I stared at the rows of glasses on the self. They were upside down, pristine, and reflected the ambient lights I had installed a year ago. The soft light was comforting, but not too bright either.

I nodded to myself as I finally had a moment to rest.

I leaned against the counter and looked to the outside world. Today it was a place full of old-style cars, and people wearing fedoras and long coats.

I was going to guess the 40s, but I had been wrong before.

The bell chimed and I smiled as a man walked in. He was in a rush as he immediately made his way over to a booth and snapped his fingers.

I walked over and smiled while pulling out a small notepad. “Hello, welcome to this little shop. What can I get you today?”

He looked over at me. My manner of speech must have been a little confusing. Not to mention my accent from a different time.

“Ah, chink eh? I need a quick burgah and some tatoes,” the man said as he pulled out a thick newspaper.

I nodded, jotting down his request, and I nearly took a step away before I nearly slapped myself for forgetting. “Anything to drink sir?”

“Coiffe,” the man growled out as he continued to read. There was a picture of a nazi flag on the front and in bold font were the words ‘War Looms!’

I nodded to myself and jotted down coffee.

I quickly made myself scarce as I quickly walked to the back room. I tore off the paper and slid it into a clothesline clip to keep it steady.

I turned on the grill, a wonderful piece of tech that I had no idea when it was going to be invented. My mother had said it took her a year to find this model and damned was she proud of it.

The machine hummed to life as it began its preheat calibration. Turns out that the ambient air had some sort of effect. Or something. I never did find that manual.

I pulled out the needed bowls and cutlery.

My line of work was unique, and thus it was important that the words slow food was stamped over the front doors. When it said slow, I meant slow.

I then went to the front of the diner and ran some water into the kettle and that in turn was placed onto the induction plate. The system would have water ready for me in a few minutes.

I then proceed to grab some roasted beans. I chose the 1810 harvest. These were harvested something like two hundred years ago, but you couldn't tell because of my great-great grandpa’s love of coffee.

He had some sort of ancient Egyptian runes stamped into the shelves that would preserve the quality of dry stuff for a long, long time. These included beans, spices, and seeds. I recalled that it was runes designed to preserved Pharaohs and here it was preserving roasted coffee beans.

The grinder in my hand was also from about 200 years ago, so I was manually grinding down the beans. It was rough at first but quickly became easier with every rotation of the handle.

The scent of fresh beans made me smile as I slowly turned the handful of beans into a nice course powder.

From there I poured it into a small, modern filter. I then had to pack it in and with the ease of practice, I had it done in what had to be a tenth of the time compared to when I first started this years ago.

With the filter ready, I placed it over a clean cup. The hot water was ready for me as I simply poured it into the filter. The water pooled up and began the slow process of dripping into the cup. This was going to take a while.

So I returned to the kitchen and started the prep work for the meal itself.

I took some fresh beef from the even more bizarre fridge that came with the store. My grandfather said that my grandmother had spent ten years fighting to find this model. I wasn’t sure if that was true, but if it was then it was worth every second spent.

It somehow preserved whatever was stored in it. It was some sort of stasis and worked very well with fresh ingredients.

Fresh food was going to be forever fresh, but I needed to be quick to grab food. Blood circulation became wonky if I took to long, but grandma did always have young looking hands.

I grabbed a small wrapped bundle. A single burger’s worth. It was cold, heavy, and very fresh.

The meat was then put into the meat grinder, an old model that needed to be hand turned and I set it to a coarse grind. The chunks were then seasoned and I folded the meat a few times before I slapped them between my hands a few dozen times.

I nodded to myself and tossed the patty onto my griller as I told it to make it burger tender.

The machine levitated the meat and then using what I could only assume was some kinda advance quantum-mechanical mathematics would have the burger cooked soon.

I washed my hands and then I went back to the fridge and grabbed a few potatoes.

I liked the thick-cut style so I made wide cuts. I then tossed those onto the grill and told it to make them French Fry crispy.

The machine simply allowed the cuts to free-float around the patty that was also randomly spinning in a slow, slow fashion.

I nodded to myself as I washed my hands, and then returned to the front.

The coffee was ready when I arrived and placed the filter into the sink.

I made my way forward and the man was flinty when I placed the coffee down.

“Coffee, black. Served as is,” I said as I took a step back and returned to the kitchen. The food was almost ready.

Considering the time I had taken, he was not impressed. I knew he said quick, but this was not a quick diner.

His eyes dismissed me and he took his first sip.

He was ready to pack up and leave considering that he was already half done his paper.

Then as the hot liquid seeped across his lips and caressed his taste buds he felt his world stop. The strong taste was unique. The bitterness was stronger, but the sourness he had come to loathe was missing.

In its stead was a hint of nuts… and a hidden sweetness that reminded him of apples.

He placed his cup down and he stared at the liquid. It was strong. It also eased the stress of his recent days and he sighed as he took another drink.

The same taste surged across his mind and he found himself leaning back as he unfolded his papers once more. He could wait a few more minutes.

I smiled as I heard the papers rustle. It was an art to make food. One that was easy to dismiss, but there was real power here.

I gently buttered the bun and pulled out a small, rectangular metal plate that had a handle. I placed it on the griller and told it to heat. The metal quickly heated and I pulled it out and set the buns on top.

The immediate sizzle and smell of bread and butter filled the small kitchen.

I held the buns there for a few moments before moving them over to the ready plate. I placed the hot plate into the sink, where a bucket of soapy water was ready. The plate hissed as it entered and I returned to finish dressed the food.

American Cheese. Italian tomatoes. Roman lettuce. Dutch pickles.

I then moved the plate over to the griller and the machine placed the patty onto the bun. The fries were plopped onto the other side of the plate.

I made sure to grab the small condiment and utensil box so that he had options to eat with.

I then made my way out to the diner proper and served the meal.

—

It was the smell that hit him first. The deep, rich smell of grilled beef and some peppery spices.

This restaurant was slow as the door claimed, but damn was it slow.

He was about to leave when the coffee, late as it was, persuaded him to stay.

The fries were not deep-fried. Baked perhaps. They had a crunch to them that satisfied his ears, and the crispness made it fun to eat.

The first bite.

He had to stop chewing for a moment as the deep flavors of carefully grilled meat filled his mouth. Filled his taste buds.

Each chew brought forth the zesty juices of fat and spices. Salt. Pepper. There was a hint of something else but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the sharp taste of the crunchy pickle slices?

It wasn't until he nearly bit through his thumb that he realized that he was already on his last bite.

It… was a heavy reality to suddenly realize that his time was up with this wonderful burger.

He sat taller and he grabbed the custom ‘ketchup’ bottle and squeeze the odd orange sauce across his plate. Usually, he would have pushed it away, but this place had widened his vision and his palate.

The sauce was equally addictive. The simple sugary hint of ketchup and the mix of something fatty, like mayo, and spiciness that he wasn’t able to pinpoint had him polishing off his plate.

It was with a loud burp that he pushed away from the empty plate.

The warmth of the meal filled him, and he felt at ease.

For the first time in nearly a year, he felt relaxed, as if he had no cared in the world.

The waiter came by again, the simple chink that seemed to run this diner alone.

The bill was simple. What you think it was worth it.

He pondered for a few moments and put down several coins.

Honestly, the coffee alone was worth that, and the chink knew how to grill better than half of the damned restaurants in the city.

He then rounded it up to three dollars. The price a good steak at an uptown restaurant.

He got the bill and made his way out.

He felt robust again as he walked out into the evening air.

He had a job to do. Tomorrow he would tell his boys to run the press and the headline was grim. ‘Pearl Harbor Bombed’. A lot of boys were going to war, and if he remembered anything about the first world war… it was that a lot of them were not coming back.

—

In the week after the news broke and the country itself scrambled to react and enact new plans and policies, he returned to the diner.

Only it wasn’t there.

He dug into his pockets and pulled out his simple receipt.

Black Star Diner.

He chuckled.

So that was the elusive diner that came and went. An urban legend that he had only heard from another colleague.

He was sure that if they talked, they would see the same chink, and that wonderful coffee.

Well, it meant that they needed to look harder. Food like that… it was almost haunting him with how much crappier the local coffee was.

With a humph, he turned around and made his way back up the street. He had lunch to find, and a few people to call about this Black Star Diner.