I HAVE OFTEN PRAYED that one day an authentic Jersey diner would spring up in Washington, D.C. It’s the only thing missing in a city full of trendy bars and expensive restaurants. When all the clubs close down at 2 A.M. (quite embarrassing when friends from New York visit), there’s nowhere to go. Typically, the crowds pour out into the street, cops arrive to disperse them, and that’s that. Not so in New Jersey. After a serious bender, my friends and I usually retreat to the Crystal Diner in Toms River for sustenance and relief from the deafening rhythms of some dance club (usually in Seaside Heights, derisively called “Sleazide”). It is where we have always gone, since we were old enough to drive—so beloved is this place that we call it, simply, Diner. At Diner, the plastic chandeliers shine brightly. With tabletop jukeboxes perennially out of order, there is almost never music, just the clinking of silverware and random chatter. The service is unfailingly friendly. Best of all is the food. There are those who equate diner cuisine to that of a grease truck. But at 3 A.M., it’s Emeril Lagasse and Alain Ducasse rolled into one. The selections range from bagels and lox to fried clam strips and steak. And though the laminated menu is several pages long, I need look no further than page one—breakfast. I order either the western omelet or the corned beef hash and eggs, depending on my mood. You get half a plate of homefries and a side of buttered toast. All for under $7. Another popular item is the disco fries: medium-cut french fries slathered in thick, brown gravy and two slices of melted American cheese on top. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water. There have only been good times at Diner. All the friends sitting around, recapping the evening, drinking frothy milkshakes, or biting into fluffy omelets. In the background, tempting us, is a revolving multilayer dessert rack. There are coconut cream pies, chocolate eclairs, and strawberry shortcake. It’s a motley crowd at Diner—truckers, women with high hair, teenage dirtbags, off-duty cops, wiseguys—but very Jersey. (A celebrity even came in once: Ed O’Neill of Married…with Children. His autographed photo hangs above the register.) But everyone minds his own business. I’ve never once heard so much as an argument break out at Diner. It’s the ideal place. The problem is, no such place exists in Washington, D.C. Yes, there are a handful of eateries open 24 hours. But none of them is a diner—not even close. One locale in Georgetown is constantly blaring techno-music from loudspeakers. It’s a Eurotrash hangout, and you can go without water for a good ten minutes. Sure, you can order a coq au vin, but there’s no corned beef hash and eggs. (On a recent foray there, one of my Jersey friends asked for disco fries and drew a blank stare from the waitress.) There are diners in Northern Virginia, too, like the Silver Diner. But the Silver Diner is in fact part of a chain. The great diners of New Jersey have always been individually operated, predominantly by Greeks, each with its own identity: the Golden Bell, the Silver Bell, the Park Place, Victory Diner, and Queen Nefertiti. Even worse, the Silver Diner isn’t open 24 hours. Imagine my surprise, then, when a recent issue of the Washington Post Magazine reviewed a place called, simply, The Diner. Oh really? I said to myself, half eager to find out that my dream had come true, and half offended at the sheer audacity of the name. Located in hip Adams Morgan, The Diner has set out to be the after-hours spot for a hearty meal. With each paragraph of the review, I grew more excited. They serve milkshakes, western omelets, and “eggy French toast.” But most important, they’re open 24 hours. At last, I thought, a place I can call my own. And then I looked at the fine print: “Full dinner with wine or beer, tax and tip $20 to $25 per person.” Excuse me? I thought we were talking about The Diner, not The Restaurant. No one, to my certain knowledge, has ever come close to spending $20 at Diner. Theoretically, you could: There is a section in the menu called “For the Seafood Lover” that lists twin lobster tails. But no honest patron has ever ordered that. Ever. So until a real diner makes its grand entrance in the District, it’s back to braving the din of techno-music and flagging down waiters for a glass of water. And making monthly pilgrimages to Diner, my Mecca, where there’s a luscious corned beef hash and eggs that’s got my name written all over it.
