Lament of the greasy spoon

Today I have been pondering the fate of that stalwart of train stations, town centres and motorway stops; the greasy spoon cafe. They really are something of a dying breed, and I'm not sure if this is good or bad. Actually, it is definitely bad. I'm not going to rant pretentiously about how we're crossing over into a new impersonal age of shiny surfaces, health and hygiene certificates, mobile phones and toilets that flush, but I think it is sad that an increasing amount of eateries specialising in fried goods and all day breakfasts are being press-ganged into having matching cups and vegetarian options.

The hierarchy of the greasy spoon could be viewed as a sort of pyramid structure, not unlike that of the feudal system. At the top, is the roadside transport caff. They are definitely a dying breed. I have been to a couple, and really you do need to be quite hard, or at least a man, to not feel a bit uncomfortable inside one. It is a magical experience though. Behind those smoke-yellowed net curtains lies a treasure-trove of mis-matching mugs, cut glass ash trays and sticky sauce bottles. I suppose these are all features that are to be expected in any decent greasy spoon cafe though. The real difference here is the clientelle. There will be at least one trucker seated in an orange plastic chair by the till, drinking builder's tea and making filthy jokes with the matronly-bosomed cafe lady. There will be a couple of quiet weirdoes, but generally, people seem to know each other, even though it's in the middle of a motorway. There may well be a page 3 model from 2003 on the back of the toilet door (one toilet for all sexes with an orange flowery hand towel and cracked soap) and almost definitely a naughty calendar in the kitchen. The transport caff is the pinnacle of all the greasy spoons. If you regularly frequent one, I salute you. You are the man.

Perhaps the next step down is the station caff. Again, this incarnation of the greasy spoon is (sadly) dying out and being replaced with railway versions of cafe nero. You don't have to be hardcore to go to a station caff, although business men and commuters look gratifyingly out of place in them. The last time I ate in a station cafe, I was able to order a breakfast that consisted entirely of meat and eggs. In a proper station caff, there will be pictures of old trains on the walls, and lots of newspapers. Through my observations, people don't seem to know each other as well in this variety of greasy spoon, and you won't feel as out of place if you don't have a beard as you might in the transport caff.

Last on my list is the town centre greasy spoon. I suppose there is scope for a great deal of variation here though, depending on the town. These are being gradually sterelised into having sachets instead of sauce pots, matching crockery and hygienic staff. I worked in one such establishment for a whole summer, a few years ago in the seaside town where I live. The cafe was on the esplanade, and also incorporated a fish and chip shop takeaway bit on the front. It was a prime location for coach parties for the elderly and infirm, and had many of the features that are slowly dying out.

Most of the food was stored and prepared below ground level, in the cellar. The cafe owner was an old man with chronic depression, an arid sense of humour and a penchant for gambling. Another man who claimed to work there was portly and middle aged; also a horse-racing enthusiast, he had a penchant for teenage boys and dipping his hand in the till. He was frequently caught 'changing his money up', and was always allowed back to work the following day, perhaps because he possessed superior skills when using the Mr Whippy machine. I think I put on about half a stone that summer, because I spent most of my time battering things and eating them, or simply just filling my face with delicious golden pieces of batter, still warm and oozing with oil.

Once, I visited one of what may be considered by some to be the mecca of greasy spoons, the Ace Cafe. For anyone that doesn't know, it is Hell's Angels hangout  in London, and as you can imagine, you have to be an alpha male to eat there. I felt very out of place on the long tables that you share with the other diners, but it was still an enjoyable experience. Most of my hardcore cafe experiences took place before the smoking ban, I wonder how it has changed the greasy spoon experience. I think that they, along with proper old men pubs, should be exempt from the ban. Long live the greasy spoon!