I have a thing for diners.

I adore the diner aesthetic and ambiance so much I’d happily get married in one.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again—I’ll happily eat at a diner anytime of day.

Middle of the night? I could go for bacon and eggs.

4pm? Something doused in maple syrup sounds great.

Morning? Are you kidding? Pour me a cup of terrible gray-colored coffee and slide me a menu.

There’s something beautifully nostalgic and comforting about the sounds of clinking worn-out silverware on thick plates, the ding of the bell when the fry cook serves up a hot order, the swish of the spinning bar stools at the counter.

Possibly it’s the feeling of community and the magic of “regulars” that I adore.

Old Sal in the booth he’s habitually claimed with his repetitive order of eggs sunny side up and a black coffee.

Jo whose been waitressing for 30 years and literally couldn’t give a damn about cutesy customer service. You’re taking too long to order and she’s going to let you know.

Or Lou in the kitchen who is always just a little drunk when he comes in for his shift.

Maybe it’s the approachability that diners offer. Even if you’ve never been to a particular establishment, you know what’s on a diner menu, you know what a stack of pancakes tastes like, you know they’ll serve up your saturated, cholesterol-heavy American diet.

Or perhaps it’s the familial atmosphere that warms me. I walk into diners feeling like I’ve walked into grandma’s kitchen and she’s there to butter me up with comfort food, a warm mug, and sweet hospitality.

I’ve never wanted a few slices of French toast so badly.