The Banana, Challah, and the Poetry of the Diner

I can safely say that the most poetic thing ever uttered in a New England diner during the last fifteen years was mine, and I say this humbly, because, how else could something stick in my mind so clearly for all these years?

It was probably 1998, maybe 1999, we were so much younger then - more idealistic, less cynical. The world was still exciting during those early college years. It was a Saturday night and we were at the Gold Roc. I personally haven't been there in years, as just walking through the door is like being bathed in early Judeo-Greek  mediocrity. We sat and ate like kings that night, over-zealously, as teenage boys do at a diner. Looking at the menu, I was entranced by the promises set forth by the French Toast. It was elaborately described as being made from Challah bread - whatever that was... it sounded mystical. I had that.

When it arrived at the table it looked and tasted just like any other ordinary french toast. I was surprised and disappointed, and felt that delivery had fallen grossly short of my expectations. "This french toast is boastful at most," I exclaimed. And I was right; I had succumbed to the moment and was left with average french toast. But it was memorable french toast, because now, thirteen years later and in a cubicle in Portland, I'm thinking about it.

Eh, whatever, those were poetic times. We used code; we used to shoot at people with a BB gun from our fifth floor dorm room window with the accuracy of True Marksmen, calling it the Banana so as not to arouse suspicion, evading the ongoing police investigation. We flushed whole drawerfuls of socks down the toilet. We crawled through the ceiling to break into dorm rooms just to play video games. We always bit off more than we could chew and threw the rest to the dogs.