Jimbo's Hamburger Place

October 10th, 2013, 8am

It was 16.7°C with overcast. The breeze was light.

I walk by Jimbo’s most days on my way to work, awkwardly peeking in at the clusters of men hunched over egg sandwiches at the counter. Some read newspapers. A few stools sit unoccupied.

I’d never stopped in, but I did last night, meeting an old friend to catch up over classic diner food. This is not haute cuisine, but it is (what seems to me) the best of New York: a hole in the wall that doesn’t play at pretension, where you can linger over your meal for hours, downing endless cups of coffee and avoiding the cole slaw while you focus on fries.

It’s a slender space, with ten or fifteen stools and three tables squished along the window and the wall. You obviously want to sit on the stools, so you can twist around and gawk at the street scenes. The women in sweat suits. The people pushing strollers. The ambulances heading uptown, sirens blaring, a straight shot to the hospital.

Everyone can hear your conversation, but no one’s all that interested in what you’re saying, which is oddly freeing. A woman enters and orders a chocolate milkshake to go. “How do you make that? With chocolate ice cream, or with chocolate syrup?” The man behind the counter, in a red shirt, describes her options, and she settles on a black-and-white instead. She pays her tab with a handful of quarters and heads out.


Lia said thanks.

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T. Frey

Watching, wandering

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