The Cure For Everything Is Salt …
… tears, sweat, and the sea. (Dinesen)
You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
“Attention, please, virgins in the house,” bellowed our server.
“Red arrow virgins! Welcome, virgins!” she cries in our general direction. A group of gentlemen occupying two booths to the left smile amicably in our direction. One quips, “I’m a red arrow slut.” Indeed, if we lived in Manchester, New Hampshire, we would be, too.
The Red Arrow Diner, stumping ground for political hopefuls, hiding place for tired rock stars, eating space for the rest of us. I sit where Hillary Clinton one parked (the brass plaque says she did, so it must be true). The Barenaked Ladies sat across from me, but unfortunately not on the same day or time. Two orders of corned beef hash and eggs, one order of steak tips and eggs, and coffee all around. One of the things I love about a diner is the expectation of solitude in the midst of company that the settling allows. Damn near expects. It’s OK, then, for us to enjoy breakfast in comfortable, relative silence–not quite awake, not quite social, not quite ready to face the day. And very happy to have found a place that makes perfect dropped (poached) eggs and double-crisp hash browns.
Next time I’m here, I’ll be back. Who says it’s never as good as the first time?
