For lunch I made, basically, hash, with leftover boiled potatoes, an onion and a block of tempeh. Like much of what I cook for myself these days it was seasoned liberally with home-blend seasoned salt and a large quantity of chopped scallions, and because it looked like it wanted shredded hoop cheese and sour cream, I gave it some. Good stuff.
Digging in I had a vision of a vegetarian diner, which would have the same sort of no-nonsense attitude, simple food and bottomless cups of black coffee one ought to be able to expect from a diner, but which would not serve meat. It would be like the love child of Mollie Katzen and Guy Fieri—well, no, strike that, that’s terrifying actually. There would be no engineered soy sausage, it would not cater to vegans, and if you asked the waitress (jaw working her Doublemint, nametag reading Velma) about gluten free pancakes, she would look at you doubtfully and suggest the oatmeal. It would make me very happy and go out of business within a week.
It needs a name, though. I’m open to suggestions.
