photo: Adam Wallcavage

diner

Late March is a tumultuous time of meteorologic unrest - when cold and warm fronts battle each other like two hateful brothers. Born of the same mother, but diametrically opposed, these siblings are as inseparable as they are incorrigible, with pitched battles as extreme as they are random. What better place to see this ongoing conflict unfold than Oregon, where coastal temperateness battles Rocky Mountain frostiness.

While Pete and Brian had read every book, seen every movie and sat through every play written about this phenomenon, they were more than a few dollars short of getting to the Beaver State to experience it first hand. Making the best of the situation, the two set their sights south rather than west and hit the trail for the Oregon Diner. At 302 Oregon Ave., the Oregon sits deep in the heart of South Philly, the most fabled neighborhood in a city of neighborhoods.

The diner's exterior is shimmering and glass-laden - true to the architectural zeitgeist of the late '60s/early '70s; all of this is topped off by a roof that is best described as a symphony of duct work. Inside, the giant L-shaped dining area is brightly lit yet welcoming, slathered with a multicolored stone tile motif.

Welcomed with open arms usually reserved for prodigal sons, waitress Nadine showed the boys their seat, quickly took their orders - eggplant parm for Pete and chicken croquettes for Brian - and all was good.

But as quickly as the weather changes, Pete's temperament grew foul and heart grew frosty. Brian had inadvertently sipped from Pete's glass of complimentary water. He had done it before; it was never an issue, but today the dam burst.

"That's my water. You're drinking my water, you know that, don't you?" blathered Pete.

"Then drink mine," said Brian, shoving his water toward Pete, not glancing up.

"But, but, it's my water. You just can't go around here taking things."

"Look - my water, your water, it's all just fucking water. Drink mine, drink them both. I don't care. But I don't think this is just about water, is it, Mr. 'I bury my deeper issues in vague, piddly complaints'?"

"That's right, it's not just about water, it's about you always doing stuff!"

The inane bickering went on: Pete's ranting answered with Brian's square-jawed replies.

"Look, I don't care if I'm just making you madder," said Brian. "I'm giving it to you straight. If the stuff I do bothers you, then eat elsewhere."

Pete sat, smarting, picking the edge of the table with his thumbnail, when Nadine, who's apparently seen an imbroglio or two in her day, intervened with two inordinately huge orders of food. She didn't speak, only nodded and winked. She knew that the heaping portions were all it would take to bring Mr. Hot and Mr. Cold back to room temperature. In South Philly, good food always takes precedence over a good fight.

As they ate, and ate (each very affordable platter comes with soup or salad, at least one veggie, and sometimes dessert), they forgot their flare-up, and even what it had been about.

Finally finished, burping up traces of what once was, Nadine recommended dessert. But with portions the size of a certain West Coast state, the Oregon's vast selection of gustatorily and aesthetically appealing deserts would remain unexplored frontier, for the time being.

(Have a happy frozen foods month!)

- Pete Brown and Brian Howard