Rant: The Waverly Diner

Here, I'll complain about an "iconic" diner.

You know which diner I'm talking about. It's on lower Sixth Avenue, near the West Fourth stop. Many of the businesses in this area seem to have disappeared; I can remember a Barnes and Noble, and an Urban Outfitters, and a Banana Republic, and a Duane Reade, and I note, each day, they're all "no longer."

The Waverly Diner has clung to the rope of life--perhaps because everything is ludicrously overpriced. It's brutal. If you want a BLT and a side of fries, you will pay almost twenty dollars. Twenty dollars! There's nothing notable about the BLT; standard diner-issue spit-up-resembling cup of "cole slaw," standard limp, aged lettuce. There's an excessive amount of bacon, as well, which is maybe the way that the owners justify the high price.

(I have to admit that the French fries are admirable--crispy and golden and fresh. It pains me to state that.)

The Waverly, like any diner, attracts eccentric characters. Yesterday, I watched a man who resembled Junior Soprano wheezing alongside an oxygen tank; several young Greek men gathered around him, and their butt-cheeks hung off the cushions, because Junior Soprano's luggage was rather absurdly strewn all over the prime butt-cheek real estate. I decided I was watching a weird display of power and of fawning, calculated, favor-winning behavior, like something from "The Borgias."

There's often at least one example of this particular scene, at the diner: A straight man gives a long, unsolicited speech about a given workplace, and a young woman listens patiently and occasionally makes a false, encouraging noise. As if in gratitude for the encouraging noise, the straight man then says something gross and mildly flirty. The gross thing is meant to be a reward for good behavior. The straight man can't actually bring himself to ask a question: That would be a bridge too far.

There are shrieking teenagers. Since we are in the vicinity of NYU, there's often a young gay man with a female bestie, and the topic of conversation, there, might be intersectionality or the future career moves of Roxane Gay. The NYU conversation is always very, very animated, and it's never really a dialogue; it generally resembles two parallel speeches, as if toddlers were playing in a sandbox. Playing with Roxane Gay.

High above the patrons is a sign: "One of the top ten diners in America, according to TIMEOUT!" But what are the criteria for that ranking?

The aisles are packed and uncomfortable; the toilet resembles something from the set for "Little Shop of Horrors."

Is longevity an excuse for subpar standards? And an excuse for fleecing one's patrons?

These are somewhat loose, disorganized thoughts, but it's the Christmas season, and I'm perhaps tired and cranky. I acknowledge it's possible to have differing thoughts about the Waverly. But I'm not backing down. Let the sacred cows fall. Pack your lunch; eat out in the outer boroughs, if you must. It's time to take a stand.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic. She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

Liars and Saints

Search This Blog