In fact, my appreciation for diners has only grown since moving here, because I don’t need you the same way I once did. By “need,” I mean that as a New Yorker I’ve grown pretty accustomed to receiving almost any food items I want whenever the hell I want, without even having to talk to another human being. I hardly have to seek you out as my sole late-night option the same way I did when living elsewhere.
Yet, somehow, I still find myself back in Kellogg’s Diner ordering a grilled cheese after a long night out in Williamsburg, or making an excuse to leave the bars early so I can house a burger at Joe Jr. before it closes.
You’ve seen me at my absolute worst -- I’m talking face-planting-into-a-western-omelet bad -- and you still accept me.