One Night at Ben's Diner

ONE NIGHT AT BEN’S DINER

I looked around the diner. I could see how the place had gotten the abysmal online reviews that it had. It was shabby. Not shabby chic, but old, rundown, nothing-new-in-the-last-fifty-years shabby. 

I looked at the counter stools and the booths. The red naugahyde was ripped and torn, patched with so many different types of tape, that the seats were more tape than naugahyde. When this place was new — around the time of the dinosaurs — there must have been a lot of chrome, but not so much now. The stool bases were pitted metal, any inkling of shine long gone, hidden under a layer of grime. The pie cooler was streaked and dull. Even the serving pass-through was scratched and dented. 

Glancing down at the floor, I cringed, fearing my feet were going to stick to it if I tried to walk any further into the diner. The barely-visible checkerboard design was probably very on-trend in the ‘40s, but now the floor was worn almost through to the subfloor in places.

Asbestos! I thought, a red warning light flashing in my brain. It’s probably floating around in the air right now, and I’m breathing it in.

What had Sanjay gotten me into?  

The windows were huge, running the length of the front of the building. Not that that I could actually see through the haze of grease and grime. What should have been white walls were yellowed by years of grease and cigarette smoke, an indication of how long it had been since the place had been cleaned or painted.

I looked around for Sanjay. We were supposed to meet here for dinner at eight, but I was sure it was some sort of joke. At least I hoped it was some kind of joke.  

I’d looked up Ben’s Diner online. The reviews were horrific. 

Pit! and Hole! were used numerous times to describe the diner. 

No ambiance, was another common thread. Snarky staff was also a running theme. 

But you should be able to get past the physical if if the food’s worth it, right? Apparently not the case. 

Worst food in the entire universe, said one reviewer. 

Burn it down! wrote another. 

Should be condemned, then bulldozed! wrote another. 

The cook deserves life in prison for the steaming pile of crap they called shepherds’ pie, suggested one reviewer. 

Of the over two hundred comments, not one was positive. The kindest was At least I didn’t get ptomaine poisoning.

Why had Sanjay insisted we come here? Our thing was food — finding cute little out-of-the-way places that surprised us with fantastic meals made by amazing chefs. This place was definitely not cute, and the only surprise we would get from the cook would be if we didn’t get food poisoning. It was a dump diner that hadn’t been cleaned during my lifetime. I thought about leaving, but decided that I had to at least wait for Sanjay — it was he suggestion that we meet here, and I couldn’t stand him up. Plus, Sanjay was a chef, I could trust him, right?

I looked around at the customers. There were nine people who had actually decided that they wanted to eat at Ben’s Diner. On purpose. I had no idea why.  

An older Asian couple who looked a little down on their luck were eating their dinner at two of the counter stools..  

Probably all they can afford, I thought.  

I stared at the man — he looked vaguely familiar, but in that old man kind of way. You know, at one point old men all looked the same, with their jowly faces and hound dog eyes. My own Gramps, who in fact looked quite similar to the gentleman at the counter, referred to the oldies he hung out with, as The Q-Tip Squad — all white on top. The man at the counter looked like he could be part of The Squad.

I checked out the other man sitting at the end of the counter. He was a little beefy, and was concentrating on his dinner, ignoring all those around him. He had a hat pulled down low, so I couldn’t see if he was enjoying his food, or not. Probably not, I figured, not if the reviews were any indication.

There were two men at a booth near the front who were sitting back, slowly drinking coffee, talking, their dishes piled off to the side.

Then there was a booth of four younger women near the back. They looked very much out of place, with their beautiful faces, perfect make-up, and good clothes. And they did not look happy.

“Excuse me!” said the woman on the outside of the booth, facing me. “Excuse me!”

When the server, a woman who probably came with the original building, ignored them, the woman ramped it up.

“Excuse Me!” she said snapping her fingers.

Oh, no! I thought, You NEVER snap your fingers at your server. Eke!”

Having been a server myself, I knew that it was the epitome of rudeness.

The server, Ruby, as her name tag announced, turned slowly, looking at the women, not speaking, just looking in their general direction.

“I would like to speak to the manager!” the woman announced.

“We don’t have a manager,” said Ruby.

“Then I would like to speak to the owner.”

“Owner’s in Florida,” said Ruby, looking at the woman. “Want me to call her?”

Ignoring Ruby’s sarcasm, the woman continued. “Then who’s in charge here.”

Ruby shrugged her shoulders, and looked back at the kitchen.

“Either me or the cook. You chose.”

“We are not paying for our meal. It was inedible.”

Ruby walked towards their table, and looked down at the remains of their food orders. The meals had been barely touched.

“It does seem that you did not like your food.” She started gathering up their plates.

“We couldn’t even eat the fries! Who screws up fries?” the woman whined.

Ruby shrugged her shoulders again.  

“The cook, I guess.”

Can’t even make fries? Sanjay! What have you gotten me into? 

“Well, we’re not paying,” announced the woman. “And we are definitely going to leave a scathing review on Yelp.”

“You won’t be the first,” said Ruby as she turned to walk back to the kitchen. “Or the last.”

The women got up and marched out of the diner, amid a chorus of “Well I never”s and “Can you believe this”s, clearly incensed at Ruby’s lack of concern over the fact that their meal had been trash. I watched them leave.

Why had they even been here, I wondered. This placed definitely doesn’t say hot new trendy spot. Maybe in 1910, but definitely not now, I thought.

“Help ya?”  

I turned back around, and found Ruby looking at me.

“I’m waiting for a friend. Thank you.”

She turned and walked back to the kitchen.

The big guy from the counter got up, and approached the cash register, walking right by me.

I jolted. I knew him! He was Guy Fieri — you know, the host of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.

What the hell’s he doing here? I wondered. Research? Probably penance, I decided.

I watched him go up to the cash, and pay.

“Thanks Ruby. Great as usual. Compliments to the chef.”  

“Our pleasure G. See you next time.”

"Ten grand," he said, handing Ruby a bound stack of cash as he was leaving.

I was dumbstruck. Guy Fieri! In what has been billed as the worst restaurant in the city? And he was a regular customer! And he liked the food? WTF?

I pulled out my phone, and looked up his Instagram and Twitter accounts. I of course followed him — I’m a bit of a Food Network junkie. And a food blogger. I followed all the best chefs. I scanned his posts. There were no posts about him ever having eaten at Ben’s Diner. Had it really been him? Yes — I knew it was him. I'm a fangirl. I know my chefs. But it didn’t really make sense — why would he be here?

I had decided to ask Ruby if it really was Guy Fieri, but before I had a chance, Sanjay arrived.

He walked up, hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Sorry I’m late. I got hung up at work.” He pulled back, and looked at me. “Forgive me?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Depends on why we’re here.” I looked around. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

Sanjay smiled what I considered one of the best smiles in the history of smiles.  

“Trust me,” he said.

And I would trust him. I’d always trusted Sanjay. He was my best friend. Plus he was an up-and-coming chef in his own right. Recently he’d been profiled in Epicure, and Food and Wine — very high profile articles in prestige magazines. There was talk of his own restaurant and investors were making themselves known to him.

I smiled back.

“I will, but …” I moved my arm to encompass the diner. “This will certainly be a leap of faith.”

Ruby came out of the kitchen.

“SJ! Good to see you on this side!”

“Ruby, it’s good to be here!”

Sanjay was a regular? Here?

I looked at him skeptically. He had some ‘splaining to do.

Ruby took us to the last booth, giving the faded linoleum table top a perfunctory swipe, and I reluctantly slid across the bench seat, opposite Sanjay, trying not to think about the last time it had been cleaned.  

 “Spill!” I said.  

Before Sanjay could answer me, the two men who had been drinking coffee came up to the table. I gasped.

“Oh my God!” I said as they came to the table. “Emeril Lagasse and Wolfgang Puck!” 

“Not tonight,” said Wolfgang Puck. “Tonight we are Johannes and John.”

Sanjay leaned toward me, “Middle name or initials only when we’re here.”

I looked at him, then at the two world renowned chefs, gobsmacked.  And confused.

“We were hoping that you would make it out front tonight. I’d be truly interested in getting your opinion of tonight’s menu. We’re all meeting later at my restaurant, say eleven p.m.?

“Certainly, Johannes. I’d be honoured.”

Sanjay stood up and shook hands with both men.

After they had left, I turned to him.  

“You know Emeril Lagasse and Wolfgang Puck!” I hissed quietly. “For real?”

He nodded.

“And you never told me?”

“I couldn’t.”

I sat back and crossed my arms across my chest. “Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”

“I promised,” said Sanjay, “But I can tell you now.”

I perked up, and leaned forward.

“Weird, but tell me everything!”

“Okay,” he said, “You know how I had those interviews in those magazines?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ve got them framed on my wall!”

“Right!” he said, nodding. “Well, there’s this group of established chefs, and they get together, and they invite a new up-and-coming chef to cook for them. This month it’s me.”  

He sat back.

“That’s fantastic!” I said. “Where?”

“Here,” he said. 

I looked around the diner.

“Here?” I said, in disbelief. “This place is a hole.”

Sanjay smirked. “Is it though?”

I looked around again. 

“Yeah, it is. I don’t know why it isn’t condemned.”

“Annabelle, look around. Closely.”

I gave Sanjay side eye. I had already looked around, and I wasn’t at all impressed. I was less than impressed. I was negative impressed.

“Okay, look at the booth seat. What do you see?”

“Lots and lots of tape holding together a beaten-up cushion.”

“Touch it.”

I shrunk back and wrinkled my nose. “Ew. No. Gross. I don’t know who’s dirty old butt's been sitting here.”

“Trust me, Annabelle.”

Reluctantly I rubbed my hand across the seat.

“It’s smooth. There’s no tape. It just looks that way.”

I touched the table. It looked worn and pitted, but it felt smooth. I rubbed my foot along the floor. No dips or worn spots, just new tiles, disguised to look old.

“It just looks old and nasty,” I said.

“Yup.”

“Window?”

“Just a coating.”

“Wall?”

“Paint treatment.”

“Ruby?”

“Oh, Ruby’s real. She actually owns this place. Along with Bobby Flay, Emerile Lagasse, and Nigella Lawson — B.E.N’s DineR. The initials of their first names. Ruby only comes in on special menu days, though. Other days it’s open to feed the homeless, and it’s run by World Food. All the chefs make a donation when they eat here.”

“But the reviews?”

“We write them. Except for when people accidentally wander in.”

“Like the four women at the table.”

“Yeah, but I think they’d heard something about this place not being what it looks like. They came in and were really confused.”

I looked at him, closely. “How do you know? You weren’t here.”

“Oh, right.” He smiled his fantastic smile. “ I was this evening’s chef.”

I looked quizzically at him.

“When you get invited into the chef’s group, you have to cook dinner for the chefs first — sort of like an initiation. Whoever’s in town wanders in, and you feed them.”  

“What about those four women?”

“Yeah, they weren’t supposed to be here. I cooked them crap. Ruby has a menu from when this was a diner, and I sabotaged their food,” he said, smiling. “They won’t get sick, they’ll just know that it was the worst meal they had ever had, and won’t be back. Ever. They'll know it's a dive diner.”

I looked at him with my mouth hanging open.

“Tonight we’re all meeting at ‘Johannas’s’ restaurant,” he said making air quotes around Johannas’s, “and they’re going to critic me.”

“That’s so exciting! I’m so happy for you!” I said, grabbing and squeezing his hands.

I looked around. The older couple were still sitting at the counter. They were the last customers. 

“Should I know them?” I asked Sanjay, nodding my head in their direction.

“Maybe. He’s dressed down, but it’s Yoshihiro Murata and his wife. They’re in from Tokyo for another event, and decided to join us tonight.”

“Yoshihiro Murata! That’s wild!” I said looking over. “How did he like the food?

“I won’t know until tonight. I’m a little nervous.”

“You’ll be fine!” I said, reassuringly.

Ruby brought over two glasses of water and a dish with food delicately arranged on the plate, which she placed in front of me.

I looked from Sanjay, to Ruby.

“I didn’t order this.”

“I made it for you before I left the kitchen. That’s why I was a bit late.”

I thanked Ruby, and looked closely at my plate.

“It looks like a piece of art, Sanjay. It’s beautiful!”

“Thank you.”

I took a bite.

“Oh! My! God! Sanjay, this is marvellous. What is it?

He bent across the table and whispered the answer to me. Then he said, “The first rule of Ben's Diner is that you don't talk about Ben's Diner.”

I smiled and took my first forkful.  

“It’s fantastic!” I said. “The chef’s should love this!”

“Let’s hope so!”

I finished my dinner. It was superb. Perhaps the best food I’d ever eaten.

“Sanjay, that was amazing. It’s the most delicious food you’ve ever made for me!”

Before he could respond, Yoshihiro Murata came to our table.  

He bowed deeply from the waist, and said in a heavily accented voice, “Thank you.”

Sanjay stood and bowed in return. Chef Murata turned on his heel, joined his wife, and they left the diner.  

“What now?” I said, watching them leave. We were the last customers.

"Well, you can join me at Wolfgang’s restaurant, if you want.”

My mouth dropped open. "Really!"

“You know, if you’ve got nothing else to do.” He smiled.

“I’m in!”

It was a dream come true.

*****

Three weeks later, I took to my blog.  

“I can’t tell you when, and I can’t tell you where, but I am able to tell you that I had the most fabulous meal, prepared by my good friend Sanjay Patel. I also had the opportunity to meet some of the world’s most renowned chefs. It was like the movie, One Night In Miami when all the greats were together in one place …