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A Love Letter To That Restaurant Where Everyone Drunchies

Diner

My Dear, Sweet Diner,

Many moons have passed since I saw your beautiful face, your glowing sign rising above the hills and moors of my old college down, drawing me closer to you like a siren calls a sailor, like a beacon toward delicious, greasy, hangover-killing meals of pure joy and ecstasy. This summer apart, like many breaks before, is far too long to be away from you. You are my one, true love, and I cannot wait to be back in the tender embrace of one of your comfortable, faux-leather booths.

I remember the first time you and I met. I was a foolish, careless freshman who knew only the love of a dining hall buffet, not realizing that all those rubbery waffles and watery eggs I was eating could harm my figure so. But the night after I finished pledging, in the wee hours of the morning–having seen my highest and lowest point in the span of six hours–I was reborn anew. My big asked me if I wanted to get some breakfast, and there you were. Handsome and inviting, your warm lights and casual atmosphere beckoned me to come inside you. And so I did.

From the moment the taste of your coffee hit my lips to the smell of the massive plate of Eggs Benedict placed in front of me, I knew it was true love. I’m not sure what it was that kept me coming back for more; maybe it was your sassy waitresses, the way you burned your hash browns to a perfect crisp, or the fact that I could eat like John Goodman at Thanksgiving for less than $10, but from then on, I was hooked.

Together, we’ve seen the best of times and the worst of times. From post-mixer recaps with my bitches at a table for 20 to loudly gossip about the night before to quiet, hungover brunches complete with sunglasses, greasy sandwiches, and enough fountain Gatorade to refuel a sweaty football team, you were there. From hookups to breakups, from number deleters to outright cheaters, through Bid Days, ends of pledging, and every occasion under the sun, you were there. You’re always there.

You were the only constant in the crazy, messed up world known as college life. No matter what was going on, who was being nasty, who cruelly dumped me, what professor was being a douche-canoe, what test I failed, or why the crush I was chasing wouldn’t give me the time of day, you were there with a comfy booth or stool, a steaming mug of coffee, and a piping hot plate of Eggs Benny. Seriously, I canNOT get over how good your fucking Eggs Benedict is–I would seriously bathe in that Hollandaise sauce.

Now that senior year is slowly approaching and my time in college will soon draw to a end, I find myself devastated at the thought of living without you. Sure, I’ll come visit at Homecoming, and for my chapter’s alumni weekend, and for various other reasons to make a trip to campus, but it’s never going to be the same. I’ll find a new place for brunch in whatever city I relocate to, and you’ll no doubt find some new meat to fill your booths–but you and I will never be able to replace one another, and we both know that.

So let’s make this last year together count. I promise I’ll be there for you, week in and week out, and if I come with a large group, I promise I’ll tell the waitress beforehand if we need separate checks, if you always promise to keep the lights on and the coffee hot.

Love always,

Stefon

PS: I wasn’t joking about that bathing in Hollandaise thing. Ball’s in your court, Diner. I’m down if you are.

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Stefon

New York's Hottest Club is wherever I am. Haters to the front, hunky Sailors to the back. Bow down betches. Follow this bitch on Twitter @StefonTSM StefonTSM@iCloud.com

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