There's a diner in the city
In a dicey part of town.
It's had clients through the decades
Who've come from all around.There are judges, cops, and gamblers,
Cabbies, priests, and lawyers too.
They all meet at the counter
Over pot roast and beef stew.It's like the United Nations
In a great reception hall
The counter knows no color
It respects the green of all.For a brief time at the lunch hour
Society's pecking order fades
While white collars blend with blue ones
As brief alliances are made.It's certainly not the country club
Where impropriety makes them frown.
It's the counter where humanity meets
In a dicey part of town.
I was in the Bay Area this week and had time to kill one evening. I took the BART into the city and got off at the Civic Center, taken in by the connotations of the name. This station brought me into the heart of San Francisco's Tenderloin district, an unsavory scene if ever there was one. Not being a swine, though, I was able to pick out a few pearls.
While walking towards Union Square, I stopped for a drink at a small corner bar called the 21 Club. This had its own history of (ill)repute, having been around two generations or more, and doubtless seen much that would characterize la condition humaine. The bartender pointed me to a diner up the street called Original Joe's as a place to satiate my appetite. He cautioned me about their generous portions and I wasn't disappointed.
Original Joe's was established in San Francisco by Louis Rocca and Tony Rodin in 1937 and has been a fine establishment ever since. They are in two locations, the other a late-night diner in San Jose. Their menu runs the gamut of home-style Italian cooking, and the griddles stay hot, the conversation stays warm as the night grows cold. While I was there, two cops on the beat packed a couple of hamburgers to go, a Japanese senescent gentleman polished off a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and I wolfed down the better part of a plate of lamb chops with mint jelly.
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