Destination: New York : Authentic Cafes : City diners dish up comfort food in friendly, gleaming spaces that evoke the ‘30s and ‘40s

NEW YORK — As I sit at the long Formica counter, the aroma of fresh coffee laces the air like a familiar perfume. Gently sloping ceilings curve toward large windows through which I gaze at the seemingly distant universe outside. The counterman spoons thick brown gravy onto a hill of mashed potatoes and even the tune he is whistling sounds familiar. “You know,” he says to me suddenly, “you should have seen this place 10 years ago.”

It’s then that I am reminded--as if the sleek stainless steel exterior, Formica tabletops and oh-so-familiar menu weren’t clues enough--that I’m in an authentic diner, one of about 15 scattered around Manhattan that are getting more crowded by the day, as ‘90s budgets drive us out of nouvelle establishments and back into the arms of food that is comforting and (dare we say it?) downright cheap. Should we be surprised, then, that all over New York these classic spots are suddenly popular again?

I’m not talking about friendly corner hash houses or modern coffee shops designed in diner style. In fact, the term is quite specific. The true diner is manufactured as a prefabricated whole and transported intact--usually on a flatbed truck--to its location. There it’s set down onto pre-laid plumbing and electrical outlets. It can thus be picked up and moved at will, reminiscent of the rolling food carts that as early as the 1870s were the diner’s precursors, according to those who have researched the matter. “If you can’t move it,” goes the unattributed, but generally accepted definition, “it isn’t a diner.”

I’ve eaten in just about all those in Manhattan, but the ones I like best also happen to be convenient to places a tourist is likely to visit. From the friendliness and generosity of the Cheyenne Diner, the classic look of the River, the shockingly low prices of the Square and the instant recognizability of the Empire, these places all convey to me in some way the essence of the diner.

“This place is what a real diner looks like,” says George, the friendly counterman at the River Diner, as he fills a cup of coffee without even looking, “though these days they use the word diner for everything . . . even,” his eyes fill with horror, “places inside buildings.”

While there is no strict textbook definition, in addition to being mobile, a true diner has a characteristic look, displaying two other essential traits: a long counter with attached stools and a kitchen that’s visible to the patrons. (Some experts think that this was originally to ensure quality of food preparation.) The classic diner is long and narrow, its exterior swathed in stainless steel or other metal, with stripes of porcelain enamel. Inside, Formica rules, though many of the older diners also have elaborate tile work.

“Almost everything in here is original,” George assures me, gesturing around at the long Formica countertops, tile patterns that cascade across the floor, stainless steel starbursts exploding with good cheer from the walls and sloping, metal-framed ceilings. “Even the air-conditioner is original.” Only in a diner, I think, would a lack of renovation be a source of pride.

There is, in fact, a certain pleasure in knowing that I’m but one in a long line of people who have, over the years, huddled here over coffee and gooey pastries, or downed hot turkey sandwiches, tuna melts oozing with cheese and some of the best meatloaf in town. This vintage 1940s diner predates the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center across the street by several decades, dating from the same era as the nearby tourist destination, the World War II battleship U.S.S. Intrepid and the sea and space museum. The minute I pass the sleek exterior--stainless steel with insets of blue porcelain enamel--I am in diner domain. I half expect the late actress Nancy Walker to walk up with a roll of paper towels--though Rosie’s Diner, where that commercial was made, has in true diner style been carted off to Rockford, Mich.

At the Cheyenne Diner, just around the block from Madison Square Garden, I can imagine myself back in the mid-1930s, when the place was built by Paramount, the same company that manufactured Rosie’s. Burnished metal and aqua enamel wrap around the curved exterior of its corner location, and inside I find a gray Formica counter, speckled tile floor and stainless steel panels like those at the River. While there has been some amount of renovation, the classic look is intact.

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There is no nouvelle cuisine here--no sun-dried tomatoes or sauteed arugula. What’s on tap is the same old comfort food that’s as much a hallmark of diners as barrel ceilings and big-haired waitresses: burgers and fries and mountains of chicken salad. And the prices, typical of most diners, are a pleasure: $4.75 for a burger and fries (served with coleslaw and the ubiquitous diner pickle); $2.25 for a grilled cheese sandwich; $5.95 for meatloaf served with soup, potato and vegetable--remarkable prices considering the amount that’s piled on the plate.

“Anything I put down is going to be generous,” says owner Spiros Kasimis, as he bites into a burger (an owner who eats his own food is always a good sign). “I want you to leave food on the plate,” he says. Though I take the statement, like my tomato soup, with a grain of salt (you would hardly expect him to brag about skimpy portions to a patron, would you?), the eagerness to promote his establishment and please his customer is charming. All the more so for being such a rarity in Manhattan dining, where one is lucky if the waiter deigns to put in a cameo appearance at your table, and the owner is often a faceless corporate conglomerate.

For me, much of the appeal of the diner lies in its generous portions and familiar cooking. Or as Richard J. S. Gutman, author of “American Diner Then and Now” (HarperCollins, $25 softcover), defines it, “Home cooking, American food, plenty of it, just mounds of food on a plate, at a good price.” But there is more to it than that, according to Gutman: “Each diner, though it may resemble another, has its own personality, and that personality is a combination of the owner, the architecture, the food and the guy you’re rubbing elbows with at the counter next to you.”

I’ve found diners all over town, though they’re concentrated on the not particularly glamorous Westside from Midtown south. I was told by a diner owner that’s because major trucking routes run through that part of town and this does seem appropriate. And I somehow can’t imagine a true diner taking up valuable space on the tony Upper Eastside.

Gutman’s book is a great guide, but I love to discover diners on my own. While doing jury duty, for instance, I stumbled onto the nearby Square Diner, just a few blocks--and an entire world--away from high-priced SoHo and TriBeCa and a short journey from Wall Street and other Lower Manhattan landmarks.

The discovery came not a moment too soon. While its hamburger is no longer six cents--a burger price typically found during the mid-1930s--I still had a good lunch every day for under $5--a great relief from the overpriced and indifferently served food that is presently common in the neighborhood. And on those rare mornings when I got an early start, I could dash in for a deliciously fattening egg sandwich costing a paltry 95 cents. Besides, the Square was dishing up omelets and hash browns when the trendy areas nearby were just a gleam in a developer’s eye, and that’s worth something, no?

Also on the outskirts of SoHo, and something of a landmark destination itself, is the stylish Empire Diner, perhaps New York’s best known. At first, a few things seem unlikely: Could this possibly be the original decor? (It’s not.) Are those really tofu fajitas on the menu? (They are.) But I soon hear a conversation that puts me at ease. As a steady customer settles in at the counter, his meal magically appears without any ordering, with the waitress explaining casually, “Oh, the kitchen saw you coming, and put your sandwich on the grill.” The trappings and prices may be a bit upscale, with counter people looking suspiciously like unemployed actors, but it’s still a diner at heart.

The Empire is perhaps the most recognizable, having appeared in Woody Allen’s movie “Manhattan,” as well as countless television and print ads. Both the River and the Cheyenne have seen scores of television crews. “They’re always filming something here,” Kasimis says. “Hyundai, Macy’s, Cosmopolitan. MTV is in here every other day.” Not to be outdone, George at the River says, “Magazines, TV, you name it, they’ve all been here.”

Well, it is a familiar and appealing look--as close to an institution as you get in this neck of the woods. For the tourist, diners are a uniquely amusing indigenous institution. (Though they exist in other areas, diners were born and are most plentiful in the Northeast.)

Most importantly, the diner is a haven of friendliness in a city not known for its personal touch. Like the comfort food served--almost unchanged since the golden age of diners from the late 1930s to the early 1950s--there’s something reassuringly familiar about the colorful Formica and gleaming stainless steel of these vintage spots.

Spend enough time sitting at the counter over a steaming cup of coffee or a bowl of thick and tasty soup, watching a grill man as, humming under his breath, he flips an omelet or a couple of eggs, and you’ll wonder why anyone would want to eat anywhere else.

Soon you won’t even notice the haughty skyscrapers or the swank, reservations-only spots; what you’ll be looking for is a sleek, railroad car-shaped, free-standing building, cased in shining stainless steel and fluted porcelain, its capacious windows providing a glimpse of a world where food is plentiful, service is personal and the customer is welcomed like a friend.

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GUIDEBOOK: Vintage Manhattans

Where to eat: Cheyenne Diner, 411 9th Ave. at 33rd St.; telephone (212) 465-8750.

Empire Diner, 210 10th Ave. at 22nd St.; tel. (212) 243-2736.

River Diner, 452 11th Ave. at 37th St.; tel. (212) 868-1364.

Square Diner, 33 Leonard St. at West Broadway; tel. (212) 925-7188.

--R.R.