Chapter Twenty-Four
For the second time in two days, I had breakfast at a diner. This one was part of a chain. Like Frank’s, Silver Diner had tabletop jukeboxes and Formica-and-stainless-steel decor, but the help consisted more of college students on summer break than professional wait staff. It was one of those nouveau diners, where meatloaf and mashed potatoes shared space on the menu with mesquite and lime marinated grilled salmon.
The line was out the door, so we snagged a couple of stools at the counter with its up-close view of the kitchen. Over the shelf where orders appeared for pickup, you could see a line of men in white, exchanging brief remarks in Spanish as they shoved more plates under the heat lamps. I inhaled the wonderful smell of bacon and eggs sizzling on the grill.
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