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In the past few months, I’ve developed a fascination with a new Netflix show called Midnight Diner: Tokyo Stories, which revolves around a late-night bar and food counter located in Tokyo’s Shinjuku district. This series features a diverse group of regular customers and unveils intriguing stories from their lives. It’s the perfect show to watch during the late hours — relaxing, introspective, and impossible to binge. At first, I was intrigued by its comparison to the Japanese version of Cheers, but I now realize that it embodies a fundamental aspect of restaurants: “diner democracy.”
After completing my studies, I followed a romantic interest to the Deep South of America and spent several years working in diners. Back then, it was easier for couples to find work in small towns, even without strict green card enforcement. Just by visiting a local diner for a cup of coffee, one could secure employment. You may have a specific image in mind — large cars with fins, The Moonglows playing on the jukebox, roller-skating waitresses — but that only represents a small part of the real diner culture. Diners actually serve as unique symbols of community in small-town America.
During America’s period of rapid growth, immigrant families faced fewer obstacles in the hospitality industry. Opening small restaurants was relatively affordable and provided job opportunities for the entire family. Everyone could communicate in their native language and work tirelessly, investing their sweat and slowly establishing themselves within a community that might have otherwise rejected them. This narrative also extends to the presence of Indian and Chinese restaurants in every corner of the UK. In a country like America, where the road network played a significant role in its development, diners thrived.
The diners I worked at were all started by immigrants — Greeks, Syrians, Armenians, Ukrainians — serving simple yet exquisite dishes that catered to their customers. These were beloved classics, made with precision and offered at reasonable prices. But the most important aspect was the customer base — it was diverse, encompassing everyone.
I vividly recall one place where farmers would arrive just before sunrise, park their tobacco-harvesting machines outside, and have breakfast. The local church funded the bagged lunches we prepared for underprivileged children bussed in from surrounding towns. The lawyers from the nearby firm would visit daily for lunch, and the volunteer fire brigade would stop by on their way back from emergency calls. As an Englishman, I was astonished and inspired by the variety of people who frequented the diner. I grew to appreciate the equalizing power of hospitality: the democracy of the diner.
While this sentiment may not be groundbreaking, it reflects one of the criteria I silently apply when writing about restaurants. I realized that exclusivity was an issue for me when I first visited The Wolseley. Though Corbin and King had crafted an exquisitely beautiful restaurant interior in London, I became disenchanted when the maître d’ explained the existence of an “inner circle” exclusively reserved for favored and important guests. From that point on, I never returned. Such exclusion seemed unforgivable. Building a brand that thrived on excluding certain customers went against the essence of hospitality. However, my opinion of C&K was redeemed when they later opened Zédel, which followed a truly democratic brasserie model.
From my perspective, a restaurant that relies on exclusivity to define itself has failed. Surprisingly, it doesn’t require a pretentious maître d’ and a velvet rope to create this feeling. Any establishment that “curates” its clientele, regardless of the selection criteria — be it through PR, menu choices, wine offerings, or even the volume and selection of music — inherently excludes. Even if the goal is to attract “my kind of people,” I feel uncomfortable when others are excluded and furious when I sense my own complicity. If a restaurant cannot embrace everyone, how can anyone truly feel welcome?
Every restaurant writer carries one painful truth deep within their mind: when we write about restaurants, we are essentially documenting a commercial transaction involving food. Ultimately, we chronicle how people with discretionary income choose to spend their extra cash. It’s a luxury. While we may highlight unique and authentic pop-up culinary experiences, our moral authority is no different from someone writing about luxury watches or sports cars. However, I find solace when a restaurant strives for inclusivity rather than exclusivity.
Personally, I am happiest when a restaurant embodies the spirit of a diner.
Follow Tim on Twitter @TimHayward and email him at [email protected]
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