The Diner in Florence, Mass is tough to over-recommend.
Sitting on the border of Trumpistan and Wokeville, the eggs, the Reuben, and the hot sauce all deliver the goods, or the good enoughs.
Waitresses and patrons greet each other by name or defer to “Hey, Hon,” and you happily obey the question that precedes you ordering: “So, what are we having?”
Both of the local daily papers sit at the end of the counter, each getting plenty of read-throughs by the end of the day.
There’s a lady who owns the place and a lady who’s in charge when the owner is not there. At the end of a day, the owner sits at the counter to mommy-boss her crew; the other boss lady does the books. Both can take your bill and clear the plates.
In that spirit of Dutch small business—“It’s coming, I told my boss to get it”— the diner in Florence does well.
And here, as the founders intended, America’s bottomlessly weak coffee is served bottomless, a hometown win you flag at the bottom of your next cup.
Stir in the stars yourself, Hon.