BREAKFAST SPECIAL.

Things left behind on Dutch Street

On Thursday mornings I make a point of heading for work at a very godly hour, traveling from Manhattan's Upper West Side to the Wall Street area where Commonweal still (uneasily) resides. Therefore, I know that before 6 A.M. the subway cars are sparsely peopled, and you can usually find a seat next to equally drowsy early risers. This is a time of day when the city seems filled with men (most are men) in overalls, not business suits. The trip from the Upper West Side down to Dutch Street, which is nearly at the bottom of the island, can take as little as twenty minutes. And at dawn, when its streets are largely deserted and its buildings not engorging or regurgitating endless streams of people, one can feel almost in possession of Manhattan, an object usually indifferent to my attentions.

Part of my Thursday morning ritual is breakfast at a narrow diner on Fulton Street called King Donuts, just around the corner from Commonweal's Dutch Street office. King Donuts' large front window features an outline of a blue neon coffee cup with the words "Worlds [sic] Best Coffee" set in the center in red. Like nearly everything in Manhattan, that's an exaggeration. But King Donuts, despite its worn features and gruff disposition, is a soothing place. The service, like everything in the city, is fast, the unprepossessing surroundings orderly, and the prices cheap: $3.15 for the Breakfast Special. That includes what the short-order cook calls "meat"--bacon, sausage, or ham. The seemingly makeshift grill--something of an antique--sizzles reassuringly. A small mountain of hash browns is kept warm in one corner while eggs, bacon, sausages, pan. cakes, and breads are thrown on the grill in dizzying succession and quickly transformed into recognizable meals. A radio is always on and always tuned to WCBS-FM, New York's "golden oldies" station. That means Elvis, the Beatles, doo-wop, the Phil Specter "sound"--a melody of postwar pop and rock `n' roll. The counter staff, in their boxy white kitchen uniforms and black "King Donuts" baseball caps, is Hispanic. They work long hours--I have seen them there over a twelve-hour period--but seem to share a certain esprit de corps. The cook, who might be Greek or Italian, is the boss, and seems to speak Spanish. Short and muscular, he is as efficient as a surgeon, cracking eggs with one hand and tossing the shells into the basket under the counter behind him without looking, flipping bread into the slots of a row of toasters, and literally throwing "to go" orders ten feet down the counter to the guy manning the cash register. Everything needed to feed an army is within arm's reach, and if the place is busy the cook can display the dexterity and invention of an acrobat. During slower times he will sometimes sing along with the songs on the radio, all of which he knows by heart. He's courteous, even friendly, but not chummy.

"Regular, sir?" he will ask if I am the only person sitting at the counter. Otherwise, he prepares my breakfast--two eggs over medium, bacon, whole wheat toast, home fries, and a glass of orange juice--without our exchanging a word. He doesn't know my name, but he knows what I eat for breakfast. We are intimates. Yes, my retrograde appetites will soon make the traffic through my arteries look like the FDR Drive at rush hour. I try not to think about that. Instead, I luxuriate in the unusual feeling of being in a place where, like certain aspects of family life, wordless communication seems more the norm than an exception.

Several years ago I mustered up the courage to move from a cramped table in the windowless back room of the diner to a seat at the end of the counter. I felt as though I had finally secured a mezzanine box at the Met. King Donuts caters to cops, with their make-believe looking guns, sanitation workers in their bright orange shirts, clerical and office workers trying to steel themselves for the day ahead. Basketball, hockey, football, baseball, and last night's television shows are the common thread of the men's talk. In the fall many puzzle over weekly betting slips for the NFL games like rabbinical students over the sacred text. Copies of the Daily News or the New York Post, rarely the Times, preoccupy the solitary diners. Politicians come in for routine abuse, and there is an air of matter-of-fact cynicism about government, about the rich--especially overpaid professional athletes--and about the craven, but clearly coveted, lives of celebrities. Recently I overheard a contentious debate about the meaning of the year's final episode of the "X-Files." It was virtually theological.

Women seem to like to sit at the tables in the back room, a drearily paneled space with a trap door to the diner's basement set in the middle of the floor, cumbersomely marked off by a thin iron railing. Cool-eyed complaints about the cost of clothing and food, or about children, husbands, or former husbands, are the staples of conversation here. Before the city prohibited smoking in restaurants, the air in the back room would be blue, blue with cigarette smoke and blue with the harsh, nasal accents of what are called New York's "outer" boroughs.

"How's ya sista like Staten Island?"

"She likes it."

"Yeah? We're thinkin of gettin off [Staten Island]."

"Yeah, you are?"

"We're lookin at Jersey."

"Jersey's nice."

"Yeah, we like it. But it's expensive. The houses, they're boo--da-ful."

"Yeah, but expensive."

"Vicki! You're back. Hey, you shouldn't have."

"Aggghh. Hey, you look fabulous."

"Yeah, danks."

King Donuts' coffee ain't that great, as its patrons might say, but the breakfast is, well, special. And so is the dogged everydayness of the place and the people. Now that Commonweal is moving to the Upper West Side, I'll miss the eggs, the "meat," and especially being called "sir." My cholesterol count, however, is certain to go down.

In keeping with Commonweal's usual schedule, only one issue is published each month during July and August The next issue will be dated August 15.