Diners, Drive-Ins, and Conversations with Grandpa Leo
A way-too-short ode (seriously) to diners and the relationships fostered in this classic American culinary institution
“I’m good on dessert. Thanks, though.”
“Bring out two cups of Jello with Reddi Whip”
“No, no I’m good on the Jello. I’ll just take a decaffeinated tea.”
Diners are woven into the DNA of the New Jersey experience as much as Springsteen, giving slow drivers the finger on the Turnpike, and arguing over the name of an overly salted breakfast meat (not even Obama dared to take a side).
I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but it’s important for anyone who still thinks that Jersey is a state of exclusively guidos and mobsters constantly slurping back spaghetti and meatballs.
Seriously, though, when your ass hits the booth cushion at your local diner, a sense of familiarity takes hold. From the cheap, fluorescent lighting to the endless menu variety to the grizzled servers, you feel right at home regardless of the stature, money, or distinguished taste you’ve accrued through the years. Diners strip away the excess and flourish for an egoless dining experience that delivers 24/7.
Wherever your life story turns, you’ll find yourself randomly, yet regularly craving a good diner to relax, hang out, and gorge on a quintessential American experience with a Greek twist. When you’re hungover, diners are there to rebuild your soul with endless, slightly watered down coffee and an omelet feast. If you and your friends need to refuel with big salads, fat burgers, or succulent, crispy fries after a sweaty sports duel, there’s no judgment of your foul stench and disheveled appearance. Mostly importantly, if you want a no frills setting for good conversation, a diner is always a perfect choice.
All of the above has remained true whenever I’ve lived in or came back home to New Jersey. In recent years, diners have added another layer of significance in my adult life: getting to know my 93-year-old Grandpa, my only living grandparent, a little better.
Every month or two for the last few years, I’ve trekked down to Manalapan, New Jersey from the Hoboken/Jersey City area. These days, I’ll rent a car via Getaround, pick it up from the parking garage of the Newport Mall in Jersey City, and shoot down the Turnpike. When Getaround wasn’t around and I had less money, I’d walk to a PATH station, transfer at Newark Penn Station to catch an NJ Transit train, and scurry south on the North Jersey Coast Line, or even venture to Port Authority to catch the bus (both were two-plus hours excusions… one way).
When I get to his place, we do the typical “how’s everything been?” exchange, then get in his SUV to head over to one of the local diners.
He and I are quite different, and not just in our generational differences. Leo Rosenzweig, in short, is a Marine veteran who served during World War II, an active participant in local Jewish War Veteran groups (he’s typically 20+ years older than the other “fellas”), a father, grandfather, great-grandfather, brother, son, nearly lifelong New Yorker, former flea market enthusiast (forever digitally brandished in his AOL screenname), and a once-passionate scuba diver (usually off the coasts of Florida or Cozumel, Mexico). As a former mechanic, he’s always driven a vehicle produced by a brand under the General Motors umbrella, the company that employed him. Despite his embrace of modern technology, including Facebook and bluetooth-enabled hearing aids, he still appreciates a phone call and would rather watch a movie if only he had a companion to talk to about its plot twists. His exterior is tough, and sometimes that’s paired with demanding expectations, but underneath, he’s as warm as anyone. He’s the kind of guy that makes it clear that his actions are well-intended and out of love.
Almost none of that is me. I could maybe scrape together a few words or phrases that do describe me. When we sit across from each other at those diner booths, it sometimes feels like the left and right sides of the brain split from each other, unable to reattach.
I mean, what do I know about serving in the military? Do I even know how to change a tire? Do I even care about knowing how to change a tire when I’m more interested in story structure, photography & cinematography, and playing guitar? Shit, I’d love to gather a group of people willing to fly down to Cozumel and venture under the ocean surface. And, the whole kids thing, let’s maybe broach that topic when I’m in my 30s.
But, we’re blood, right? Like I said, he’s the only living grandparent I have left, and, well, neither of us are getting any younger. Plus, up until he moved to the Jersey suburbs from Queens a few years ago, I only got to know him on a surface level since I’d only see him a couple of times each year.
Each conversation begins with the standard formalities, like him asking me about work and what’s new in my life, and me asking him about his recent meetings and appointments or how he’s been filling his time during a pandemic. There’s the talk about the food we’re ordering. He usually gets a dinner special with a soup (that has to be hot, nothing less), side, and Jello or ice cream to top it off. I’ll usually get some wrap that I tell myself is healthy. In reality, I just want my heart filled and arteries clogged by those classic diner fries. No dessert for me, but Grandpa will definitely try.
From there, our conversations dig deeper. For me, I realize how little I know about his views on and experiences with combat and service, his nine-decade history of relationships, and how he always seems to have a more packed social calendar than anyone I know. For him, he wants to know how I’m progressing through my career, how I’m navigating a complicated web of family, friend, and romantic relationships, and, genuinely, how am I feeling. Being the endless well of useless knowledge that I am, I’ll sometimes fill him in on the history of Hoboken and Jersey City, as well as the speedy developmental progress of those cities and the one he used to call home, New York. The only time music comes up is when it’s about ol’ blue eyes himself, Frank Sinatra.
As our utensils clink against those white ceramic plates and we throw back our many refills of water, we cover a lot of ground. When our plates are wiped clean, we look at each other and ask if the other is all set. You know the deal from there: pay at the counter and head out.
I’m a pretty voracious reader, both fiction and nonfiction. Right now, I’m reading Bourdain: The Definitive Oral Biography by Anthony Bourdain’s longtime assistant, Laurie Woolever. It’s reignited a few life lessons in my mind that I took to heart when I’d regularly watched the newest episode of Parts Unknown on CNN every Sunday night. The most obvious, yet important one that we all learned from him was that no matter what your differences are with someone, you’ll find one or many similarities over a satisfying meal.
As the show so brilliantly brought to visualized, people bond over the simple fact of living through the human experience, but they might even find that their beliefs, values, and interests are more similar than they would otherwise have thought. Aside from travel and experiencing others’ cultures, this most prominently manifests in my life when I have these diner conversations with my Grandpa. I see how we’re always searching for deeper connections even if it’s with people who’ll never reciprocate. While my obsessions and passions are different, it’s clear where I get my tendency to immerse myself in something new and concoct ways to explode it into an essential part of my everyday life. Then, there’s the fact that he even picked up guitar a couple of years ago.
It’s things like that I most appreciate and hope he does, too.
Of course, I’d be glad to have these conversations anywhere. Yet, for inexplicable reasons that only lifelong diner enthusiasts know, the same talks might’ve never uncovered the level of stories and lessons had they happened somewhere else.