February 22, 2026

By Arthur H. Gunther III

thecolumnrule.com

Small American diners are part of the DNA, soul, heart and comfort of this land. No matter the politics, the economy, the region, if the eatery is honest and serves comfort food in a welcoming, cozy space, it is golden. It is common home to us. The diversity of America is no longer misunderstood.

Diners began as lunch wagons, late 19th-century long boxes pulled by horses, parked next to vaudeville houses, work places, downtowns. Lost their wheels as time marched on, set on a foundation not only of cinder block but of the humanity within. They grew through wars and depression but have been largely shooed away by the disrespect of modern “progress.”

Diners, once small with long counters, revolving, Naugahyde-covered seats in bright colors and window booths, were theaters. You watched the cook in whites frying at the flattop grill, switching off in well-orchestrated hand and body movement to open the side refrigerator, grab a hamburger patty, a slice of American cheese and weigh it all down for cooking. He would fill the counter coffee cups with brew fresh from large stainless steel urns – no open-air flavor-destroying decanters – as he also caught the toast popping up. The cook was on stage.

So were the waitresses, pencil in hair, apron over dress, pastel colors against their no-nonsense attitude. Only the apron was dainty – they had seen enough late-hour drinkers and more than a few haughty customers. The ladies could put you in your place faster than your mom.

They were also great listeners for night owls arriving in sadness as they slid into a booth as if it were a comfort blanket. Some hot brew and eggs, bacon, home fries later as well as the ear of the waitress who knew all humanity, the fellow was better. For awhile anyway.

The few diners that still exist are more like restaurants, given changing tastes and economics. May they prosper in their own right.

But among the American people, memories continue to exist of the welcome home that was the early, smaller diner where all who entered did so in reverence for what they were about to receive in comfort food, atmosphere, human theater.

Were most Americans in these troubling times of identity, worry and fear, were all these of us, in this U.S., in this moment of the American experiment to leave satisfied from such old diners, we would display in pride a badge that we had enjoyed food, company and human reinforcement. Perhaps for the moment anyway, divisive politics of all stripes born of ignorance and uninformed judgment would wash away a bit.

We have more in common than we bother to see. Maybe we should all meet at the diner.

The writer is a retired newspaperman.

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