Last week, CNY, the official news source for all of Central New York, announced that Denny's, the ubiquitous "diner" and home of the 1750 calorie breakfast, was closing down. I use air-quotes around the word diner because they're really not in the same league as real diners, as seen every half mile on Route 17 in New Jersey.
The news hit hard for me. As I spent my late teens slinging hash -- literally -- in the tiny galley kitchen of the Carrier Circle Denny's in DeWitt, just east of downtown Syracuse.
It was here that I learned how to break an egg with one hand, flip omelets, and acquire the delicate rhythm it took to run the wheel and excel as a short order cook.
I can't dance, though Ms. Muse suggests otherwise, but I can throw down a mean breakfast(s) and still do.
The Carrier Circle Denny's was also where my college roommate Dave and I got acquainted with the local townfolk. And when I say townfolk, I mean waitresses. And when I say waitresses, I mean upstate women who were in no way like the ones downstate in NYC. And more importantly, nothing like the spoiled, entitled princesses that populated Syracuse University.
Perhaps I've smeared too much vaseline on the memory ball, but those were the halcyon days.
Unscathed by roiling family dynamics 300 miles away. Unburdened by pressing deadlines for book reports or the solving of unintelligible word problems from the Calculus professor. And frankly, unconcerned about anything happening tomorrow in favor of celebrating the mischievous opportunities that presented themselves that day.
The dimming of the lights at Denny's, where, make no mistake we worked our asses off, has made me melancholy.
Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't share one war story of our time at the Dewitt Denny's just off the NY State Thruway, and often unrecognizable due to the 12 foot high drifts of lake effect snow.
Every week or so, the walk in refrigerators would be restocked with fresh produce and goods. With the quick turnaround and the truckload of hungry truckers making a pit stop there, the shelves would be emptied faster than an 18 wheeler jack-knifing on black ice.
Not surprisingly, Dave and I were always on the lookout for the fresh cases of whip cream.
Some of you are jumping ahead.
Dave and I didn't learn much at SU, but we did find out that the cans of whip cream were propelled by nitrous oxide, the same nitrous oxide that dentists colloquially refer to as laughing gas. When Mr. Z, the clueless assistant manager went out for a smoke break in the 13 degree weather, we would take our break in the cooler. And much the way Tom Brady would relieve his footballs of excess air, we would manipulate the nozzle of the whip creams cans and extract all the nitrous oxide our young lungs could handle.
Later, when Cletus, the long hauler from Tennessee would order his apple pie, the waitress would attempt to top it off with a dollop of Reddi Whip. More often than not, it came out more like Reddi Drip.
Ah, misspent youth.
RIP Dennys.
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