Diner From Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

It was a chilly but clear night and the energy of the holidays was still thankfully in the air. Tony swung by a state store first armed with his fake ID. He came out with a pint of Fireball and a pint of this stuff called 'Rumchata' and a cream soda. An odd combination if ever there was one. The Rumchata looked like milk. At last they reached the Collegeville Diner. Dillon really wanted a Belgian waffle and at least one thing from the bakery case. Tony had never been to the Collegeville Diner, which made sense since he really had no reason to ever go in the direction of Collegeville to start with. Hopefully it would mark the town on Tony's map after he tried their food. It really was that go

She sighs, “But I invited you to lunch.” I chuckle, “And I know the food here is good. You can still pay if you want.” I wink. Audrey laughs, “Sure, Terry. You pick the food and I pay.” Her laugh is contagious, and I can’t help but stare at her for a moment until I switch lanes. “What’s the diner called?” she asks. “It’s called Gloria's diner. It has breakfast, lunch, and dinner items on the menu. It’s my favorite because no matter what time of day it is, you can always get something you crave.”

Somewhere around Half Moon Bay I put my hand on his thigh. He put his hand over mine. The car smelled like my coffee from the morning, still in the cup holder, cold. We stopped at a diner when the gas light came on. It was a low white building with a red roof and a parking lot full of grit. The counter was formica, the stools red vinyl with cracked seams, the pie case lit from above with three kinds—apple, cherry, something coconut. Our waitress was called Diane. She wrote our order on a little green pad without asking for anything twice.

For one full decade, still shy and introverted, she showed up faithfully to serve breakfast in Pete’s run down greasy diner with the faulty sign and undesirable clientele. Damp wind raced past her in as she slipped, relatively unnoticed, through behind the thick glass door and into the diner’s small foyer. Pete was barking orders at Sylvia, while she pushed her buxom body through a small crowd of people waiting at the register to pay their bill. Sylvia spotted Pam and took just a brief moment to assess her appearance. She shook her head and clucked her tongue as she sped past to a crowded booth in the corner of the room where she dispensed the dishes from her overly laden tray.

Because apparently, one job wasn't enough to satisfy the relentless appetite of my bills. I sauntered in a good 15 minutes early. The retro-themed diner welcomed me with its neon lights and the faint hum of Elvis playing in the background. I strolled to my station on the right, the one with the vintage coffee machine that had seen better days. Just as I was setting down my carefully crafted homemade coffee, the door swung open, and in barged Dany, my partner in crime at Peggy Sue's. She beelined for the coffee station, swiped my cup, and took a bold sip. The audacity.

"There's a diner near here. Best pancakes in the state." "I'm honestly not really—" "I insist. And trust me, pancakes fix everything." His lips quirked. "Well, not everything. But they help." Twenty minutes later, we sat across from each other in a corner booth. The diner was old-school, with red vinyl seats and a jukebox that probably hadn't worked in ages. Damon ordered us both coffee and a stack of pancakes to share. "So," he poured syrup over his half. "Tell me about yourself." "Um... I'm a girl with green eyes?" I joked, and we both laughed.

“Yes, ma’am. There’s a diner two miles down the road. Real food. Then we talk about the next move.” The diner was one of those classic roadside places that had red vinyl booths and coffee that could strip paint. We took a table at the corner so that Zander could watch the door and the parking lot. Old habits die hard. I attacked my pancakes like they owed me money while Zander nursed his black coffee and steak and eggs. “Slow down,” he said, amused. “Nobody’s chasing us right this second.” “Says you. My stomach’s been chasing real food for weeks.” I pointed my fork at him. “Speaking of moves, what’s the plan? We can’t ride forever.”