Elija Bandersnatch
Google
In the pantheon of small neighborhood diners, there is always a hierarchy—places where your feet stick to the floor and every bite you take is like the spin of a roulette chamber.
But when you stumble into the upper echelons of easy comfort food and great service, it is as if you’re returning to your youth—like you’ve found a home. In my eternal search for the ultimate bargains, I range near and far, always keeping my eyes peeled for those diners that will soothe my tremulous heart.
Javi’s was the X that marks the treasure, the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
The service was excellent—the kind of waitress you look forward to seeing, the kind who seems genuinely happy that you are there. I felt immediately at ease, like coming home where you can finally breathe a sigh of relief.
I ordered that ultimate test item, that thing which is so simple—like the bear dance (one step forward, two steps to the side, then one step forward)—that it evades many. For in simplicity, genius can flourish, or it can drag you down.
That item, my friend, is the humble BLT: a simple slate on which to write a poem or a dirge. This particular BLT was perfect. You could deliver it to the gods and have luck for the rest of your life.
Perfect toast, real tomatoes with real flavor, and, of course, a bacon that lives in your dreams.
The fries were absolutely down-to-earth and real: excellent crunch, soft interior, perfectly seasoned. My stomach did a little dance of joy.
So here we are—this little monument to the long tradition of roadside diners, this neighborhood treasure where people come again and again, and the staff gets to know what they want.
It has a place in the tapestry of the city. It grows into the community like moss grows into the rocks. It becomes a landmark, a place where people meet for conversation and comfort. It becomes a place that fits you like the good old jacket that belonged to your father, the one you wear when you need comfort from the world.
I’ll go back.