Before moving full-time to Callicoon, my sister Janet and I drove back and forth from Manhattan each weekend to spend Friday night through Sunday afternoon at our little country house. 

Many years ago, driving back to the city one evening, we were suddenly overcome with hunger. But we had just entered New Jersey and knew a diner would come into view sooner or later. “Keep an eye out,” Janet said. Within minutes, the Tiffany Diner, a mammoth, gaudy vision in chrome, neon and mirrors came into view. It looked like it had been wrapped in aluminum foil. 

We pulled into the parking lot and headed inside the supernaturally bright diner. Waitresses, all of a certain age, in shiny black-and-white polyester outfits, moved briskly around the room. Colorful faux Tiffany lamps hung suspended above each table. 

We settled into a booth and were greeted by a quirky-looking woman whose laminated nametag said Alice. Her eyelids were painted with blue shadow and from her ears hung large gold-colored hoops. She was as cheerful as could be and we warmed to her immediately. 

She handed us heavy, bound leatherette menus. “How ya doing, girls? Good to see ya,” she said, her head bobbing as if on a springy coiled wire. Her long wispy hair, the dyeing of which she clearly handled herself, was multi-hued, nearly striped. Her coral-colored lipstick had been applied with a blind eye. “I’ll let ya look these over,” she said, patting the menu in my hand.

She turned to leave, then pivoted around. “Something to drink, girls?” she asked. “I’ll have a cup of coffee,” I said. “Decaf,” Janet added. 

Alice winked, “Ya got it,” she promised. A couple of minutes later she brought my coffee. “Was it tea for you?” she asked Janet.

“No, actually decaf, but I do usually have tea,” Janet said. 

“That’s what I thought,” Alice said, “You like your tea.” 

When she walked away, Janet asked, “Have we ever been here before?” 

“Nope,” I responded.

“The usual?” I asked my sister, scanning the six-page menu for both turkey sandwiches and tuna melts. 

“With French fries,” she replied.

I spotted Alice standing next to a large coffee urn, arms crossed over her chest. She was happily muttering to herself. I caught her eye, and she crossed the room waving her ordering pad. “We’re gonna split a couple of sandwiches,” I said. She nodded her approval. “One tuna melt with cheddar cheese on whole wheat and a turkey on toasted rye with lettuce.” 

“Lots of mayo,” Janet said. 

“Extra mayo on the side?” Alice suggested.

“Yeah, and well-done French fries, please,” I added.

Our food arrived and Alice waited to see our reactions. “Fries crispy enough?” she asked. We nodded. “Plenty of mayo,” she commented, pushing a filled ramekin in between our plates. “I’ll let you enjoy,” she said, moving off. The sandwiches were more than decent, accompanied by the usual wedge of half-sour pickle and tiny pleated paper cups of mediocre coleslaw. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, knowing we were being watched over by the sweet and kooky Alice. When I waved her over to get the check, she tucked her pad into the black apron tied around her waist so she could easily carry over two pots of coffee to pour our final refills. “It was great seeing ya again,” she said, as she slipped the check onto the tabletop. 

“You too!” Janet and I chimed.