We all know that Jersey is the land of the diner. But there are Jersey diners and there are Jersey diners. Opened in 1928, the Summit Diner would be like the grandpappy of them all. The one from whose loins every chome-spangled, Greek-owned eatery sprang. Serving that hash and eggs and your basic sandwiches and some weirdly specific fancy items like chicken parmigian (sic), Virginia ham and a ribeye steak. All dished out in what I think the common folk would call a single-wide.
No, this is not a comfortable hang. We were at the fancy-pants Short Hills Mall (sorry, The Mall at Short Hills) and essentially plugged in “diner” in the GPS to find something to eat. The area around the mall is goddamn fancy, there was nothing within several miles. In the middle of Jersey! I think there was some one-star joint, but I’ve been to enough of those to question my sanity. So I clicked on Summit Diner because it sounded charming — and wasn’t clear across the state. Little did I know that there are like seven seats in the whole joint. Admittedly we got lucky. Rolling into the incredibly tiny space, we had four people, which afforded us the one available booth that sat empty, but uncleared for several minutes. Everyone who came in behind us — unable to actually enter the restaurant because it fits like 12 normal sized people and maybe 14 dwarves — had to either turn on their heel or grab a less-than-four-people seat at the counter. There is no getting anywhere in this place without stripping out of your winter coat and crab-walking to your seat. What I’m saying is, it’s tight.
The first thing we noticed when we were finally seated was the the bullet hole in the window. Probably shot through by an abolitionist or one of those Gangs of New York types. The second thing was just the hecticness of the whole endeavor, with its minuscule open kitchen, constant Greek yelling, clanging, hissing and ceaseless banging. Something that would kill me normally, but here is just considered character. As is the incredible Close Encounters mountain of potatoes piled on the flat top just waiting to be slathered in whatever came before it (probably bacon) on that grill. It’s old school in the purest sense of the term. It’s a time capsule that would feel almost like a theme restaurant if you didn’t feel it so viscerally in your soul. Which, of course, is rich coming from me, a person who grew up not with diners but with coffee shops. Which is a whole different genre of eatery. The same, but worlds apart in terms of vibes. This is a true, traditional greasy spoon diner. No spinning pie case, no intricately patterned carpet, no Midori on a shelf that hasn’t been touched since 1983. And no bagels. Which almost made Hipster Jr. Jr.’s head explode.
What we did end up with was a hodge podge of stuff. I went super-traditional with a cheddar omelet with some of those potatoes and rye. I’m a boring orderer at diners and my meal reflected that. It wasn’t disappointing, just nothing to write home about. It was fine. Hipster Jr.’s eyes lit up at the buffalo chicken wrap because he too is predictable. When they delivered it to the table, I was nervous because it didn’t look like what you’d typically expect. I mean, it was a wrap, but not necessarily… buffalo. But, hot damn if that boy didn’t love it. He literally said, “I’m not sure what I’m eating, but it’s delicious.” He may have snuck in an f-bomb, but this is a PG-rated site (but not at all). Hipster Jr. Jr., after the bagel was off the table, went with plan b and got a burger. The girl apparently hasn’t known the love of a good flattop-cooked patty. That thin, but somehow juicy morsel… I stared at her burger with extreme jealousy. She knew it too and I think was gloating a little because it was exactly as delicious as it looked. Ungrateful urchin. And, as usual, I ended up eating a good deal of everyone’s fries. Which is a super bonus for me, because I love fries and there were a million of them. And I greedily took a ton home and we threw them in the air fryer the next day, and while not quite as good as when they were fresh were still darn tasty. Oh, I think Ms. Hipster had a club sandwich? I don’t know, it wasn’t something that interested me so I paid it no mind. I ate her fries, too, though. I would definitely come back here for the experience of it all — and next time I’m getting one of those damned burgers.
1 Union Pl – Summit
908/277-3256
summitdinernj.com
