yennifer’d found ways to entertain herself between jobs by doing silly and frivolous things; things like counting billboards or cheating at cards. one of her favorite games that she played required a little diner, a table for one, and a mind deprived, as she regularly was, of living human-to-living human interaction for far too long. this particular game depended on spying the similarities between the many eateries of this great nation. yennifer had compiled a few common denominators during her travels & she’d made a game of spotting each one every time she visited someplace new.
she knew, for example, that every small town diner had a counter: lined by swivel chairs & glass confection stands displaying old-fashioned pies or cakes or donuts or what have you. she noticed, passingly, that the displays here were nearly empty & she had yet to decide if that boded well or not. another point of congruity that she’d noticed: every diner she’d been to seemed to have the same yellowing, laminated, syrup-sticky, menus—the size & scope of which verged on the obscene: a veritable cornucopia of the delights & delicacies of the americas, both north & south. on top of the endless anthology of cuisine one was presented with at the door she’d come to accept the fact that there was never, would never, be enough time between being seated & being asked what you wanted. it didn’t matter if the place was packed to capacity or dead as church on a tuesday: someone with a lacquer-like smile pinned to their face & a uniform so finely pressed you’d think it was made of paper was sure to follow no less than ten minutes into one’s stay to exchange pleasantries.
it was seldom ever so that the server’s outward enthusiasm matched her own. it catches her enough off-guard that she flounders for a moment. she glances at his uniform, eyes scanning his apron, his chest, his arms, for a name tag, before finally settling on his face, ❛ be honest: how’s the cherry pie here ? ❜
“best cherry pie in town,” he recites the line without a moment’s hesitation. he’s heard it so many times, always delivered with that bright smile and peppy lilt, he wouldn’t be surprised if the owners decided to make the thing their slogan. maybe get one of those big ol’ marquee signs and let the letters scream it to anybody within a hundred feet radius. best cherry pie in town! :)
it’s the only cherry pie in town.
this is the only diner in town. which means they can get away with a hell of a lot so long as there’s somebody who isn’t keen on having dinner with their family that night or some poor soul who thinks coffee at 3 am is gonna do them any good. loretta’s diner has the luxury of being able to serve bland meals and still stay afloat, and it takes full advantage of that luxury. the food here is a mixed bag. the burgers are bland, the chicken tenders are rubbery, and the onion rings are soggy—but not always. the owners seem to be afraid of seasoning, some of the older cooks too, but sometimes timothy (or one of his decent coworkers) gets ahold of somebody’s order and a fortunate soul gets paprika on their patty. quality depends on the day, time, and luck. there’s a lot of variables at play. but with some things, like the cherry pie, there isn’t.
the cherry pie is always good. as are the rest of the pies, and the milkshakes, and the bread pudding. the senior cooks can’t flip a seasoned burger to save their lives, but they have desserts handled. every slice is guaranteed to be good, flaky, and sweet — maybe they should make it their slogan. but that conviction doesn’t mean he’s about to go around lilting that lilt and smiling that smile like everybody on the wait staff does. so his face remains impassive for the most part, with only the slightest twitch of his lips, as if he’s just shared an inside joke with himself, before settling back to indifference.
“—which isn’t saying much, considerin’ the town, but uh. it’s good. objectively good. even better with a cuppa joe.”
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