Counter Spin

It’s no coincidence that the first “diner” was patented in 1891, the same year Thomas Edison applied to patent his motion-picture camera, the Kinetograph. Diners and movies both came into their golden ages in the 1930s. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. Back when most urban areas had theaters that screened movies late, there was usually an all-night diner within walking distance for a postcinema cup of java and a piece of pie.

In turn, moviemakers have always liked using diners to capture the gritty feel of a downtown location or to evoke a sense of nostalgia, as Barry Levinson did in 1982’s Diner (starring Kevin Bacon and Mickey Roarke). For nerve-racking hilarity in an unlikely setting, there was Jack Nicholson screaming at a dimwitted waitress in 1970’s Five Easy Pieces. And former Kansas Citian Joan Crawford won her Oscar for playing a hash-house waitress who clawed her way to the top of the restaurant heap in Mildred Pierce.

At least one movie star, Lana Turner, was discovered when she was a pretty high school girl sitting on a stool sipping a soda at the Top Hat Café in Hollywood. She went on to play a waitress in 1943’s Slightly Dangerous.

Last year, when the Culinary Archives and Museum at Johnson & Wales University in Rhode Island opened an exhibit devoted to the history of the diner, this style of restaurant was finally elevated from cheap luncheonette to American cultural icon.

That 1891 patent was for Charles Palmer’s rolling lunch wagon, which had a walk-up window — and a window for orders from horse-drawn carriages. One reporter, covering the Culinary Museum’s exhibit for a national antiques journal, wrote that the second window proved that the drive-through wasn’t such a new concept after all. Damn right: The 19th century’s portable diners paved the way for today’s glut of fast-food venues.

Kansas City’s newest inexpensive diner — the Falcon Diner at the Ameristar Casino — is a stunning re-creation of a 1930s diner. Or at least the fantasy version; the sleek, Art Deco-inspired décor has much more in common with an MGM movie set than the interior of, say, the 91-year-old Nichols Lunch or the 67-year-old Town Topic.

The Falcon Diner’s entrance is all shiny glass and stainless steel, its artfully lit curved display cases heaped with chocolate-iced layer cakes, golden croissants and glazed cinnamon rolls. The restaurant’s interior is even more glamorous, with wooden floors painted in a checkerboard pattern, butter-colored walls, barrel-vaulted ceilings, retro-style furnishings and framed vintage photographs.

On my first visit, my friends Bob, Debbie and I were entranced by the dining room’s clatter and energy, as well as the restaurant’s surprisingly modest prices. The food didn’t pretend to be anything sophisticated; it was the traditional blue-plate fare (including breakfast dishes served at all hours). Portions were huge, although my gravy-smothered meatloaf was bland and Debbie’s beer-battered prawns had a prefabricated quality. She did, however, appreciate the fact that they were “good and greasy.” Bob’s baby back ribs were meaty but covered with a lifeless, tomato-based sauce.

But a diner’s real attraction may be its desserts, and the four-layer chocolate-mousse cake was divine. So was our devoutly religious waitress, who gave us a sermon on how she was a former Bible school student and confessed that her mother was appalled that she was working in a casino. God will forgive her, I’ll bet, but maybe not me for eating that fudgy cake.

A few nights later, I returned with an odd assortment of friends, including the chic Jennifer, a fashion executive. “It looks just like Jackrabbit Slim’s in Pulp Fiction,” she announced after taking one look at the place. “But instead of Uma Thurman, you see women with bad perms and trashy clothes. “

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The rest of our group — Bob, Barbara, Gia and Lisa — thought the room looked terrific and the customers were merely typical Kansas Citians. Still, Jennifer — who kept getting up and running out to smoke cigarettes and talk on her cell phone — had her standards. She was the only person wearing Donald Pliner pumps and carrying a purse that, according to her mother, Barbara, cost $1,000.

Barbara was more plainly attired, but she’s a casino regular, and the first thing that caught her eye was the prime rib special: 12 ounces of beef served with a salad, mashed potatoes, vegetable and dessert for $11.99.

Our waiter that night was terrific, completely unfazed by Jennifer’s acidic comments, Lisa’s dietary restrictions (there’s not much for vegetarians on this menu), Bob’s flurry of questions and my own foul mood (I had just figured out how much I owed the IRS). Water glasses were kept full, dirty plates were whisked away and fresh paper napkins appeared like magic. I had made the mistake of requesting a nonsmoking table, forgetting that half of our party not only sucked on cigarettes but did it before and after eating. An even more egregious mistake: The Falcon Diner only serves wine and beer “upon request,” so Bob and Jennifer had to walk next door to the bar for their cocktails.

“Darling, you only take me to the nicest places,” Jennifer said, dropping her pack of cigs back into her pricey handbag. “I’ll have the French-dip sandwich,” she told our waiter, “but with no french fries.”

He asked if she’d like to substitute a vegetable and suggested carrots. “Horrors, no,” Jennifer said, shivering.

Bob ordered one of the “Midwestern Favorites,” a plate of fried chicken that the menu promised would be “incredibly delicious.” I thought it looked and tasted like the heavily breaded Swanson’s frozen variety, but cheery Bob gave it a thumbs up. Vegetarian Lisa had finally settled on the Oriental Chicken Salad “without the chicken,” which turned out to be a very expensive green salad decked out with canned mandarin oranges, rice noodles and ginger dressing.

“This place is very vegetarian-unfriendly,” she sniffed. I suspected that the casinogoers weren’t a particularly health-conscious group.

Gia had also ordered a salad, a Kansas City Cobb heaped with slices of beautifully grilled steak and scattered with blue cheese crumbles. I realized that Gia loves all kinds of red meat after she told us why she likes going to Kansas City rugby games. “Rugby players are like firefighters,” she said. “Even the ugly ones are hot.”

I nearly choked on my hot — but not grilled, alas — Reuben sandwich, which was thick with dry corned beef (a sin in my book) but stingy on the cheese and sauerkraut. I also nixed the french fries, a wise decision given that I wound up eating the “free” dessert that came with Barbara’s remarkably tender, juicy prime rib dinner.

On our way out, we made a brief foray into the gaming area, where Barbara had a flurry of activity on the nickel slots and I absent-mindedly dropped coins into a 50-cent machine. I was having much more fun watching all the furious activity around me, when suddenly my machine erupted with all kinds of bells and whistles and I realized I had won a modest jackpot — just enough to pay my taxes!

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God clearly works in mysterious ways. I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.