As a child of the baby boom era, my family life was much like those on ’60s sitcoms. Mom stayed home and took care of the house and children, and Dad went to work every day. Dinner was kept warm until he came home from the office, so bonding with the kids usually meant asking obligatory questions about our day at the dinner table or watching TV together. We’d say good night, go to bed and then see him off to work in the morning. I never imagined what went on while I was sleeping.
Most nights, a few hours after my brother and I fell asleep, my dad would wake from his evening nap and head out of the house. I would have been thrilled to think that he was a part of some secret mission or doing undercover police work, but he was simply going to eat his “real’ dinner at the local diner, called the Toddle House.
The Toddle House, a national restaurant chain that specialized in serving breakfast, was open 24/7. Each tiny outlet was built to the same plan. No tables; just a short counter with ten stools. Famous for their grill-fried hash browns and burgers and their incredible chocolate “ice box” pie, the tiny kitchen space and single grill cook could whip up any number of artery-clogging treats.
My father was a glutton for greasy foods like bacon and sausage, but since my mom kept a kosher home, he never got that at the dinner table. And although my mom tried to stock plenty of Hostess cupcakes, Mallomars, and greasy potato chips in the house for his late-night cravings, he could only get his fix at the Toddle House.
This secret sanctuary was first revealed to me at the tender age of 10. As my homework got more difficult, I stayed up later. During one particularly late study session, I heard the front door open. It was after 11 o’clock and the noise scared me. I crept down the top steps so I could check out the situation and saw my dad putting on his coat and hat.
“Are you going to work now?” I asked
He looked a little sheepish, but then he turned to me and smiled.
“If you can get your coat and shoes on in two minutes, I’ll take you for the best treat you’ve ever had!”
So began my indoctrination into the world of “breakfast anytime”, because once we got there, that was all I wanted. Sitting at the counter, watching the cook break open eggs with one hand and flip pancakes with the other, I imagined ordering everything on the menu.
Besides my dad and me, there were only about two or three other people in the diner. The waitress greeted my father by name and didn’t even ask him what he wanted. She poured him a cup of coffee and had the cook start an order of eggs, bacon and hashed browns.
“And you, little one?” she asked.
I looked over at my dad who asked, “Pie or breakfast. It’s your choice!”
“Breakfast!” I blurted out. “Pancakes!” And the show began.
Our stools at the counter were so close to the open grill that I could almost touch it. The eggs sat out in an open carton next to a milkshake machine (the green porcelain kind with a silver blending cup). An aluminum pitcher, filled with melted butter, bubbled on the grill, and I watched as the fry cook ladled out enough to start the hash browns. I watched him grab a metal ring (kind of like a spring pan for cheesecake, but only about three inches in diameter) and stuff some shredded potatoes inside. He fried them until they were crisp on one side and flipped them to finish the process. Then, he turned the ring onto the plate and out came a perfect disc of golden spuds!
