ANYONE GROWING UP IN NEW JERSEY appreciates a good diner and loathes an impostor. A diner needs to be in a building all its own; it can't be in a mall or part of a chain. There should be chrome and neon. The owner must be the cook, or at least used to be. It can be a man or woman behind the counter sliding eggs off the griddle with a metal blade and onto oval ceramic plates chipped on the edges. No plastic forks, no Styrofoam cups. Ceramic and stainless steel, or don't call it a diner. Look for a grease-speckled health department permit yellowing on the wall beside the grill, just above the cook's ashtray, or-depending on local law-where the ashtray once sat. The food must be simple: eggs, any style, any time of day; hash browns made fresh every morning with onions and warming on the griddle; coffee, free refills and always fresh, even if it's yesterday's (don't ask for tea); burgers, fries, ketchup. If you spot squeeze packets, just walk away. That ain't no diner.
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