Big G's - Winslow, ME

George was hungry. Actually, George = hungry would be more correct. To be perfectly clear: George was, is and will continue to be hungry long after his inevitable death.

However, George wasn’t a big man. He could hide his malady. At work as a file clerk for a local law firm, he hid his snacks. This being 1985, paperwork was at a near-maximum. The rows upon rows of cabinets containing case files and litigation records and profiles allowed for quite a bit of “squirreling-away” space.

Had he lost the occasional homemade nutbar? Sure. Had he actually forgotten a tuna salad sandwich for four weeks in a drawer marked Case Files: HUK-HUKL? Ok, yes. Yes, he had.

Had said tuna sub (alright it was a whole sub [!double-stuffed with tuna!]) been found by a public defender at 3 AM and caused said public defender to lose his own lunch (and dinner) onto the very files that he’d been searching out. Affirmative. Had this earned said public defender the nickname, “The HUK-HUKLer?” 

Roger.

Indeed, it had cost George his job. And while we’re at it, yes, the aforementioned blunder was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back in George’s tumultuous fifteen year marriage (food always being at the heart of the discord). Did his wife get the house? Yes again, Mr./Mrs. nosey -- the lawyer at George’s side was the HUK-HUKLer himself, assigned to marital litigation b/c of George’s inability to pay for his own lawyer (food expenditures, you see).

Now (the day of our tale, Oct. 16, 1985, Waterville, ME) George had nothing left. No place to stay, no wife, no clothes other than those on his back. Most importantly: no food. He was famished.

What he did have was fourteen cents to his name. Not even enough for a bag a’ cashews.

George was exiting the Quality Court parking lot when he heard a voice say, “Hungry?”

A bearded old man with craned back and burlap (yes, burlap) slacks jigged from behind a tree. It was weird and George picked up his pace.

“Oh yes-ee! Still hungry," said the old man. "You’ve got the hunger-eyes!” 

George had never heard a sane man talk like this and kept up the avoiding.

“What if I offered you the chance to never go hungry again? Just for the fourteen cent in ya pocket!”

George stopped. How could this old weird-o know he only had fourteen cents? The old man clapped his hands and smacked his red lips. But no. There was no talking to an old crazy like this...

“No, no thank you, sir,” said George, rapidly bobbing his head in the way one who is departing does.

“Ohhh hoo dee hee!” said the old man, rapping his knee with his knuckles. “Don’t pass up a deal like this. Just take a good long look at what you’re missing.” With an uncanny flourish, the old man pulled a sandwich from behind his back: glorious, stuffed, overflowing with meats and cheeses. Steam rose from its fresh-baked bun.


Ohhh hoo dee hee!


George stopped again.

“Got the old peepers and stomach in parlay I see,” the old man laughed again, coughed, and a car horn honked somewhere. “Call her the Lucretia Borgia: best sandy you can find. One bite and you’ll never go hungry again.” More laughs followed by a coughing fit. 

From the looks of the sandwich, one bite would never be enough; it was the size of an Oxford Dictionary. 

“And I can have that?” said George. “That whole sandwich.”

“Oh the whole doodlebug! Yes-ee!” said the old man, eyes watering from all the coughing. “Never hungry again,” he said, doing a weak little jig, stopped short by the threat of more coughing.

George could smell the sandwich from where he stood: wafts of rich, cured pork, tangy pepperoncini, and the warm, almost cake-like scent of the bread. His stomach made the decision for him. It always had.

George handed over his coins and tried not to touch the old man’s gnarled hands. He was not successful.

The sandwich was dense. As George brought it to his lips, the old man began to laugh. Higher and higher and louder and faster. The old man’s maniacal laughter should, probably, have tipped George off that something bad was in store. But it didn’t. George bit in.

Ecstasy.

He felt something happening inside. Something he had never felt before, but knew, intimately the moment it spread within him. Sweet joy of joys, he was full! Wholly and completely full! Satiation at one bite, and yet there were so many more.  He took another bite; it completed him with a fullness he’d never experienced. It expanded with heat and warmth from his very stomach to the utter extremities of his form. George took a third bite. Then a fourth. And again and again. 

George could no longer hear the old man’s hacking cackles. The taste and process of eating consumed him. He was full. Finally full. Bite after bite, the sandwich seemed never ending.

But then it began. Too full. The sides of his stomach ached. His head began to pound. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. The food felt like it was expanding. He couldn't stop himself.

And then the old man’s cackling came back. Thundering.

George’s gut flopped out all at once. His limbs sprouted and grew. His legs expanded by five times into soggy pools of flesh before shooting him upward, rolling the skin and muscle as they climbed. George's screams lowered in rapid octaves as he grew.

And in his head, names appeared. An endless wall of monikers, crowding for space. Dr. Seuss. Richard Simmons. Mad Max. Wishbone. Sea Pig. Bebe Rebozzo. Dr. Johnny Fever. And on and on and on. Each name had a flavor: savory, bold, sweet, complex, acidic, crunchy. Each one married to a flavor and girth that expanded the walls of his mind, out and out and out.


Pick a sandwich in under a minute and I will personally knit you a hat (I won’t).


When the pain and growing stopped, George was at least forty stories tall. He wore a red polo and pleated khakis the size of a stadium’s tarp. His loafers had the capacity of Olympic pools. 

And in his massive head swirled nothing but names. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t even know who he was. Simply the hunger and the names remained. 

If he were paying attention, he would have seen the old man hop into a little wooden cart and use his feet to skeedle away. But he didn’t. Bye bye old man.

George surveyed the landscape. Cars had stopped and people were screaming. He was hungry again. George imagined a sandwich, rich in meat and ingredients, and then a name popped into his head, Miles Standwich. It sounded nice.

“Miles Standwich,” roared George. And just like that, a doublewide-sized sandwich appeared in his hand. Like, *SMAGOOF*. There it was.

He took a bite. Hot turkey, laden with fresh, homemade stuffing, melted swiss and a healthy dollop of cranberry sauce, nestled between two slices of hearty, fresh-out-of-the-oven, AMERICAN bread.


X-Men III: The Last Standwich

Picture C/O Road Food


George dug in. The turkey mingled with the stuffing and the cranberry provided a sweet tang to round it all out. 

Unfortunately, the tattoo of a helicopter’s blades broke his mealtime reverie; wouldn’t you know it, it was the National Guard.

George rose up to meet them, *POOFALOOF* a Cornball in one hand, *PAPOOSE* a Tina Tuna in the other. He smiled: so many peoplekins to feed!

But, said peoplekins were less than hungry. A missile sizzled from the helicopter’s side. Screaming, it caught George in the pelvis, bringing him to his knees.

“Sea Pig?” he said in a voice halfway between a foghorn and a tree trunk cracking in half. The shot blasted a chunk off him, revealing fresh cold cuts of every variety inside. He looked from his wound to the line of drab vehicles, treads squealing as they closed in. “Rowdy Yates!” he said, before chucking a cadillac-sized sandwich into the chopper’s blades.

With the disgruntled noise of a gummed engine, the chopper dove into the ground, taking out a humvee in the ensuing conflagration. The tanks stopped and in the air came the peel of old-man laughter, somewhere far away. It was only broken by the thunder and puff of more tank rounds. George ran. 

His loping steps took him through the center of town, across the Kennebeck river and into the rolling hills of Winslow. The National Guard gave chase. 

It was on a long, lazy road called Gifford -- when a tank round caught his knee -- that George was forced to make his last stand.

Fire rang back and forth. The military forces had to extract vehicles from under slabs of moist roast beef. Infantrymen dodged marinated mushrooms as big as wrecking balls. A pinned specialist gnawed her way to freedom through three layers of pepperoni. A brobdingnagian dollop of cream cheese landed on a mortar team; their screams were never heard.

Only after the sun cleared the horizon and long shadows felt their way across George’s prostrate form, did the firing finally stop.

Sergeant First Class Henry Willowbrook, weapon raised, stepped over a puddle of mustard to tentatively toe George’s side. The giant didn’t move. 

He looked back to his company, a smile on his face.

“Well,” he said, addressing every man and woman present. “Lets eat!”

A cheer rose through the ranks and they descended on George’s cold-cut smorgasbord of a body. Staff Sergeants ate until they puked and then ate more. Tanks were laden with meats and cheeses to be carted back to base. Even the First Sergeant made an appearance, sporting a bib that said “Hungy Boy.”

It was a feast that has not been rivaled before or since.,

A year later, in 1986, a memorial was placed to that grand battle. It was not a monument, or a stone, or even a grave, but a shop. A shop where silly-enormous sandwiches can still be bought for next to nothing and eaten until the eater, quite non-literally, is ready to die. 


R.I.P. George – like dis if u cry evry time


You can visit that 'diculous deli, as many people do, on a quiet road in Winslow, Maine. And if you do pull up there, some bright afternoon, don't forget to salute the sign. For that's the very face of George, the short-lived, sandwich-creating giant, smiling down upon you.


FOOD: 
3.5 Stars

Seriously humongous sandwiches with quality ingredients. WARNING: eating a whole sandwich in one go requires both crazy stomach capacity and unthinkable self-loathing.

PRICE: 
‘Donculous

 A half sandwich (that’s more like 2 sandwiches) for ~$7.00 and a whole (that’s more like 4) for ~$9.00? GEDDAFRIQOUTTAHEEYA

AMBIENCE: 
Disregard (for your own good)

  Designed by your uncle in the 70s. Just close your eyes and think of England.

SERVICE: 
Over the Counter

They take your order. They are nice. You get a buzzer. You pick up your food. Bambingo.

EAT OR SKIP: 
Eat

Big G’s is legendary. No other place makes sandwiches this big AND this good. An hour drive from Portland, it's not close, but it's not far. Treat yourself. You deserve it.




11th Street Diner - South Beach, FL

Tommy “Boss” Higgins just totally jumped over a sleeping bum. His bros grabbed and squeezed his biceps in a celebratory way that was totally not gay and just bro love.

One of the grabbers was Danny “Tan” Vega, Tommy’s best bro; they’d been lock-tight like since like the first second of orientation.

After a night of raging on X until the sun rose and lit the tits of the hot-ass chicks they were grinding to equal and individual pulps, the boys needed muscle food. They needed greasy, hot, bicep burgers. Piping, moist pec patties. Steaming, filthy glute fruit. They made up a couple more foods then stopped before it got weird.

As it turned out, not every dawg was hungry. Jayron “Rudeboi” Jefferson had a test tomorrow and needed to crash. OK OK. Get your study on. OK.

Vick “BadonkeyDong” Schwartz was straight tired yo and look at the shmutz on his shoes. Gotta clean up that clubgoo for certain.

Helio “MarcoPolo” Marcovian, Jens “Ikea Monkey” Aaronsen, and Hubbard “Hubbard” Banks III all had peaced mad early to rage on Marco’s boat with the help of some choice booger sugar. Which left just Boss and Tan, together and forever bro-mates, crushing SoBe in tandem.

Where to go where to go, the brethren wondered aloud.

“T-Mex?” said Boss.

“Nah,” said Tan.

“News Cafe?”

“You gay, bra?”

“11th Street.”

With a wave of a Tan’s fastidiously browned hand, the boys rolled.

11th St. Diner is a piece of undeniable, O.G. SoBe lore.  “It’s an art deco dining car,” said Boss, pointing to the hulk, shining on the corner of Washington and 11th.


Nostalgic whitey mecca

Picture C/O 11th St. Diner


“Yo what the fuck is art deco?” Tan lowered a pair of Ray Bans he’d copped straight out of his Dad’s dresser. 

“I don’t know,” said Boss. “Some design style from the 30s and 40s.” Tan’s eyebrow went sunward. “Yo how do you always know this shit?”

Boss shrugged and they ducked inside.

Like every indoor space on South Beach the cold air was blasting. Red-faced, Slavic tourists littered the place. Boss and Tan snagged seats at the bar, waiting for one of the beaming, South American, 40-something wait-people to sling them some coffee. The decor was “nuts,” according to Tan, “period-specific,” according to Boss. As for food, You could always order a super-solid omelette, hash + eggs, or pancakes or some junk. But the boyz knew better. Alexia, a waitress, mother, and wearer of constant smiles, asked the boys what they would like.

It being Saturday (despite the fact that the bros got enough ass last night for it to technically be Tuesday), Tan went for the Fried Chicken Wings and Waffles. Boss threw down for two eggs (easy), two sausages (links), Biscuits and Gravy, natch. 

“Yo, that chick in the pink you were destroying last night,” said Boss. “What was her name?”

“Does it matter?” said Tan. High fives ensued. “No but seriously, she was crazy fine,” Boss continued. “You catch her name?”

“I don’t remember bitch’s names,” said Tan with a look of disdain. “Bros for life, right?” Tan grabbed Boss’ shoulders and massaged them hard for too long. Silence ensued. This had happened before.

In a hot minute Alexia -- a waitress who seemed not to notice Boss’ shutter shades, or Tan’s neon “Rage Sauce” tank -- dropped chow and the bros shoveled. Boss’s ‘scuits were standard solid and the gravy thick enough to pull off a boot.


Pave ya driveway with that gray-vay

Picture C/O Creative Commons


Plus, no worries about the calories since Boss could burn them in like twenty dips. Tan minced around his chicken even though it was deep-fried and moist. The waffles steamed and looked decent crispy. 

Tan glanced sideways at Boss. “Yo, you want to just hang out like old times tonight?” 

Boss turned. “What, like have a sleep over?” 

“No,” said Tan, shoving away from the bar, spreading his arms. “No! You gay or something?” Tan was still junked on The Mix: X, Blow, and enough vodka sodas to fill an Aerobed.

“Naw man, I just didn’t know what you meant,” said Boss. “Sit back down. Chill yo. Chill.”

“You’re the smart guy,” said Tan, tapping his salon-cut coiffe. “I thought you’d know.” 

Tan sat back down. He took a bite of the waffles. “Good yo, you want some?” 

Before Boss could answer Tan had cut off a slab chicken, nestled some waffle on top and carefully drizzled syrup over the whole thing.


Miggity-iggity-myocardial Infarction at 33: live fat die happy yo

Picture C/O Evan Swigart 


“Nah man I’m good,” said Boss. 

“What? You afraid of cooties or something?” Tan moved the bite close to Boss’ lips. Boss pulled back. 

“Yo, have some man,” said Tan, laughing in a brittle way. “Have some.” Tan kept advancing, Boss pulling back. “Yo,” said Boss. “Yo!”

Tan pushed Boss out of his seat and they were on the floor, Tan kissing Boss’ lips. Boss struggled but Tan had always been stronger.

“I thought about this,” Tan said, breath ragged. “I think about it all the time.” Boss wasn’t kissing back, trying to keep his lips sealed. What was happening? His pulse reverberated in his head, as loud as if it belonged to nature itself. He heard a group of large men and women laughing. The place felt too close. He almost didn’t notice that Tan was punching him now. Raining blows on his chest and face. 

Tan was crying. Boss kept saying stop, but Tan wouldn’t relent. Alexia looked up over the counter and screamed. The sound of it, high and still somehow tinged with accent, stopped Tan mid-windup. He sat on Boss’ chest, his face a mask of anger, guilt, and horror all at once. Silence hung in the place like spook-house smoke. With a gasp -- somewhere between pain and relief -- Tan sprang up and ran out the door into the baking sun.

Boss shook to a standing position. “You ok?” said Alexia, actual and genuine concern painted on her face. 

“I don’t know,” said Boss, unsure of whether to finish his food or leave. “Yeah. Maybe. I guess.”



FOOD:  

3.0 Stars

Standard Diner-fare through and through. And I mean that phrase quite literally.

PRICE: 

Student-Friendly

Despite it being South Beach, the prices are not too inflated. However, for the money, the quality of the ingredients leaves a wee bit to be desired.


AMBIENCE: 

It’s What’s Outside That Counts

Like much of SoBe, the ambience beats the substance. Sweet to eat in an authentic Diner car for certain.

SERVICE: 

The Best Part

Nice women. Nice men. Check plus. 

EAT OR SKIP: 

Skip

If you’re on South Beach and need (NEED) to go to a Diner, 11th St. is your choice. However, if you’re just looking for a great, cheap meal, go to Tap Tap. 



Remedy Diner - New York City, NY

Our boy, he of long limb and short hair, rises from slumber. Smacking mouth of terrible night-taste, he finds in his body a vicious hangover. Be it past-noon time of day or be it last night’s activities our boy is super-famished and needs bites. He must venture forth for sustenance, where the street heat will batter last night’s clothing in gusts of motor-hum.

In the NY sea of hard eye and black cloth our boy flows unnoticed. Parched in mouth and driving with fuel-starved leg he must travel far for nourishment. He does not relish this journey of foot and asphalt. But it is necessary. 

Hark, a female approaches.

Long glossy hair above tasseled boot, she wears the uniform of hip Brooklyn so-and-sos. Of what origin is this meeting, the whim of the city only knows.

“Hi” say she. Oh how lips of red smack in our young man’s eye.

“Oh,” say he, hands unable to find a correct spot. Of course, the origin of their first meeting our boy now remembers. At hip, LES bar (Pianos, mayhap?) last night, after passing in the doorway a time twice two many they had fallen to conversation. As her name connects with his mind her face connects with his heart or possibly something lower. Misha.

“What’s up? Greg, right?” say Misha.

“You got it...sister,” the production of said stupid phrase a consequence of embarrassment at unwashed hair + worry + attraction. Greg, our boy, recalibrates.

“Just heading out to grab a bite.” 

Lady responds sans effort. “Yeah?” Cocked hip squeezes heart of boy. “Where were you thinking?”

*DING DING DING*

Picture C/O Flickr-user Geoff Baron


The boy speaks true. Remedy Diner, of which he warbles praise. Diner of 24-hour joy. Featuring meal of hash + eggs (veal of homemade origin resting within), Burgers (hand-pressed), &c, &c. “'Top 5' Material, for sure,” say he. So many words of praise released at once that when boy finishes, the silence of street and foot rings harsh.

After pause of nervous length, “cool,” say she. Smooth, smiling face of hers expresses interest in tandem dining. Her cocked eyebrow an open invitation to invite. Oh how our boy's heart quails. The pounding of chest akin to tribal drum. He must take the true leap: the question of asking. The wonder if she is keen to accompany. He must query: will she join he? Simple words, but difficult -- so stubborn -- in coming.

Long time of passing as girl shifts and boy he fumbles for correctly -- no -- perfectly invitation.

“Ummm,” say she of shifting stance. “Well, enjoy the meal.”

“Yeah,” say he in fit of cowardice, “catch you later.” Boyheart shatters and drops into organs of lower position.

Girl, she walks away and boy curses himself as he does the same. How insignificant a question looks after the time to ask it has passed! Courage, curses he, a reserve that diminishes with greater need. A lout, a cur, a yellow-belly, and other such names he shouts internally on his journey to Houston and Norfolk. Children squeal on swings and aping-bars across the street. Cars hurrrr by and the world continues despite the crushing despair within the young man. 

At last, his destination appears at arm's length. With the opening of metallic door the clay-oven heat of street and brick is destroyed by AC interior and (capital t)Traditional Diner decor.


Now I'm not a religious man... BUT

Picture C/O Forgotten NY


The host (he of smiling face and forty [or more] years) seats our boy kindly. Though not empty, Remedy is also not full. Groups of mixed age, race and gender abound. Yonder, young child and younger parents sip at milkshakes of eye-widening volume. Beyant, a group of teens bow their heads in prayer of phone and text. Five more tables are filled with such melange of character and background. 

Yes, a fine and goodly crowd our boy would spy, were he not solely meditating on his own character flaws e.g. cowardice, lameness, loneliness.

Waiter approaches, water and utensils unleashed with gunslinger speed. 

“Waiting for anyone?” asks waiter, dark eyebrow raising, rippling forehead ridges in its upward push. 

“What?” say boy. “No.”

“Need time to think?” Boy say he does. Waiter stays.

“You know, it’s not worth worrying about,” say waiter, out of blueness.

“Huh?” say boy. Aloft, dense waiter-eyebrow stays; as if he is a knowing one.

“It’s always something or another with you,” say waiter.

“Me?”

“You kids, worrying about stuff.” Waiter shifts, stands square-at our boy. Speaks loud. “If I learned anything, it’s that there’s only one bad decision you can't take back: a face tattoo. So, just order some damn food." Waiter pauses, focuses. "What’s behind will stay there, and if it decides to jump back ahead... well, suck it up later.”


The pews of our lord and savory.

Picture C/O, terrifyingly, Google Street view


Unexpected, said sermon drops, as does waiter’s eyebrow. He departs.

Ponders on this, boy does. How much does he worry? Too much, think he. Girl will be around again, and if not said girl, other girl of more substance than simply fine attire and finer pout. Yonder milkshakes, notices he, look tantalizing.

Boy of muddled thought slowly becomes boy of clear head. Thinks not of female’s sun-dappled locks and crushing smile. Against seat of cool pleather his back slides, gaze tilting to look at ceiling of ubiquitous NYC tile. Inside a mind now low-tide calm, boy allows himself to enjoy the diner where so many good times have been spent. 

Waiter returns and the order is laid: California Omelette (mushrooms, avocado, pepper jack chee and tomats) with rye toast. “You know what,” say boy. “I’ll have a strawberry milkshake too.” Waiter approves. 

*~!*~~Praaaaaise~~*!~*

C/O Foodspotting.com member Viet Noms (sick handle, bra)


Meal arrives. Deliciousness achieved. Meal departs.

“Feel better?” wise waiter queries as check is laid down. Boy of previously troubled mind crinkles eyes and nods at waiter; waiter nods back with smiles.

You see, this is the vibe of Remedy. A magical spot where food and mood and ambience and price unite to fix what ails. Be they moral, physical or spiritual conundrums, Remedy’s extensive menu-choices -- filled with hand-crafted touches for taste-bud delight -- calm the busy mind.

And so we leave our young man as he has been before and will be again: enjoying the potent medicine from the clinic on the corner Houston and Norfolk. 



FOOD: 

4.0 Stars

  • A menu that is nothing less than a tour de force of classic diner fare. 

PRICE: 

First Job

  • For the money-sucking streets of New York, this is a wallet oasis. Reasonable for certain.

AMBIENCE: 

Back to the Future

  • As if plucked out of the 1950s and filled with modern-day time travelers. Traditional, not old. 

SERVICE: 

With Smiles

  • Of the many times I’ve frequented, service has been prompt and vigilant, 24 to the 7.

EAT OR SKIP: 

Eat

  • Did I stutter?



Maine Diner - Wells, ME

Pretend you’re a convicted felon. You’ve just been released. You’ve picked up your sparse belongings, and a tattooed thirty-something named Fuzz Nectar is waiting for you beyond the prison gates. His maroon, racing-striped Civic burps NOS-infused exhaust. It’s late October in Maine and the trees look like bug carcasses planted head-first. You bump fists with F.N. and he asks where to. You pull a five-year old cigarette from a case of Marlboro blacks, light it with an MMA-themed Bic and take a deep drag. The smoke brings your voice an octave lower and pleasantly stings your nostrils as you say “Maine Diner,” to the hastening western breeze. 

Suffice it to say, you and Fuzzington McKnuckleburg are about to get belly swole.


“Kneel, mortal.” 

Picture C/O Constant Contact


Maine Diner feels like your grandma’s house: the nice one. The waitresses dote on you. Your water is full before your cheeks meet the seat. Not only is the menu at the table, the place mats are also menus. For forty bucks, you could eat like Olde English royalty. You’re surrounded by men who look like they’re carrying triplets, and women who actually are. There are at least three people over the age of 100. And this is not only good, but right. Deeply right.

Fazz Nnnnectarino orders a coffee and a homemade pecan pie (Tricia [the wife] made him rock-hard scrambled eggs right before he picked you up). You order the Jim Nantz: a meal so unholy, like Voldemort, it’s broken into parts that -- initially -- must not be named.

It features the combo of Maine Diner’s 7-years-in-a-ding-dang-row award-winning seafood chowder. You, like the pro you are, do not make the mistake of ordering the clam chowder, which is a fine treat, but contains nowhere near the culinary, concussive force of the one and only Seafoo Chow. 


“A recipe that belongs in Fort Knox”

Picture C/O Road Food


The second part of the Jim Nantz is the choice of a cold or warm lobster roll. Oops, did I say lobster roll? I meant Liggity-iggity-izobster Riggity-ricky-ticky-tick-tock-tavvy-rizoolio.

You get the lobster roll cold with drawn butter on the side. Homemade Cole Slaw? A-hyes-pulleaze. Your stomach is licking its lips. And no, that’s not gross to contemplate, it’s transcendent.

The place is packed and its a Wednesday at two forty five. This is a diner where tourists feel like locals and locals feel like family. The decor is spartan. The tabletops appear to be linoleum. The ambience is part nostalgia-drenched Americana, part back-country cafeteria, part perfect.

The food is gone before it hits the table. Professor Fuzzlebung burps pecan. You lean back and smack your lips. Maine Diner is not a diner, as its chosen title would have you believe. It is both Maine and Diner incarnate. Where lobster and a snow-white ethnic landscape meet a quintessential, neckfat-producing, stick-to-your-guts-style dinerfeast.

You are not worthy.

Corporal Fussy Neck-tar pays for the whole deal (it’s your big day bra), and again he asks where to. You tell him to take you to Pam’s, where a 4.5 year old son whose hand you’ve only touched through an inch of prison glass awaits. The sun sneaks from behind a cloud and you light up another twig. Today is a good day. 

Life doesn’t begin at conception; it begins at Maine Diner.



OVERALL SCORE:

FOOD: 

4.5 Stars

Everything you want from a diner (homemade hashes, homemade pancakes, homemade everydingle) and lobster.

PRICE: 

Fair

Stuff yourself for under $10. Get a dinner that’s better than a warm hug from Mom for under $20. Or, man up and get seafood chowder, a lobster roll, a slice of warm blueberry pie (a la mode 4sho), and wash it all down with some crude (aka diner coffee) for about $30. Just perfection.

AMBIENCE:

Norman Rockwell

More American than Uncle Sam snorting a piping slice of apple pie from the Statue of Liberty’s cleavage.

SERVICE:

 Aunt’s Kitchen

Attentive service that reinforces the obvious: they care about getting you fed.

EAT OR SKIP: 

Eat

If you are a person and you are alive you should find a way to eat at Maine Diner.