Philly Love Quotes

In every human Breast, God has implanted a Principle, which we call Love of Freedom; it is impatient of Oppression, and pants for Deliverance.

LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO BE UNHAPPY...SO LAUGH INSANELY, KISS SOFTLY, AND MAKE LOVE PASSIONATELY.....

Vance shook his head. "Philly, I love you, buddy. I do. But you're not my type." "I'm not?" "What? Are you insulted?" Philip was pondering that when the front door jingled.

No, this was Philly. Drunks here boo Santa and get in more trouble than a dog with an Easter basket, and like the dog, they usually end up either sick or dead. Ah yes, another lovely eve in the big city.

It was drizzling. As people rushed along, they began opening umbrellas over their heads, and all at once the streets were crowded too. Arched umbrella roofs collided with one another. The men were courteous, and when passing Tereza they held their umbrellas high over their heads and gave her room to go by. But the women would not yield; each looked straight ahead, waiting for the other women to acknowledge her inferiority and step aside. The meeting of the umbrellas was a test of strength. At first Tereza gave way, but when she realized her courtesy was not being reciprocated, she started clutching her umbrella like the other women and ramming it forcefully against the oncoming umbrellas. No one ever said "Sorry." For the most part no one said anything, though once or twice she did hear a "Fat cow!" or "Fuck you!" The women thus armed with umbrellas were both young and old, but the younger among them proved the more steeled warriors... [editors note: I love this paragraph, it reminds me of walking down the crowded streets of Philly when I'm late for the train... so frustrating.]

Bliss?” I called. “Yeah?” “Check the drawers of the nightstand! She was playing with it in the middle of the night, and I think I remember taking it away and sticking it in there.” “Okay!” Through the open door, I watched her circle around the edge of the bed. I walked in place for a few seconds, letting my feet drop a little heavier than necessary, then opened and closed the door like I’d gone back inside the bathroom. Then I hid in the space between the back of the bedroom door and the wall where I could just see through the crack between the hinges. She pulled open the top drawer, and my heartbeat was like a bass drum. I don’t know when it had started beating so hard, but now it was all that I could hear. It wasn’t like I was asking her to marry me now. I just knew Bliss, and knew she tended to panic. I was giving her a very big, very obvious hint so that she’d have time to adjust before I actually asked her. Then in a few months, when I thought she’d gotten used to the idea, I’d ask her for real. That was the plan anyway. It was supposed to be simple, but this felt… complicated. Suddenly, I thought of all the thousands of ways this could go wrong. What if she freaked out? What if she ran like she did our first night together? If she ran, would she go back to Texas? Or would she go to Cade who lived in North Philly? He’d let her stay until she figured things out, and then what if something developed between them? What if she just flat out told me no? Everything was good right now. Perfect, actually. What if I was ruining it by pulling this stunt? I was so caught up in my doomsday predictions that I didn’t even see the moment that she found the box. I heard her open it though, and I heard her exhale and say, “Oh my God.” Where before my mouth had been dry, now I couldn’t swallow fast enough. My hands were shaking against the door. She was just standing there with her back to me. I couldn’t see her face. All I could see was her tense, straight spine. She swayed slightly. What if she passed out? What if I’d scared her so much that she actually lost consciousness? I started to think of ways to explain it away. I was keeping it for a friend? It was a prop for a show? It was… It was… shit, I didn’t know. I could just apologize. Tell her I knew it was too fast. I waited for her to do something—scream, run, cry, faint. Anything would be better than her stillness. I should have just been honest with her. I wasn’t good at things like this. I said what I was thinking—no plans, no manipulation. Finally, when I thought my body would crumble under the stress alone, she turned. She faced the bed, and I only got her profile, but she was biting her lip. What did that mean? Was she just thinking? Thinking of a way to get out of it? Then, slowly, like the sunrise peeking over the horizon, she smiled. She snapped the box closed. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She didn’t faint. There might have been a little crying. But mostly… she danced. She swayed and jumped and smiled the same way she had when the cast list was posted for Phaedra. She lost herself the same way she did after opening night, right before we made love for the first time. Maybe I didn’t have to wait a few months after all. She said she wanted my best line tomorrow after the show, and now I knew what it was going to be.

Philly Open. The tournament. Your first tournament—this weekend.” I blink. “I . . .” She cocks her head. “You?” Oh. Oh? “I doubt . . . There’s no way . . .” I swallow. “Do you think I’m ready?” She smiles cheerfully. “Honestly, not at all.” Lovely.

DISTRACTED with care For Phillis the fair, Since nothing could move her, Poor Damon, her lover, Resolves in despair No longer to languish Nor bear so much anguish; But, mad with his love, To a precipice goes, Where a leap from above Would soon finish his woes. When in rage he came there, Beholding how steep The sides did appear, And the bottom how deep; His torments projecting, And sadly reflecting That a lover forsaken A new love may get, But a neck when once broken can never be set: And that he could die Whenever he would, But that he could live But as long as he could: How grievous soever The torment might grow, He scorned to endeavour To finish it so; And bold, unconcerned At thoughts of the pain, He calmly returned To his cottage again.

In 1774, the year after her enslavers relinquished their claim on her, Boston poet Phillis Wheatley wrote to Mohegan cleric Samson Occom about the hypocrisy of leaders who rallied for freedom while practicing enslavement. “In every human Breast, God has implanted a Principle, which we call Love of Freedom; it is impatient of Oppression, and pants for Deliverance,” she wrote, adding, “I will assert, that the same Principle lives in us.

Not too long ago, I was speaking at Princeton, and some of the students asked me how they were to choose which issue of social justice is the most important. The question made me cringe. Issues? These issues have faces. We’re talking not only about ideas but also about human emergencies. My response to the well-intentioned Princeton students was, “Don’t choose issues; choose people. Come play in the fire hydrants in North Philly. Fall in love with a group of people who are marginalized and suffering, and then you won’t have to worry about which cause you need to protest. Then the issues will choose you.

Subject: Some boat Alex, I know Fox Mulder. My mom watched The X-Files. She says it was because she liked the creepy store lines. I think she liked David Duchovny. She tried Californication, but I don't think her heart was in it. I think she was just sticking it to my grandmother, who has decided it's the work of the devil. She says that about most current music,too, but God help anyone who gets between her and American Idol. The fuzzy whale was very nice, it a little hard to identify. The profile of the guy between you and the whale in the third pic was very familiar, if a little fuzzy. I won't ask. No,no. I have to ask. I won't ask. My mother loves his wife's suits. I Googled. There are sharks off the coast of the Vineyard. Great big white ones. I believe you about the turtle. Did I mention that there are sharks there? I go to Surf City for a week every summer with my cousins. I eat too much ice cream. I play miniature golf-badly. I don't complain about sand in my hot dog buns or sheets. I even spend enough time on the beach to get sand in more uncomfortable places. I do not swim. I mean, I could if I wanted to but I figure that if we were meant to share the water with sharks, we would have a few extra rows of teeth, too. I'll save you some cannoli. -Ella Subject: Shh Fiorella, Yes,Fiorella. I looked it up. It means Flower. Which, when paired with MArino, means Flower of the Sea. What shark would dare to touch you? I won't touch the uncomfortable sand mention, hard as it is to resist. I also will not think of you in a bikini (Note to self: Do not think of Ella in a bikini under any circumstanes. Note from self: Are you f-ing kidding me?). Okay. Two pieces of info for you. One: Our host has an excellent wine cellar and my mother is European. Meaning she doesn't begrudge me the occasional glass. Or four. Two: Our hostess says to thank yur mother very much. Most people say nasty things about her suits. Three: We have a house kinda near Surf City. Maybe I'll be there when your there. You'd better burn this after reading. -Alexai Subect: Happy Thanksgiving Alexei, Consider it burned. Don't worry. I'm not showing your e-mails to anybody. Matter of national security, of course. Well,I got to sit at the adult table. In between my great-great-aunt Jo, who is ninety-three and deaf, and her daughter, JoJo, who had to repeat everyone's conversations across me. Loudly. The food was great,even my uncle Ricky's cranberry lasagna. In fact, it would have been a perfectly good TG if the Eagles han't been playing the Jets.My cousin Joey (other side of the family) lives in Hoboken. His sister married a Philly guy. It started out as a lively across-the-table debate: Jets v. Iggles. It ended up with Joey flinging himself across the table at his brother-in-law and my grandmother saying loud prayers to Saint Bridget. At least I think it was Saint Bridget. Hard to tell. She was speaking Italian. She caught me trying to freeze a half-dozen cannoli. She yelled at me. Apparently, the shells get really soggy when they defrost. I guess you'll have to come have a fresh one when you get back. -F/E

A friend and I prepared a video clip once for a worship service. Our goal was to capture people’s responses to the word Christian, so we took a video camera and hit the streets, from the trendy arts district to the suburbs. We asked people to say the first word that came to mind in response to each word we said: “snow,” “eagles” (it’s Philly), “teenagers,” and finally “Christian.” When people heard the word Christian, they stopped in their tracks. I will never forget their responses: “fake,” “hypocrites,” “church,” “boring.” One guy even said, “used-to-be-one” (sort of one word). I will also never forget what they didn’t say. Not one of the people we asked that day said “love.” No one said “grace.” No one said “community.

Maybe it’s not a coincidence that I’ve always been interested in heroes, starting with my dad, Phil Robertson, and my mom, Miss Kay. My other heroes are my pa and my granny, who taught me how to play cards and dominoes and everything about fishing (which was a lot), and my three older brothers, who teased me, beat me up, and sometimes let me follow them around. Not much has changed in that department. I’ve always loved movies, and when I was about seven or eight years old, I watched Rocky, Sylvester Stallone’s movie about an underdog boxer who used his fists, along with sheer will, determination, and the ability to endure pain, to make a way for himself. He fought hard but played fair and had a soft spot for his friends. I fell in love with Rocky. He was my hero, and I became obsessed. When I decide to do something, I’m all in; so I found a pair of red shorts that looked like Rocky’s boxing trunks and a navy blue bathrobe with two white stripes on the sleeve and no belt. I took off my shirt and ran around bare-chested in my robe and shorts. Most kids I knew went through a superhero phase, but they picked DC Comics guys, like Batman or Superman. Not me. I was Rocky Balboa, the Italian Stallion, and proud of it. Mom let me run around like that for a couple of years, even when we went in to town. Rocky had a girlfriend, Adrian, who was always there, always by his side. When he was beaten and blinded in a bad fight, he called out for her before anybody else. “Yo, Adrian!” he shouted in his Philly-Italian accent. He needed her. Eventually, I grew up, and the red shorts and blue bathrobe didn’t fit anymore, but I always remembered Rocky’s kindness and his courage. And that every Rocky needs an Adrian.

From Walt: The Grapes of Wrath, Les Misérables, To Kill a Mockingbird, Moby-Dick, The Ox-Bow Incident, A Tale of Two Cities, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Three Musketeers, Don Quixote (where your nickname came from), The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and anything by Anton Chekhov. From Henry: Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, Cheyenne Autumn, War and Peace, The Things They Carried, Catch-22, The Sun Also Rises, The Blessing Way, Beyond Good and Evil, The Teachings of Don Juan, Heart of Darkness, The Human Comedy, The Art of War. From Vic: Justine, Concrete Charlie: The Story of Philadelphia Football Legend Chuck Bednarik, Medea (you’ll love it; it’s got a great ending), The Kama Sutra, Henry and June, The Onion Field, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Zorba the Greek, Madame Bovary, Richie Ashburn’s Phillies Trivia (fuck you, it’s a great book). From Ruby: The Holy Bible (New Testament), The Pilgrim’s Progress, Inferno, Paradise Lost, My Ántonia, The Scarlet Letter, Walden, Poems of Emily Dickinson, My Friend Flicka, Our Town. From Dorothy: The Gastronomical Me, The French Chef Cookbook (you don’t eat, you don’t read), Last Suppers: Famous Final Meals From Death Row, The Bonfire of the Vanities, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Something Fresh, The Sound and the Fury, The Maltese Falcon, Pride and Prejudice, Brides-head Revisited. From Lucian: Thirty Seconds over Tokyo, Band of Brothers, All Quiet on the Western Front, The Virginian, The Basque History of the World (so you can learn about your heritage you illiterate bastard), Hondo, Sackett, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, Bobby Fischer: My 60 Memorable Games, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, Quartered Safe Out Here. From Ferg: Riders of the Purple Sage, Kiss Me Deadly, Lonesome Dove, White Fang, A River Runs Through It (I saw the movie, but I heard the book was good, too), Kip Carey’s Official Wyoming Fishing Guide (sorry, kid, I couldn’t come up with ten but this ought to do).

The game jostled back and forth, and then came the final inning. Some player named Casey came to bat, like his teammates, looking like a rock. Lightning ripped through the air as rain came down in sheets. The scoreboard said the horses were beating the rocks by two points, but there were two men on base. If Casey hit a homerun, the rocks would beat the horses. If not, too bad for the rocks. This man, Ben, and the two people with him looked horrified as this Casey came to bat. They had red shirts with horses painted on them. They jumped up and down for joy when they saw the final pitch, and Casey sulking back to the dugout. He had struck out. After the game, the four hiked back to a very small car.

Atlantic City" Well, they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night And they blew up his house, too Down on the boardwalk, they're getting ready for a fight Gonna see what them racket boys can do Now there's trouble busing in from out of state And the D.A. can't get no relief Gonna be a rumble out on the promenade And the gambling commission's hanging on by the skin of its teeth Well, now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City Well, I got a job and tried to put my money away But I got debts that no honest man can pay So I drew what I had from the Central Trust And I bought us two tickets on that Coast City bus Well, now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City Now, our luck may have died, and our love may be cold But with you, forever, I'll stay We're going out where the sand's turning to gold So put on your stockings, baby, 'cause the night's getting cold And everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Now I been looking for a job, but it's hard to find Down here, it's just winners and losers and "Don't get caught on the wrong side of that line" Well, I'm tired of coming out on the losing end So, honey, last night, I met this guy, and I'm gonna do a little favor for him Well, now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City Bruce Springsteen, Nebraska (1982)

His name is C. J. Skender, and he is a living legend. Skender teaches accounting, but to call him an accounting professor doesn’t do him justice. He’s a unique character, known for his trademark bow ties and his ability to recite the words to thousands of songs and movies on command. He may well be the only fifty-eight-year-old man with fair skin and white hair who displays a poster of the rapper 50 Cent in his office. And while he’s a genuine numbers whiz, his impact in the classroom is impossible to quantify. Skender is one of a few professors for whom Duke University and the University of North Carolina look past their rivalry to cooperate: he is in such high demand that he has permission to teach simultaneously at both schools. He has earned more than two dozen major teaching awards, including fourteen at UNC, six at Duke, and five at North Carolina State. Across his career, he has now taught close to six hundred classes and evaluated more than thirty-five thousand students. Because of the time that he invests in his students, he has developed what may be his single most impressive skill: a remarkable eye for talent. In 2004, Reggie Love enrolled in C. J. Skender’s accounting class at Duke. It was a summer course that Love needed to graduate, and while many professors would have written him off as a jock, Skender recognized Love’s potential beyond athletics. “For some reason, Duke football players have never flocked to my class,” Skender explains, “but I knew Reggie had what it took to succeed.” Skender went out of his way to engage Love in class, and his intuition was right that it would pay dividends. “I knew nothing about accounting before I took C. J.’s class,” Love says, “and the fundamental base of knowledge from that course helped guide me down the road to the White House.” In Obama’s mailroom, Love used the knowledge of inventory that he learned in Skender’s class to develop a more efficient process for organizing and digitizing a huge backlog of mail. “It was the number-one thing I implemented,” Love says, and it impressed Obama’s chief of staff, putting Love on the radar. In 2011, Love left the White House to study at Wharton. He sent a note to Skender: “I’m on the train to Philly to start the executive MBA program and one of the first classes is financial accounting—and I just wanted to say thanks for sticking with me when I was in your class.

Spring And Autumn. Every season hath its pleasures; Spring may boast her flowery prime, Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures Brighten Autumn's soberer time. So Life's year begins and closes; Days tho' shortening still can shine; What tho' youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine. Phillis, when she might have caught me, All the Spring looked coy and shy, Yet herself in Autumn sought me, When the flowers were all gone by. Ah, too late;--she found her lover Calm and free beneath his vine, Drinking to the Spring-time over, In his best autumnal wine. Thus may we, as years are flying, To their flight our pleasures suit, Nor regret the blossoms dying, While we still may taste the fruit, Oh, while days like this are ours, Where's the lip that dares repine? Spring may take our loves and flowers, So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.

We need a PD to talk to a guy in lock up! A Mr.” he checked the file, “DeWayne Johnson.” “Oh I know that case,” Adam said. “That’s the gentleman from the North Philly “social club” charged with triple homicide.” “I’ll take it,” I said. “Hold on!” Braden stopped me. “You can’t go have a chat with a gang banger in lock up.” “Why not?” “He’s violent.” “That’s probably why he’s charged with triple homicide, Braden. Although I will point out that he’s innocent until proven guilty even if he is a gangsta.” “There must be a male PD around.” “I’ve interviewed violent males before and this guy’s just a shooter anyway. I feel reasonably confident that they took the gun away from him when they arrested him.” “Yeah, but they’ll lock you in with him. By the time they opened the door he could hurt you.” “Well they’re not going to let him out to come see me. Where do you think I meet my clients? Starbucks?

The taste of New England ran not to black or gray, but to “sadd colors” as they were called in the seventeenth century. A list of these “sadd colors” in 1638 included “liver color, de Boys, tawney, russet, purple, French green, ginger lyne, deer colour, orange.” Other sad colors were called “gridolin” from the French gris de lin (“flax blossom”). Still others were called puce, folding color, Kendall green, Lincoln green, barry, milly and tuly. Specially favored was russet, and a color called philly mort from the French feuille morte (“dead leaf”). One country gentleman from the east of England, Oliver Cromwell, made these “sad colors” into a badge of virtue when he celebrated his “plain russet-coated captain that knows what he fights for and loves what he knows.

The Phillies in the 1960s had shortstop Bobby Wine and second baseman Cookie Rojas, a period known as the Days of Wine and Rojas.

The world is constantly trying to label us and categorize us. This makes sense, because God instilled in each of us a desire to be known, understood, and loved. Labels can foster a sense of belonging, connectedness, and purpose. This is why we often embrace them with pride. Whether as Philly fans, Americans, Latinos, feminists, pro-life advocates, or others, labels can be an important aspect of our lives. While it’s acceptable to take pride in these labels, we must be vigilant not to let them overshadow our fundamental identity as followers of Jesus. Holding any identity more closely than our identity in Christ prevents us from experiencing the fullness of unity with God and his church. Therefore, we must be prepared to relinquish any identity that conflicts with our true identity in Christ.

For a supposed genius, you are dense. You didn’t hire someone to follow Ava all these months to protect her for no reason. To be clear, I despise you for what you did, and I don’t want her to forgive you. But I love her more than I hate you, and she hasn’t been the same since Philly. I didn’t say anything at first because I thought you didn’t care, but now that I know you do—don’t insult me by denying it again. I may not have a MENSA-level IQ, but I’m not an idiot.

Cas: I'm booking your flight, sis! You got this, and I'm here to help you through it. I can't wait for us to get back to Philly. Girl, we're going to party and cleanse your damn soul of that crusty ass nigga.

HOME AWAY FROM HOME: PHILADELPHIA The City of Brotherly Love. Except a lot of people are mean. Not really mean, it’s just a city with people who take no shit and don’t suffer fools. I felt at home in Philly immediately. I stayed in Manayunk, a super-hilly neighborhood. Sketchy as all hell driving in the wintertime. I think of the arena, Flyers games, Dev’s Grandma’s Italian stuffing, dive bars that look like somebody’s house. I never had a dog in the fight about which place delivered the best cheesesteak. … Those conversations between proud Philadelphians can get tense. I thought they were all pretty good, but, boy, did I fall in love with Wawa.

PHILLY MCMAHON: Rory asked me my advice on what to do. He knew he was right, but it was complicated. I said that if it was anyone else in Ireland, he should make it go away, but Panti had the support to see it through. She had become symbolic at that point. They hadn’t just come for the gays and dykes – they had come for the Queen. People were going nuts. The Panti shows felt like political rallies on Saturday nights. I’m sure people got extra laid out of it. The atmosphere was incredible. That wouldn’t have happened had it been anyone else. The genderfuck of the whole thing was important too. She was bits of all of us perhaps – although someone will lynch me for saying that! Rory is amongst the smartest people I know, who doesn’t run his mouth without thinking, and has spent twenty-five years working these opinions out. He was simply the best person for the job.

This fella can’t hear,” one of the Phillies’ broadcasters said. “He’s a deaf player, that is correct,” another broadcaster, Harry Kalas, confirmed.

At twenty-five after eight in the morning, Ruth walked up the path of Carrie’s brick house, called a twin in Philadelphia, though her brothers had called duplexes like these double trouble in New York. She carried a tinfoil-wrapped bundle carefully—Shirley’s swirl kamish bread, another Philly term to get used to. Back home, they called it mandel bread. Ruth had to admit she did enjoy her mother-in-law’s recipe, as the texture was softer than biscotti, perfect for dunking but wouldn’t break your teeth. And who didn’t love the taste of almonds

Nikki was beautiful and had a good head on her shoulders. She could’ve had any man she truly desired. So, Dion broke down her self-esteem so she wouldn’t feel worthy of love. He made her believe that nobody would want her, including her family.

Conversely, he would tell us things like "If you see two black kids riding around on one bike, put your bike in the garage." This wasn't racism; it was experience. Those kids were coming from West Philly to steal bikes. The social factors that caused their behavior were irrelevant to a Depression baby. When you grow up getting an orange for Christmas, you're going to make sure the twenty-five-dollar bike you bought your kid doesn't get ripped off. Norman Lear might want us to take time to understand that those kids went to poorly funded schools and that their parents, while loving and dignified, were unable to supervise their children's behavior because they were both at work doing minimum-wage jobs, but by then our bikes would be gone.

Conversely, he would tell us things like “If you see two black kids riding around on one bike, put your bike in the garage.” This wasn’t racism; it was experience. Those kids were coming from West Philly to steal bikes. The social factors that caused their behavior were irrelevant to a Depression baby. When you grow up getting an orange for Christmas, you’re going to make sure the twenty-five-dollar bike you bought your kid doesn’t get ripped off. Norman Lear might want us to take time to understand that those kids went to poorly funded schools and that their parents, while loving and dignified, were unable to supervise their children’s behavior because they were both at work doing minimum-wage jobs, but by then our bikes would be gone.

I tell them about Philadelphia's Italian neighborhoods and how they gave rise to the famous cheesesteak and lesser-known roast pork sandwich, and about the Pennsylvania Dutch and how they introduced the pretzel to North America. I talk about water ice and The Commissary, Tastykakes, and South Philly, the ongoing cheesesteak rivalry between Pat's and Geno's and my personal preference for Delassandro's Steaks over either one. One diner originally from Chicago jumps in with his own stories about Lou Malnati's pizza and Chicago-style hot dogs, and another from New Haven talks about white clam pizza at Pepe's and burgers at Louis' Lunch.

Growing up outside of Philadelphia, I never wanted for diner food, whether it was from Bob's Diner in Roxborough or the Trolley Car Diner in Mount Airy. The food wasn't anything special- eggs and toast, meat loaf and gravy, the omnipresent glass case of pies- but I always found the food comforting and satisfying, served as it was in those old-fashioned, prefabricated stainless steel trolley cars. Whenever we would visit my mom's parents in Canterbury, New Jersey, we'd stop at the Claremont Diner in East Windsor on the way home, and I'd order a fat, fluffy slice of coconut cream pie, which I'd nibble on the whole car ride back to Philly. I'm not sure why I've always found diner food so comforting. Maybe it's the abundance of grease or the utter lack of pretense. Diner food is basic, stick-to-your-ribs fare- carbs, eggs, and meat, all cooked up in plenty of hot fat- served up in an environment dripping with kitsch and nostalgia. Where else are a jug of syrup and a bottomless cup of coffee de rigueur? The point of diner cuisine isn't to astound or impress; it's to fill you up cheaply with basic, down-home food. My menu, however, should astound and impress, which is why I've decided to take up some of the diner foods I remember from my youth and put my own twist on them. So far, this is what I've come up with: Sloe gin fizz cocktails/chocolate egg creams Grilled cheese squares: grappa-soaked grapes and Taleggio/ Asian pears and smoked Gouda "Eggs, Bacon, and Toast": crostini topped with wilted spinach, pancetta, poached egg, and chive pesto Smoky meat loaf with slow-roasted onions and prune ketchup Whipped celery root puree Braised green beans with fire-roasted tomatoes Mini root beer floats Triple coconut cream pie

I have given you everything I never even thought to give to someone else.