On a cold winter evening, life looks brighter from the inside of a diner.  Between the colorful neon lights, the inevitable music or tv murmuring in the background, the plethora of homemade menu items to be had for less than ten dollars, diners always retain an air of festivity and timelessness.

I’ve frequented diners wherever I can find them.  In New Hampshire, my heart belonged to the Red Arrow.  In college, it was either the little diner by the bridge in NoHo or the diner by UMass where the pie never ran out.   In London, I substituted fish and chip shops for diners, but the same principles applied.  Now, my antiquing travels have brought me to all sorts of diners, but the Rosebud is our regular spot, once I finally get over that they only serve breakfast until 2:00, even on weekends.  I think they missed the diner rulebook: be open 24 hours a day, vary your pie selection, offer free refills on coffee, and make killer corn beef hash.  Luckily, the South Street Diner downtown meets all these criteria, plus the added bonus of a photo booth to commemorate the experience.

Some day, I’d like to own a diner, or at least be very good friends with someone who did.  We would decorate it for all the holidays, offer the blue plate specials on real blue plates.  Be the one place open in the middle of a storm, and host rockin’ New Year’s parties.  Name milkshakes and frappes after my best friends, always put extra whipped cream on each and every hot chocolate.  Play records, CDs, radio stations, breaking news – and be the one place where the music never died.