November 14, 2011

My friends, Gene and Smoopy from the BBC are in town for one more night and Gene suggested we meet at the Lyric Diner. It brought back a memory and a story which started out my book, 99 Beers off the Wall. So let’s go to the Lyric Diner, I’ll take a picture and then tell you the story of an afternoon lunch at the Lyric Diner that went woefully wrong!

An Upsetting Afternoon At The Lyric Diner
In 1997 or ’98 a guy we’ll call Alvin (I swore to him I’d never tell this story, so the least I can do is change his name) had moved here to Manhattan. He was a writer I had known for a while and we decided to have lunch. He was going to tell me his plans for the future in this city some call the Big Apple. I never do...call it the Big Apple that is. I meet him at his apartment and he suggests we go to his neighborhood local, The Lyric Diner. So we walk to the diner, it’s Sunday around 1:30 p.m., and it’s jam-packed with patrons all hungering for a patty melt and fries with gravy and other daily diner specials.

We get a table towards the back in the middle of the rectangular, brightly lit diner. I usually don’t eat much in the daytime, so I have a diet Coke and a glass of water. But Alvin really packs it in. Eggs, sausage, toast, bacon, potatoes, jelly, butter, coffee and I think cheese was involved somewhere in the course of the meal. It was the brunch special and it was more food than I’d ever seen someone eat for breakfast in my entire life of watching other people eat breakfast. And he was really shoveling it down fast and furious, Fatty Arbuckle style.

He had just jammed the last forkful of the gargantuan feast in his mouth and started to say something, but then he gags. His eyes cross for the briefest of moments, and then he starts choking. I ask him if he’s alright and he puts his hand to his mouth. Only one second of normalcy remained for the rest of our stay in The Lyric Diner. For it was then that puke started to stream between his fingers and he stood up over the table and let out an ear-piercing BARRRRRFFFF! sound and puked all over the table. And then he did it again. And then, just for good measure, he did it once more with feeling.

By now I’ve jumped back from the table which is literally dripping with puke. And we’re talking really gross throw up here folks, big grey chunks and sickening looking multi-colored runny matter all over our table and dripping down to the floor. By now Alvin has stopped puking and is standing there kind of in a daze. His face is red and his eyes are watering. I look around the diner and it’s like someone has shot an Uzi machine gun off in the joint. No one is talking, no one is eating, no one is moving. In one instant it went from the typical noisy, clinkity-clank-silverware-hitting-plates diner noise to complete and utter silence.

Everybody is staring at us and the puke-riddled table. It’s like time was frozen. And it’s at this moment that I see something that I’ll never forget. I look a couple of tables ahead of me and off to the left in a booth is a typical Manhattan yuppie power couple with their two boys who look to be roughly five and seven years old. Dad and the boys have on navy blue suits, white shirts and ties and mom is decked out in a summery white dress and wearing jewelry that maybe I’ll be able to afford after three lifetimes of working hard labor. The entire family is shiny, clean and polished ten times from Tuesday. And the whole stinking lot of them are staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at our table which has been turned into a dripping, gooey, vomitorium. And they all have full plates of food in front of them, they had just been served. I instinctively know that their cherished after-church weekly brunch has been ruined, maybe for the remainder of the summer, perhaps for the rest of their lives. The children would be scarred, that much was certain. But I couldn’t waste valuable time worrying about them, I just had to get out of that place and away from the puke.

By this time Alvin cleans himself up by fouling every napkin at our table. We walk up to our wide-eyed, frozen waitress in the corner and she nervously scribbles out our check. All eyes are glued to us as Alvin places a twenty on her tray and apologizes for the mess she’s going to have to clean up. She just stares ice at us.  We pay the bill up front to the sickened cashier and as we leave there is still entire silence in the diner. Right at that moment I felt as if I were a member of the Symbionese Liberation Army holding up that bank with Patty Hearst back in the ’70s. I hadn’t been back to this place since.

And now, four years later, here I am. I have a weird feeling that as I walk in, someone will say, “There he is, one of the throw up guys, lynch him!”

And that’s the end of my Lyric Diner story, let’s go find Gene and Smoopy.

The inside of the Lyric Diner, a classic, old school, open 24 hours diner.

Here's the front counter.

And here's Smoopy and a somewhat reclusive Gene seated at the same table that the infamous puke story took place.

There's the booth that the Yuppie family was seated at. It's empty now, maybe no one's ever sat at it again.

On the back wall, they have one of Biff's favorite New York photos from Grand Central Station.

And here's a cool Ray Charles tour poster.

Meanwhile back at the table, Sunday night dinner is happening. Smoopy got a turkey wrap.

Gene got a Greek Feta Cheese Burger with fries.

And I got the Matzo Ball soup...

And Buffalo Wings. A delicious Sunday night dinner and no one threw up all over the table.

We had a dessert dinner drink at Rolf's, across the street. They're famous for their over the top Christmas decorations, which I'll do a full post on after Thanksgiving.

But here's a little taste of it, one of the creepy dolls that's part of the decor. More to come in a couple weeks. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.

Lyric Diner
283 3rd Avenue (Between 22nd and 23rd St.)
212-213-2222

Further reading and watching: Colorado Guy, Metromix and Video from Colorado Guy.

And the wild mountain thyme,
Blooms across the purple heather.

(Surprise link...click on it...I dare you!)

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Bonus Bobby Williams Photo!
Bobby Williams is a New York photographer based in the East Village and is a contributor to EV Grieve. Occasionally he sends something my way, such as this stunning shot of the New York City skyline. Great work, Bobby, thanks for sending it in!