In one of the great quirks of the American immigrant experience (think Chinese laundries, Indian motel monopolies, Korean grocers, etc.) Greeks have long been the dominant force in New York and New Jersey’s numerous diners and coffee shops and, in fact, in inexpensive dining establishments throughout the U.S. and Canada. The domination is so ubiquitous that the iconic New York take-out coffee cup was long emblazoned with illustrations of classic Greek art and architecture. Unlike fancy Greek fish restaurants (or traditional Greek restaurants), these diners and coffee shops are not gourmet destinations or particularly ethnic, but places where you can get a fast, square meal at a fair price. New Jersey’s Tick Tock Diner (famed for its “Eat Heavy” motto) has been in the news lately. Owned by a Greek family, the Tick Tock has never been a favorite of HG. However, its proximity to the Lincoln Tunnel and Meadowlands sports and entertainment complexes has made it popular (location, location, location). The news interest in the Tick Tock now is a case of murder. It seems the manager (relative by marriage) felt ill used by the head of the family (and Tick Tock boss) and hired a hit man to torture and kill the guy. As is often the case, the hit man was an undercover cop (with a nicely functioning) recording device. Too bad for the manager. HG’s favorite Greek greasy-spoon operator was Chris, a sweet, hard working guy who–some 60 years ago– ran a hole in the wall operation in the old Daily Mirror building at 235 E. 45th Street in New York. Chris had a thick Greek accent. This made him a favorite of Dan Parker, the Mirror sports columnist, who would often quote Chris as part of his humorous riffs on dialect. Chris fed the impecunious journalists, lithographers, pressmen and others who worked in the building the inevitable “cheeburger, cheeburger, cheeburger.” But, Chris also turned out great fried scallops and fried flounder. Splendid greasy French fries. Chicken livers and onions on rice. Other good things. Not too many vegetables, unless you count cole slaw as a veggie.
As a side note, it is fascinating that some of America’s great regional cooking from Cincinatti Chili to Rhode Island’s New York System wieners to Detroit’s Coney Island Hot Dogs can be directly traced to the blending of classic American food and traditional Greek flavor profiles (middle eastern spices, etc.).
New Yorsey had no monopoly on Zorba chefs, Gerald. I grew up in Denver, of all gormet-less places, where a restaurant without a Greek lurking in the kitchen was rare as tartare. Many of those places were named Pete’s something-or-other, and strung out along Colfax Ave., west to east, like capers on a platter of lox. But they weren’t limited to Colfax — Greeks owned the joint across 15th St. from the old Denver Post building can’t remember the name, but they fed me about a million meals. I ate another million at Duffy’s Irish Pub around the corner from the Brown Palace Hotel. It, too, was owned by a Greek, who would shut the doors on St. Patty’s Day because he didn’t want the hassle. And the Minuteman at 6th & Wadsworth was run by Greeks who leaned on the cash register and watched you while you ate,, not to mention Cafe del Sol a few blocks further west, still serving mostly Mex food (Greek on Wednesdays, I learn), owned by affable Tom and his not-so-affable brother, whose last name started with K and wandered on through many, many letters — lots of S’s, as I recall — and ending in “mines.” The food was passable, and seldom promoted for Greekiness. None of the owners, that I know of, was ever arrested for hiring a hitman.
Denver’s mile high Greeks set a nice table. Pete’s Kitchen on Colfax is the spot for giant breakfast burritos. But, HG loved this combo: A feta cheese omelet smothered in green chili sided with home fries and accompanied by a scoop of Greek yogurt. Nice marriage of Pike’s Peak and the Acropolis.