The time has come to tell this story, of one of the greatest days in my life.

August 17, 2008, the day i made breakfast for John Prine.
A thread...probably a long one.

I should preface this by saying that back in 2008, before I ran the theater, I used to own a diner.

A little information about the diner before we continue…It was small. Very small. Tiny. We had a counter with six stools, a booth for another half dozen or so, and a little two-top table. And there was no menu. Or cash register. Or prices. Or waitresses. It was very hands-on.

That morning was a surprisingly slow Sunday, probably because John Prine had played a show the night prior, resulting in a downtown-wide sleep-in. There was one lone customer at the counter, her nose in the paper, while I made breakfast. A Tom Jones CD was most likely playing.

Just as I handed them their food, we heard someone come in, and turned to see a short little round man gazing about the room, with a look of confirmed curiosity. He glanced at us, nodded slightly, and, without a word, sat down at the two-top. Time stood still.

I turned to my counter customer, who I knew was a super fan and who was by now shaking with excitement, and took her by the wrist. Leaning in, I whispered in her ear, “If you don’t let that man eat in peace, this’ll be the last meal you ever eat here.”

I went to his table and began my usual intro, “Welcome to the diner. We don’t have a menu but we have all the usual breakfast stuff so gimme a holler when you know what you want & help yourself to coffee”

“That’s okay,” he said, “just bring me one of everything. With bacon.”

Maybe it was his standard restaurant joke, something he said to get a rise out of waitresses, but it was far from the strangest order I’d ever heard. He seemed a bit unprepared when I simply said “OK” and turned and walked away. The game was afoot...

The Diner’s signature dish were our pancakes. Sounds lame, but they were legendary because I had copied them from the greatest breakfast place that ever was, The Channel Bowl. They were thin, with crispy edges, a shit ton of vanilla, fresh blueberries & pecans. I miss them a lot.

Normally an order would be three insanely big pancakes, like 12 inches across, and three strips of bacon.

For Mr. Prine I made four mini cakes. With bacon.

I set it in front of him without a word and went back to the grill.

our other signature dish was the pig pile. Pig piles were scrambles of whatever veggies were on hand, plus a variety of pig meats & cheeses, served over hashbrowns.

Normally, these would be about the size of a football.

I made Mr. Prine a half-size order. With bacon.

I brought it to his the table just as he was finishing his pancakes. I took away the empty pancake plate, set down the pig pile and walked away again, without a word.

Every Sunday we made fresh biscuits & gravy. Sometimes my friend Wayne would come in and he would make this insanely unhealthy and utterly delicious bacon-fat gravy and these phenomenal bacon-fat biscuits. This happened to be one of those Sundays.

Normally an order of B&G would be enough to feed a couple linebackers after a night of heavy drinking.

For Mr. Prine I found the smallest biscuit I could (which was still the size of a baseball), topped it with a ladel of gravy, and added a strip of bacon on the side.

He was just finishing his pig pile when I brought the B&G. No words. Took the empty plate, left the full one. Went back to the grill.

That particular weekend we were also making bananas foster crêpes.

Normally, these would be about the size of half a frisbee.

I made Mr. Prine a crêpe so dainty it was deserving of a French name. Caramelized the bananas, added a touch of Grand Marnier and heavy cream, threw some walnuts on top, and brought it to his table just as he was finishing his B&G.

After exchanging plates, I turned as if to leave, hesitated, then turned back and said, “I guess that’s about one of everything.”

“Oh thank God” he sighed, picking up his fork again.

He finished, stood from the table and approached what passed for our cash register: my grampa’s copper polenta pot.

It was a simple system. You threw money in the pot. If you needed change, you took some out. If you took out more than you put in, I’d break your fucking knees.

I could tell someone had told him about our system by the way he gazed at the pot for some length of time and shaking his head disbelievingly, before he reached for his wallet.

At that point I stepped forward and said, “I’m sorry Mr. Prine, I can’t let you pay for that food.”

“No no,” he said, “you work hard, and I pay my bills.”

“That’s well and good,” I said, “but I gotta confession...I’m a singer, too, and I’ve illegally performed Angel From Montgomery way too often without ever paying you a dime in royalties. This isn’t a handout, it’s an IOU”

He paused for a second or two, then slipped his wallet back into his coat pocket and said “Fair enough.”

“Thank you for everything you do sir,” I said.

He nodded and said, “You’re very welcome. I like your place.”

And he walked out the door.

There was a time when John Prine didn’t exist, and that time has come again. We should be glad we lived during the time he did, because he made it so much better.

Rest in peace, Godspeed, and on this Easter I pray that for every falling down there is a resurrection.