The Diner

409 South 12th Street 

402.341.9870

Open daily 6:30am to 2:30pm, Sundays at 7:30am

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Inspired to point out the duct tape that is apparently holding the clock together at the corners. That is all. 

Some of you may already know I came of age in the deep, sticky comfort of a diner booth back East. Old enough to pretend to like chain smoking but too young to know people to buy us beer, we toiled our late nights away over plates full of bacon and scrambled eggs, all while expertly keeping the proper milk and sugar ratio between refills poured warily by a uniformed waitress too tired to care she wasn't going to get a great tip from us young idiots. 

I don't know why it took me so long to dine at the silver-paneled New Jersey knockoff with the shockingly creative name in the Old Market, but after hearing stories of its state while under former management, I'm glad I waited. The Diner changed hands about a year ago, and it seems what we have now is a perfectly respectable place to eat a boastfully unhealthy meal any day of the week. 

The arrival of the food took what seemed like an eternity in my shaky, morning-after mind, but it gave me a chance to chug two cups of decent black coffee with at least half the fervor I'd have if it were Hopluia. At least, it wasn't strikingly bland, weak, or overly acidic, like the brew served in similar establishments. 

Chicken Fried Steak,
complete with traditional deep fryer basket indentations in the breading,
and a peppery, delightfully fatty gravy.

My dining buddy donated a quarter of his chicken fried steak, and I'm glad, because the evident saltiness of the breading paired with the goopiest of white gravies turned out to be my favorite item on the table. In fact, it may be the most suitable breakfast in the area for those of you who opted for a liquid-only dinner the night before. The hashbrowns were served impressively, well, browned, a feat any short-order cook can tell you is tricky to do quickly, though often requested. I was also a fan of the hands-off yet effective service: servers came by unobtrusively to refill coffee and clear plates without interrupting our nonsensical conversations.

"Heartland" Omelette:
Chopped bacon, onions, green peppers, and tomatoes
barely sauteed and wrapped into a thin layer of cooked egg.
While the flavor was proper, the execution was bothersome,
and demanded we devote the next ten minutes of conversation
to an impromptu session on the finer points of omelette making. 

So the eggs came over easy when they should have been over medium. So they took that dreaded shortcut with the omelette and stuffed a pile of limp veggies into a thin layer of cooked egg before wrapping it up like some sort of strange burrito-like thing, instead of just cooking the fillings right into the egg. So my stomach is still churning from this meal eaten a distressing ten hours ago. It's much more likely that has to do with last night's escapades than this morning's grease content. Like I always say, don't expect too much and you won't be disappointed -- words to live by.