Crystal Diner

It's 9:30 a.m., and I'm having breakfast at the Crystal Diner, one of my new favorite spots. It's a small diner on Brunswick Pike in Lawrenceville, frequented by a multiracial clientele of varying ages. Before 8:30 the diner is full of worker bees on their way to their jobs; but at this time of the morning, the patrons are primarily retired people.

I treat myself to breakfast here about once a week. The food is good diner fare, generous helpings and relatively inexpensive. The coffee--plain joe, no cappuccinos here--is hot and strong. Outside it is raining and dreary; I like the cheerful light and noise in here. I sip my coffee, eat my French toast, and read, occasionally eavesdropping on the people nearby.

At the table next to me, an elderly man was recently joined by a woman about his age. Another man just sat down at their table. They are obviously old friends, relaxed in each other's company. While they wait for their food, the woman glances at the newspaper. The headline reads "Bush to Calif: No Federal Help."

"Bush isn't going to bail out California," she comments. "Well, good. They're all Democrats out there, they all voted for Gore. Let Mr. Gore solve their problem."

I stifle an impulse to glare at the woman, but I do take a quick glance at her. She's dressed rather elegantly for the time of day and for this place in a cranberry red suit. The color makes me think of Nancy Reagan, but her costume jewelry earrings and matching brooch make me think of my beloved, dead grandmother, and I feel more kindly to her, despite myself.

"And how about that Jessie Jackson fathering a baby out of wedlock?" she asks her companions. "He's another one, just like Clinton. Their wives should keep them in those metal pants ... you know, chastity belts."

The men grunt noncommittally. The waitress places their plates at their table: rye toast for Nancy, a bagel and lox for the first man, and eggs sunny side up for the other man.

"Hillary Rod-ham," muses the woman, spacing out the syllables. "Rod-ham, that's hard to say. It fits her, she's a hard woman."

"These eggs are cold," says one of the men, putting down his fork. He signals the waitress, who takes them away. "There's nothing worse than cold eggs."

"You know, you and me, we're tolerant people," Nancy remarks to her companions. I almost snort coffee out of my nose at that remark, but I turn it into a cough and pretend to be absorbed in my book.

"We're tolerant, not like the Democrats. Their leaders want to divide everyone, white from black."

The owner of the diner, a thin, nervous Greek has approached their table, the plate of eggs in his hand. The man waves them away.

"Is warm, now," insists the owner.

"Nah, I don't want them. There's nothing worse than cold eggs .... 'cept warmed up ones."

"You got that right, Pop," chimes in a younger man at the table on the other side of them. The owner retreats, plate in hand to the kitchen.

Nancy launches into another monologue. "And there's nothing dumber than the Democrats," she begins, but I have heard enough. I close my book and stand up. I put a dollar tip on the table, take my coat, and leave.

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