The diner had served the same breakfast special for longer than anyone could remember. CLUCK AND GRUNT remained written across the chalkboard above the grill in lettering polished smooth by decades of grease and steam. Regulars ordered it with affectionate embarrassment, the way people repeat an old family joke long after forgetting why it was funny. Two eggs, ham, potatoes, toast. Nothing complicated.
I began eating there after my divorce because the booths offered a kind of anonymity my apartment did not. The special was cheap, filling, and always arrived before I had finished unfolding the newspaper. The eggs were unusually rich, the ham thick and slightly mineral at the center, with a flavor that reminded me of rain on iron. I never asked about it. Every diner keeps one mystery alive by refusing to explain the kitchen.
The cook finally mentioned the history after I had been coming for nearly a year. The building, he said, stood on land that had been pasture long before the town reached it. The first owners struck an arrangement after a winter when livestock died faster than they could replace them. What had grazed there would continue providing, provided breakfast was served daily and the old name remained on the board.
I assumed he was joking until he showed me the storage room.
There were no cartons of eggs. No wrapped hams. The refrigerator held condiments, milk, and several empty shelves. Along the back wall stood two wooden feeding troughs filled with fresh straw, though nothing occupied them. The cook explained that food appeared only when someone ordered the special. He had tried changing the wording once, replacing the old phrase with ham and eggs. Nothing came through for three days, and during those three nights something walked around the diner hard enough to leave hoof marks in the kitchen tile.
I still order it most mornings. Most regulars do. We have learned to ignore the soft clucking behind the grill and the heavy breathing beneath the floorboards that begins whenever several orders come in at once. The arrangement seems stable as long as everyone follows the terms.
Lately, however, the portions have been growing larger. The eggs arrive with shells faintly warm beneath the plate, and the ham sometimes carries coarse dark hairs along one edge. Yesterday the cook erased the price and replaced it with a question mark. This morning, before anyone had ordered, five plates appeared on the counter by themselves.
There are only four customers in the diner.
©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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