Diner Tour of London: Stop Two

Across the road from the mall there is a gas station.  Behind the gas station there is a plaza.  In the plaza there is a diner.

The sky hung low with water weight, its colour reflecting the parched and dusty parking lot beneath my and Allycia’s Chuck Taylor clothed feet.  Thin but piercing wind penetrated our bodies through our exposed faces and hands, and the cars streamed through the intersection with haste to outrun the wind and reach their destinations before the sky fell any lower.

The only offering the front of the diner makes to the world is its own name, printed in blue cursive script on a dirt-speckled overhead sign that was once white.  Years of weather outside and cooking inside have left the windows slightly opaque and dull with a tinge of yellow.  The atrium was the size of a handicap bathroom stall, but newspaper distribution boxes and an ATM machine imposed on the space almost enough to completely block the entrance.

Immediately upon entry, Allycia and I were bombarded by saloon-like chatter.  Hearty laughs echoed towards us over the high-pitched sounds of animated storytelling.  The clunk and ring of metal on cheap plastic tabletops kept the beat.

Even though smoking has been banned in enclosed public spaces the air in the diner had a presence.  I could smell bacon cooking so perhaps the smoke and grease had slugged out from the kitchen and saturated the air in the restaurant.  A bar so low to the ground that it appeared to have been designed for children ran along the left wall leading back to the kitchen, two- and four-person booths sat to the right, and at the far right end were tables on a platform.  Aside from the seats at the bar there were only two available tables.

With so many people and constant cooking we had to tear our scarves and coats off as quickly as possible, tossing them into our booth.  As I slid onto the cracked brown imitation leather cushion I could feel the tension in my muscles dissolve into the thick fabric.  It felt like sitting on a soft-plastic coated marshmallow.

Almost as soon as we’d sat down a waitress trotted over to our table.  “Afternoon ladies, will it be breakfast or lunch today?”  She was wearing a monochromatic beige ensemble complete with an apron.  Her hair was dark brown, piled high on her head, and she wore make-up to match.  Her smiling lips were lined in dark brown and filled with a creamy, slightly lighter shade.  The layer of dark foundation made it difficult to place her age, but the crinkles by her eyes and the pucker in her lips suggested she was a smoker.  Her chin and cheeks stood strongly at severe angles and she was tall with broad shoulders, but she spoke with a rhythmic twang.  “Apple juice?  Good choice.  And you’ll be havin’ that JELLO with lotsa whipped cream, right?” She left our table with a smile and a wink.