Cuisine: Diner
Diners are funny things. They didn’t exist where I grew up. Sure, we had coffee shops. And pie shops, which were also coffee shops. But the diner as institution just wasn’t a thing. So, my first exposure to these places was during college when I’d go home with a friend to Wayne, NJ. I think it was The King George Diner. It was crappy. But you could smoke and they had this abomination that I had also never seen at the time called disco fries. But even in its gnarly smokiness, I was convinced that all young people in NJ just hung out all night at these places. Before they took their Parliament Lights over to the local Dunkin for late night coffee, of course. Another thing we didn’t have in LA. Dunkin, not coffee.
But now as a full-fledged resident of the Garden State, I understand there is no mystery in diners. They are still places at which teenagers continue to eat fries covered in gravy and cheese. But they are mostly restaurants where old people gather to listlessly enjoy a plate of runny eggs and some white toast. This, the Huck Finn Diner, is the quintessential elderly-person eatery. And as such reflects its clientele. Old and tired. The architecture of the building could be described as post-mid-century nonsense. The interior decor I’d classify as Czechoslovakian disco. Like some far-flung, vaguely European idea of what they thought the US was like in the late 1970s. You’ll recognize it when you see it. This is all to say that there is an odd hodge-podge flavor to the Huck Finn experience. Absolutely none of which has anything to do with a twelve-year-old vagabond in Missouri in the 1840s. It’s better than my Castor Troy Diner idea, I guess, but it’s still a weird choice.
But you come to diners for the food, not the atmosphere, right? Well, there’s not much to report here. Old peoples’ tastebuds have faded. They stereotypically eat gruel and whatever they can stuff in their maw that is easily swallowed without having to chew it. And, honestly, I get it. Food is sometimes just there to fill calories. It’s there because we’d die without it. To that end we can’t always expect the world. Not every meal is a trip to flavor town is what I’m saying. So, perfectly serviceable eggs, home fries and toast are fine. We don’t need flair, nor should we expect it in a place named after a shoeless Southern child whose primary characteristic is laziness. This is all to say that it did the job. My cheese omelette was an omelette. An oddly expensive omelette for a place that looks like the venue where any and every Giovanni Ribisi character ever would get married. But, hey, I’m the guy who doesn’t have diners flowing through my blood, so what do I know? It’s Jersey, baby!
2431 Morris Ave. – Union
908/810-9000
huckfinndiner.com