Article 4 - "THE FAMOUS ROSCOE DINER" June 2007 edition of First Church of The Streets

    Driving on any highway, strange things are littered along the way. NY 17, alternately known as I-86 or the Southern Tier Parkway, depending on one's location, is no exception to this general practice. Beckoning from the highway of mountains in the Sullivan County town of Roscoe, there is a sign that waves to the weary traveler. When you pass by the sign, it says "The Famous Roscoe Diner". A gimmick in the making, you might say. The problem with gimmicks is that they sometimes they work on me, especially on an empty stomach. Eventually, the power of advertisement would whet my curiosity, as well as my appetite. So, the American ethic of blaring ads still works, at least for this hapless traveler.

    The biggest thing that got to me about the sign was that it made me wonder what it was that made Roscoe diner so famous. Of course, in this day of electronic webs that extend their tendrils through even the most remote home, I could have looked this up on the Internet and then have been done with it. But I didn't. Sometimes the best way I to find out what a place is like is to just go there and find out for one's self, before I see things through the lens of other people's eyes.

    None of the times that I have gone to the restaurant have I ever planned to go there, which shows how subtly the power of that sign worked on me. It was more like in the course of a long drive, hey, let's go to Roscoe Diner. The last time I went, my photographer husband and I were even trying not to go to the place. There was a ridiculous trip to Lake Superior State Park, not to be confused in any configuration with the Great Lake by Wisconsin, one which was so lame that we renamed the place Lake Inferior State Park (a whole other story in itself). After that, we thought we could salvage the trip by going to a place that we had never been to before. However, the guardians of travel, if they do exist, decided to lead us back to Roscoe Diner once again. In all this time, I still wasn't so sure what it was that made Roscoe Diner so world famous. But I still found myself going there.

    The food itself is good, though not exactly gourmet. It's a diner, after all. Being more of a daytime traveler, the times I went were during lunchtime hours. The first time I went there, I got a vegetarian Italian pasta mea. I don't recall what it was, ziti maybe. I just know it was so big that I took half home. The second time, I got a chicken eggplant panini, of which I gave the chicken to my photographer husband because he eats chicken and I don't. Why get a chicken panini, then, you ask? The rest of the ingredients, fried eggplant with cheese and other vegetables, sounded appetizing to me, and there was no similar vegetarian option. That is, unless I got the ubiquitous eggplant parmigiana, and I felt a little more adventurous than that. The last time I went, I had a spinach salad, which was featured as a lunch special. Food that filled and satisfied, but to me, it felt like what really attracted me to the place was its mystique, the premise of somehow calling attention to itself and drawing me in.

    Chicken was liberally featured on the menu. There was chicken salad, eighteen different kinds of chicken sandwiches, chicken soup, chicken pasta, and chicken entrees, so numerous it felt like none of them stood out, but I am sure one would appeal to a chicken lover. There was so much chicken on the menu that it made me wonder if there was a chicken coop hidden in the back somewhere away from the view of the public, where some old world grandmother took care of the dirty deed to serve to those charged to her as customers. Most likely, it was the universal Sysco truck, or at least one belonging some equally large food distribution rival, that was the source of all this poultry. But I couldn't really tell you. When I ordered my spinach salad that came with eggs, other vegetables, and fruit like strawberries and melon, the waitress wanted to know if I wanted chicken to accompany that. I said no.

    One time, I sampled some blueberry crumb pie a la mode from my husband, as in, I'm not hungry, I'll just pick. It was good enough that I felt the need to try another bite, although I wasn't hungry. Maybe a third. Okay, I'll stop eating your dessert. Other than that, my dessert course consisted of a cup of coffee with cream, no sugar. That's not to say that was because of a paucity of choices for dessert. Cakes, pastries, pies, puddings: they all were available for those with the sweet tooth that accompanies the end of an already huge meal. Maybe a nice snack, then, in between the long stretch of highway between New York City and Binghamton to fill up the belly as the miles ticked away. Just having a cup of coffee after a meal that filled was good enough for me, letting the steaming liquid coat my throat and warm my belly after a bowl of greens, or a lightly grilled panini. A cup of coffee as I watched the traffic come and go to their anonymous destinations, looking around the diner and wondering where my fellow travelers were going, now that was a great way to finish up a meal on the road at a place such as this.

    Maybe one of the things that drew me into the diner was simply the fact that it was there. Maybe it was the knowledge that somewhere along the road, there was a place where there definitely would be a good hot meal where I could eat a lot of different options on the menu. A place with the ubiquitous Greek diner menu of spanokopita, adding a burger and fries, along with eggplant parmigiana, topped off with a good slice of homemade pie or an ice cream sundae, if I really wanted it after all that food. It seemed like a lot of other people felt as I do, for I never went to the place and found it empty. Maybe Roscoe Diner was famous just because other people came to the place as I did, because it was there.

    Later on, after several times of going to the restaurant, I decided to plug Roscoe Diner into the Internet to demystify the aura that surrounded it, wondering if somehow this would lead me to the knowledge as to why people flock to its doors. This is what I found out: there are a lot of trout fishermen who go there during fishing season. A whole bunch of people used it as a stopping off point when they lived in the New York City area, and had to commute on NY 17 to get somewhere else before Binghamton. Apparently there were political candidates (which ones weren't clear to me, but I didn't search too hard), who as part of their stump, went there so they looked like they were a real people who weren't slaves to lobbyists taking them to the Ritz. The diner was charismatic, it seemed, just because everyone said so, and there it was, waiting for the next driver to realize how famous it was.

    So there we were, eating in the restaurant that was so famous it didn't need any help in advertising it, except when people like me told others, and they told two, and they told two. There we were, with all the university pennants lining the walls, lined up like badges of accomplishment as the next university team showed up here to have a calorie- packed meal before they took on an opponent in something, what I didn't know. Baseball? Basketball? Chess? Suffice it to say, a lot of notches had been logged here, and the wall was going to need to move to accompany more.

    Some customers were anonymous wayfarers passing through, maybe to never come here again, but others clearly were the kind who lived down the road and spent their time here to mix with other locals in a comfortable and neutral atmosphere. Some of them probably came down regularly, as in the retired couple who seemed like the stereotype of the woman quitting the kitchen as her husband received his pension, and this place was what nourished them now. The waitress, and that was what it was, a waitress, not a server, scurried between them, and us, and others who wished to get on the road sometime five minutes ago, and others who saw her as a captive audience to unload their life story on as well as the dirty silverware. She ran back before these hats like a woman who had juggled so much in her life that she acted as though it was, well, life. A crack of sympathy into her condition would yield a bemused sigh that compelled her to say, well, you know how it is. If I paid attention, I almost thought I could.

    So, that is it. That is what Roscoe Diner, at least what I took from it. It's best though, even after reading this, that you go and see for yourself what the fuss is about. If you ever on the long stretch of road between New York City and Binghamton and feel fatigued by all the fast food signs trying to distinguish themselves to fight for you, the weary traveler, pass it up and hold your head high and wait it out for Roscoe diner. It's just down the road apiece, after all. The road will eventually get you there, and the sign will be waiting for you, beckoning you to its hallowed halls of food.