My first stop would seem like an obvious choice, the New City Diner on Himes Avenue in Tampa. From the outside it fit all the criteria of what constitutes one of these great neon palaces, with its prefab stainless steel siding, railroad box car shape and bold, chunky letters that proclaim, diner. Inside, although as precise and pristine as it would have been the first day a lonesome traveler swung open it's door looking for a coffee fix, something was definitely out of whack. I soon realized it was that lack of characters that derailed this dining experience.

No diner blasphemy would compare to the menu itself. Cheap eats? Not this side of Jersey. New City's chef, Bret Mailhot (no short order cook here pal) was busy preparing the delicacies of stuffed pork loin, salmon, fried calamari, pan seared duck along with pastry escargot to get you started. The only mention I heard of Joe came from a palpable gay male who slid out of his candle lit booth in Birkenstock sandals and white button down shirt to proclaime to his fine feathered hair friend, "I so must run to meet Joe sweetie."

There was no escape from this good-looking diner with a bad attitude. It was Whitney Houston after Bobby Brown. It's sweet exterior led only to an interior painted in pretense. No comfort could come from the jukebox because even that had been suspiciously replaced by piped in New Age renditions of Dave Brubeck twinkling on the ivory keys. I saw the only solution to this food serving faux pas and that was that they should cart it down to the Hyde Park section of Tampa where people like their culture sterilized and quickly open Gucci pocket books at the first mutter of retro. Gag me with a silver serving spoon.

It was time to hit the road in search of some real late night eats and down home grub. I needed to rub elbows with the pit-stopped trucker who just dropped down out of his rig. I was looking for parents who were frazzled by twelve hours of anxious kids in the back seat. I wanted the salt of the earth that would compliment a plate of greasy fries.

I crossed the bridge into Downtown St. Pete on a rumor that Shirley's Soul Food would curb my sweet tooth with her midnight snacks. As visions of homemade pecan pies danced in my head I gripped at the wheel with the pedal to the metal. Reality soon set in on as I sped straight past Shirley's which lay unobtrusive in her dark lot on Route 19. She stood quiet, illuminated only by streaks of light from the surrounding gas stations that are happy to serve you through bulletproof glass. It seemed as if Shirley's Soul had gone to hell.

Similar luck would fall on the next leg of the journey, which led me into downtown Clearwater. Although Harrison's Grill on South Fort Harrison is actually assembled from a 1950 dining car, there were no distinguishable features that gave hint to diner ambiance.

Continuing down the coast, my headlights found themselves reflected in the cool exterior of The Pelican Diner on Gulf Boulevard. To my dismay it was summer vacation for the mom and pop operation. She stood proud in her metal honor even though temporarily abandoned. The plastic seagull propped up by the front curb was a photo op waiting to happen. Seeing the Pelican fueled my fire. There had to be a pot of stew at the end of the rainbow. It was time to fly. I pulled a hard left down Gulf Boulevard and braced for the longest miles.

The sun was coming up on trinket shops and cheap hotels. The first sign of tourists started to present themselves with crusted eyes and sunburned noses. They grabbed their Sunday papers from dilapidated machines unaware of the biases that lingered between the pages. They seemed aimless, staggering in circles, and just waiting for the divine intervention that would point them to the nearest IHOP. I knew better.

At the next bend my sore eyes widened to one of the most beautiful additions to the American landscape I had ever seen - the Starlite Diner. She was dressed in red, blue and aluminum that reflected the sun with blinding passion. If looks could kill, I was slain. I opened the oval windowed door to her heart and was swept off my feet.

The Starlite on Gulf Boulevard in St. Petersburg is not an original diner. It is manufactured by a company in Ormond Beach, Florida. It is brought in pieces and reassembled on a foundation. The attention to detail would rival any counter culture connoisseur to tell the difference. Black and white tile in checkerboard style covered the floor on which vinyl covered stools protrude out of. A full ice cream bar and soda fountain were all in place. The scene was complete with a bubble jukebox, neon outlined clock and of course thick, generic white mugs for bottomless coffee. Strips of red neon ran the roof border both inside and out.

Homemade specialties and short order standards, all at reasonable prices, filled out the picture. Breakfast is served 24 hours a day. Specials include country-fried steak with mashed potatoes and the diner food staple, meatloaf. Cherry cokes are hand mixed with seltzer and maraschino juice. A good wash down for the plate size burgers.

The small staff seemed to trip over one another to serve their patrons. One waitress went as far as to pull a pan of chicken falling off the bone out of the kitchen to show to the regulars. As she cleared the table of an elderly couple, the man wiped dribble from his white beard and remarked how good everything was.

"We aim to please honey." She smiled, pushing the chewing gum to one corner of her mouth.

"You did!" he remarked back.

I was home.

Update 6/01
Since I first wrote this article a year ago, the exterior of Shirley's has fallen into deeper decline. The Pelican has permanently closed it's doors and a rental company sign now stands beside the seagull post. The Starlite is still going strong and reigns as the best place to grab a bite along the beach.

Update 2/02
New City Diner has closed. Good.