When in a diner . . .

The A1 Diner, Gardiner, Maine

There’s a downside to fame, even when it involves that humble bit of Americana, the classic diner. 

The A1 Diner in Gardiner, Maine, which is a mere six miles from my home, is a 1946 Worcester diner, so named because it was built by the famed Worcester Lunch Car Co. in Worcester, Mass. She's a real beauty, with wooden booths and a row of blue-topped stools along a full-length countertop fronted by blue and black tiles. There’s an arched ceiling, and plenty of stainless steel to dazzle the eye. 

Despite its roots, the A1 is no greasy spoon. It offers a solid variety of wines and beers, and its menu features both comfort food and more imaginative fare, such as Mediterranean and Tex-Mex cuisine. So it’s no surprise that the A1 has built up quite a reputation, among locals and tourists alike. 

Still, a diner is a diner. 

The unwritten rules of diner etiquette say that you’re supposed to grab a stool or a booth, study the menu for a minute or two and then quietly place your order when the waitress shows up. No fuss. No affectations. No airs. But if tourists get into the act, things are never that simple. Menus must be scrutinized. Questions must be posed. Answers must be analyzed. Sophisticated palates must be satisfied.

When my wife Liz and I popped into the A1 for lunch recently, we found ourselves at the counter, because all of the booths were taken. A counter stool may be less cozy than a high-backed booth, but a spot at the counter offers a better vantage point for watching people, and for eavesdropping on conversations. 

So we were in our element. 

As we sat there, tourists began parking their precious butts on either side of us. (We knew they were tourists because of their out-of-state cars - and their behavior.) One woman pleaded for a chance to move from the counter (oh, the horror!) to the first available booth. Another grilled the waitress about the ingredients in a vegetable dish. To our right, a man peppered the same waitress with questions about the diner’s hamburger buns. His female companion asked to sample a particular wine, so she could decide if it suited her refined tastes. 

The waitress took all of this posturing in stride. She probably was accustomed to it. But I was left with what seemed like an obvious question: If tourists insist on hanging out at a diner, albeit a famous one, why can’t they leave their pretensions behind? It is a diner, after all, not a restaurant with a three-star rating from Michelin. When in Rome . . . .