This Grill is on Grindr

A while back I went to a diner in downtown Denver. Now you may know, but I have a passion for diners. I could seriously eat every meal for weeks on end in a diner. And, I have.  Remember when I was on a date with that Olympic Swimmer at a Diner and the grill at the diner caught on fire? That was October, 2014. You can read the blog post on how I sang "This-Grill-is-on-Fire!"  That was Denver Diner. This week the media announced that the Denver Diner, just the best damn diner on the planet, has completed their post-fire reconstruction, and are set to re-open later this week.

This makes for a very happy Steve. Countless number of times I have said "Man, this would be a great time to sit in the Denver Diner.... damn it!" Soon, the best damn diner on the planet will reopen its doors. I will be there. Asking for pancakes. Then I won't have to mess around with other greasy spoons. Like the one I was dining in a while back when I went to a diner in downtown Denver....

The diner, I dined with, whilst I waited for Denver Diner to repaint, and run one of those five-fingered microfiber things through the mini-blinds, was called Sam's Number 3. Presumably because there are two other Sam's. Maybe it is a generational suffix? Either way, I went in with couple of friends after hanging out in the "theater district" of Denver. Upon being seated,  we were promptly ignored.  As my norm, I cranked open Grindr. Quickly I received Grindr service. A guy popped up with the ubiquitous "Hey."  After finally having the waiter tear himself await from the bar, we got our order in. Then waited, what seemed to be a lifetime, for our food. The same dude, popped up on Grindr. "Hey!" He seemed familiar so I replied, How YOU doin'?" Quickly, as I waited for the server to finally notice that my Diet Coke glass had tumbleweeds blowing through it, he popped up. "Your[sp] hot." I looked again at his profile pic. He seemed familiar because he was our lame-ass waiter.

Our server was ignoring his tables to hit on guys on Grindr. He then hit on one of his tables, he was ignoring.  I showed my table mates. "Ask him for my ranch he said he'd bring." So, I did. I asked if I could have Ranch Dressing, and a refill of my Diet Coke. I watched as he turned to face me. Then, slowly slid off of his bar stool and went back to the kitchen. Returning with our requested items. The service was awful before then. The service didn't much improve after that.

Let us just say I am excited for the re-opening of the best damn diner on the planet, Denver Diner. 

Tom's Diner

I am truly unsure why we deviated from our normal Sunday diner regimen. Yes, the group of homosexuals I run with, live by the motto of “let’s try something new.” So we are always open to checking out new restaurants in the fair city of Denver. Maybe, I am still in mourning over my beloved Denver Diner; attempting to replace the closed restaurant in my heart. It must of been this longing to eat in a truly colorful diner that made us decide to ditch our normal Sunday plan and check out a diner that all the kids have been talking about for some real diner realness. Old school style. 

The diner we chose was the famous, or should I say infamous, Tom’s Diner on Colfax Avenue. Now, in theory it should be an amazing place. An old seventies diner in the heart of Capitol Hill revamped to look like a hip… seventies diner. Where kitsch style, meets hipsters, meets the chic-homeless.  We didn’t mind that the parking lot resembled a broken up asphalt lot one would find in front of a topless bar. In Waco, Tx. We were a sleuth of urban bears, we wanted grit, damn it.  Being ignored by every member of staff as we stood next to the “please wait to be seated” sign was charm. Like asking a strange man sporting a raincoat for help on a New York subway ride.  Finally, a waitress told a guy to seat us. At this point I felt like Patricia Nixon being asked to make the tie-breaking vote as a judge of the national felching contest.  Mr. maître d escorted us  to our table, sandwiched between a fighting family and a un-chic homeless brood. As I turned to my friend Mike and declared we should give up our dream of being seen out with the hip breakfast set, the maître d scoffed and stated that if it’s the table they could give us their very best booth. The friendly chap then began to school me on how to find a table in restaurants. Stating “when you’re in a restaurant, and you don’t like your table, just tell ‘em.” 

We barely tripped on the broken chunks of asphalt as we ran across the parking lot. I have always been sure that one thing would happen in my life time. Besides Princess Diana rising from the grave to kill us all. It is that I would finally find a diner I could not enjoy. 

Denver Diner

 I have realized, with age that I'm getting more and more like my father. I guess it's normal for people to realize that apples, really, don't fall far from their trees.

My realization about this is in my love of diners. Greasy Spoons. Genetically the paternal line of my bloodline is unexplainably drawn to eating in diners. Sitting for hours, talking with friends, or simply alone with a cup of coffee. 

Denver does not disappoint in this area of fine dinning. From Greek-owned diners staggered every couple of miles in the heart of the city, simple truck stops, to the hip trendy diners filled with bearded dudes and chunky-plastic jewelry wearing dudettes. Denver has what I need. 

I am saddened that my favorite, The Denver Diner, is still sitting dark. It was on the first real date with the Ginger Swimmer, after midnight, that I had a heaping stack of flap- jacks served in front of me. Suddenly a screamed call to get the hell out broke my dream-like state. We watched from safety as flames jetted through the roof. 

Still the diner sits dark. My very genome  wanting it to be open; so I may sit and drink coffee. Like every male in my bloodline before me. It is what we do. Until it reopens, If you need me, I'll be sitting in the back booth at that Greek diner. Drinking coffee.

This Grill is on Fire

On Saturday night I found myself out on a date. A date that ended up in a cozy booth at my favorite place to dine; The Denver Diner in downtown Denver. A ginger bearded boy and I sat in a corner booth dining on pancakes. A scene right out of a gay Rockwell painting. It was the perfect step on a great night out. We sat and judged the endless supply of parading women, drunk and spent from partying in their tiny skirts and 6" heels.  As I stared dreamily into my table mates deep blue eyes I heard screaming from the kitchen. "Get out!!!! Fire!!! Everyone out!!!!" I looked over to see the entire grill engulfed in flames. Leaving my pancakes, but grabbing my bearded boy, I attempted to beat out the murder of drunk girls, as I would assume they would be too slow in there cheap heels to make it to the door.*

As I escorted my date to the  front door, I did have the head about me to bust into a rendition of one of Alicia Keys' songs. I blurted out,

"it's just a grill and it's on fire!"

 "THIS GRILL IS ON FIRE!!!!"

There is

no more proud moment in my life.


*The news reported that no whoreish girls were harmed in the fire. My pancakes were; however, a total loss.

The news link is here...

Diner Talk

I sit alone at the counter. I’ve sat alone at this and other counters like it since I was old enough to drive.

For me, this is my most guilty pleasure.

When life becomes too much, or maybe I’m on top of the world I find myself seated at the counter of my local Japanese rice bowl, teriyaki quick dining restaurant. Sitting at the bar I enjoy the ritual of rubbing the frayed wooden chop-sticks. The slowly working my way through a chicken and rice bowl covered to entirely way too much pickled ginger. Doing this somehow puts the magnetic lines of the earth’s axis back into proper alignment.



All my grand decisions about life are plotted and re-plotted out here. My failures dissected and examined for their meaning and direction. My accomplishments are added to the listed Excel spreadsheet in my head. Each column growing slowly with each visit to the counter. Each Chicken teriyaki bowl somehow marks the passing of my life. Upon the passing of my Step-Mother and visiting with my Father in Boise I discovered that the old man did the same thing. Just with pancakes and coffee.



I most certainly don’t need to be alone at the counter to click the beads on the abacus. It just mostly works out that way.