bought myself dinner. Sometimes served cold, sometimes served incorrectly, sometimes served late, but always served unapologetically. I’m sorry if my standards ruined a good time. But I’m not sorry for my attitude that seems contrary to everyone else in the Williamsburg restaurant scene; that is, I am somehow supposed to compromise because the server/owner/bartender is too cool to be bothered to do their job, or too snobbish to be servile, or to not do whatever it takes to make the dining experience enjoyable…
So what makes a good restaurant? Is it the food? Is it the service? Some indeterminable combination of the two? Don’t get me wrong I looooove to harp about service. Sit their and stroke my own cock about how someone didn’t crumb correctly, or tickle my balls about a glaring restaurant inefficiency, but that’s just a professional preference. If a restaurant has bad food, I merely take pity. If you're serving bad food you shouldn’t be in business. But really good service, or really good food doesn’t necessarily make you want to come back for more. It’s more like those things can make the restaurant really special, a bastion for occasions, celebratory occasions. A good restaurant doesn’t necessarily neglect these qualities, but rather these qualities do not make a good restaurant. So whatever intangible is, it’s one that allows you to be yourself. To be comfortable. Just not too comfortable.
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