The waitresses at Lou Mitchell’s are for real. They’re worldly and wise and wear sensible, thick-soled shoes. They have names like Audrey and Dot and Virginia that are sewn in big letters on their aprons. It’s hard to tell their age, but they’re not young. They’re strong as Hercules, lining heavy plates up their arms and then dealing them on the table like cards: fluffy, feta-packed omelettes; thick-cut Greek toast (made with a dense, rustic sourdough Greek bread); fruit cups; and stacks of airy silver dollar pancakes. They know their regulars (“Hi, Charles. How are the kids?”) and call everyone “sweetie.”
Goodness prevails here. If there’s a line to get in, the hostess hands out free doughnut holes sprinkled with powdered sugar to ease the wait. Then come the mini boxes of Milk Duds. Once you’re at the table, further freebies arrive: dishes of stewed prunes (tastier than they sound) and soft-serve ice cream. By the time I leave—after Audrey calls out, “Enjoy your day, dear!”—all is right in the world again.
