The cook turns from the steaming griddle to face the small dining room, which is crowded with breakfast customers. He looks to the front door. “I don’t remember the last time I saw a line out to the parking lot,” he says.
At the long counter a seated man nods, then starts reminiscing about another restaurant he used to frequent. “Their last day, it looked just like this. They were like: If we had this crowd every day, we wouldn’t have to close!”
“Yeah, no kidding,” says the cook.
The sun has just come up, and Look Restaurant is 15 minutes into its last day of business. Owner Mike Cronin, who works as a chef at Smith College, has been speaking with a handful of potential buyers. But for now, the roadside diner — which opened in 1961 along Route 9 in Leeds — closes its doors at 3 p.m. today, Saturday April 4.
The space, which seats about 45, is lit by sharp fluorescent light. The wallpaper is old and dingy. A bulky ATM rests in one corner. This is one of those diners that looks like a movie set, faithful to its bland atmosphere and to its cheap, straightforward eats.
It’s packed in here. A diverse crowd has shown up, mostly young and middle-aged blue-collar dudes. One sports an Army camo baseball cap; another wears a George Propane sweatshirt. Many wear banged-up Timberland boots. But several families are here too, and pairs of college-age kids, and a few white-haired elders.
The hot smoky smell of fast-fried eggs and potatoes permeates the room. The food on the griddle makes campfire noises: crackle, sizzle, pop.
A waitress standing at the coffee machine pivots to face a middle-aged man at the counter. “You want French toast, yeah?” she says. “With real syrup?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Three slices. Your last three slices!”
She lifts her eyebrows at him. Then she turns to me. “I don’t want to give Jeremy a hundred slips all at once,” she says, nodding her head in the direction of the backed-up kitchen. “So I still have a few orders to take before I get to you. He’s quick though. We’re moving right along.”
“That’s fine.”
“Do you need to get to work?”
“No, take your time.”
She refills my coffee. She seems to be the only server. “Reinforcements arriving soon?” a customer calls to her. “Maybe,” she calls back. “If they show up. It’s not like they’re gonna get fired if they don’t.”
Once my order goes in, the food comes out quickly. The eggs are runny. The home fries shine with light-orange grease. The toast is heavily buttered. The bacon is thick, with a juicy crunch. It hits the spot. Even my bill has grease prints on it.
The man sitting next to me grabs a folded copy of the Gazette and opens it. The closing of Look Restaurant is front-page news. He stares at a photo of the same counter he’s sitting at. “Huh!” he says to a friend. “Check this out!”
Several breakfasters stand to go, and their seats are filled immediately. “Sarah, I’m going to miss you!” says the waitress, coming around the counter. “Hang on, I’ll give you a hug.”
She rings up her friend at the cash register, followed by the wiseguy who ordered french toast. “Nice knowing ya,” she says to him, cracking a small smile. “Maybe I’ll see you somewhere down the line.”•
