If you know me, you know my favorite types of restaurants are diners, more specifically, those lovingly dubbed, “greasy spoon,” a moniker denoting a casual environment, cheap prices, and the prerequisite plumes of smoke. I grew up eating at the Woolworth diner with my grandmother. Yes, back in the day, you could go to a department store and start your shopping with a milkshake, a hot dog and fries, so on and so forth. There was a long counter, no tables, and all of it was right out of the fifties. The linoleum, the rotating stools, chrome trim, the smell of bacon, a short order cook wearing a t-shirt and a small, disposable toque blanch atop his pomaded head. Sometimes the guy would rip a cigarette back there between orders, his stained apron not pulled up around the back of his neck, but rather folded in half, tucked, then tied to encircle his substantial waist.

Sometimes we would meet my grandma’s friend, Star, the meter lady, for the McDonald’s breakfast which came in a Styrofoam container, the pancakes moist and rubbery. The syrup and butter in single serving plastic packets.

The Woolworth went belly up in 1998 but the diner inside had been defunct for over a decade. Around the time I was an “adult” and living on my own, working in kitchens, I was still under the impression that the best remedy for a hangover was a breakfast consisting of heaping amounts of fatty proteins alongside pre-buttered toast and home fries heavily seasoned with salt and paprika. In my hometown of Burlington, VT, there were two greasy spoons. Henry’s and The Oasis, the latter of which is etched into my memory as the greatest of all dining experiences.

The Oasis exterior looked like a boxy air stream trailer with big windows and was so retro it looked futuristic. It was always busy. You paid your check at the register, left the tip in cash at the table.

After taking your order, the waitress would yell it to one of the two short order cooks, who would nod and get to it along with all the other orders going on all at once. The flat grill and fryer was directly behind the counter, so if you plopped there you received a front row seat to the aromas of melted butter and crispy bacon but also the sounds of the men talking to one another, the ring of the spatula as the cooks maneuvered the eggs around and the pure skill of whipping up omelets and plating all of this one handed into an awaiting warm oval along with home fries, toast and whatever side was asked for, bacon, ham, or sausage (Henry’s had Canadian bacon). The morning newspapers were kept at the front near the door and people would come by and ask for certain sections if you weren’t reading them. If you were really cool, which I was not, you would sit down at the counter and one of the guys cooking would turn and greet you by name. “Hi, Sam.”

The owner, Stratty Lines, worked there as a cook along with his son, Jon, and brother, Chris. His daughter, Maria, and other son, David, waited tables. Sometimes his mother would be there at the register. Stratty inhereited the place in 1962 from his dad, Harry, who opened The Oasis in 1954.

Stratty is the dude next to the dude in the black shirt.

The Oasis was the spot. Any sort of person who mattered coming through Burlington would stop there for breakfast. Celebs, politicians, musicians.

I reminisce because there are few of these sorts of places left. They are a slice of Americana that exist nowhere else in the world but everywhere in our country. I would call it specifically American and although it feels less culturally resonant as say, a sushi joint, or many other types of ethnic food places we have adopted here, I would argue against this opinion because, like a Chinese take out, the classic diner is going to serve pretty much the same thing no matter where the location and each one, in its own way, possesses the feeling, the smell, the sounds of one another…Except on Larchmont Avenue…

Max and Helen’s, named after the book (I’m assuming), Max and Helen: A Remarkable True Love Story, by Simon Wiesenthal, came into being on November 18, 2025 from the minds of Chef Nancy Silverton of the Mozza Empire and celeb investor Phil Rosenthal. There was a ton of hype, as Larchmont restaurants are few and far between in both physicality and quality. The one block street is populated mostly by clothing stores, coffee shops, ice cream parlors, and bakeries. There are strange laws that prevent restaurant build outs in empty spaces. If you want to open your own spot, you have to absorb a place that already existed. Despite the mediocre levels of culinary excellence on Larchmont, the street and eating establishments are bustling.

When the powers that be announced Max and Helen’s, the hype train was already full steam. “A diner,” I thought. “And in my my neighborhood, no less. Hell yes.” I salivated at the thought of being able to walk down to Larchmont on a Sunday morning, planting my ass on a stool and savoring some sunny side eggs, bacon, and all the carbohydrate laden accompaniments.

But the times have changed.

Welcome to the new era of diners where you have to order your home fries ($12.50) and choice of toast ($4.50) separately from your breakfast.

This detail alone caused my interior curmudgeon to blossom and bark as I sat down on an early Thursday morning to finally try Max & Helen’s. The lines, you see, have been atrocious ever since the inception of this place late last year. Long queues of Angelenos eager to spend their hard earned money on “elevated” diner food which ended up being regular old diner food…Maybe even sub par diner food. We walked by the other day and there was no wait, so we went in for an unplanned brekkie. I had some sort of weird egg scramble with onions and smoked salmon lox (dubbed “L.E.O.”) that arrived sans sour cream and provoked my wife into asking “Why the hell did you order that?” She got the omelet Florentine, my son, a single, unfettered pancake. The side of berries we asked for did not arrive.

I enjoyed the housemade hotsauce and plowed the L.E.O. down wishing Max & Helen’s had hash browns, or corned beef hash, or a steak and eggs, anything classic, even liver and onions would have been cool but the menu was unimaginative and boring to the degree of frustration. I ate at Du-Pars just two weeks previous, so it was difficult to cut M&H even a little slack.

The interior was over-stylized and reminiscent of the classic diner environment while reflecting, “You, the customer, is paying for all this because we spent a bundle making this place look old timey.” There were notes of chrome trim adorning the breakfast bar, wainscoting on the walls, art deco sconces at each booth, and the small hexagonal tiles in the bathroom where I did appreciate the corners being dirty where the patented sweep of the mop missed and created that crescent of grey.

Nancy and Phil were nowhere to be seen, not that I expected them to be. The servers all wore the classic button ups with an oval nametag on their right breast like filling station attendants of yore. The place was busy, the vibe was there, but something was missing. Soul? Grit? Stink?

And the coffee? Burned perfectly. They got that right. The bulbous glass drip percolators churned away behind the counter where the stoves and grills should have been. The kitchen was tucked away behind all of this, out of sight.

Too clean, too new. Reminiscent of the classic experience but not hitting my special food and decor button. Yet, despite my feeling of complete indifference for this place I will probably be back more out of convenience than actual enjoyment…Oh, and to try the tuna melt during lunch…

Your AI generated image for this post, #442, 2/28/26