Not Your Average Jo

City Diner cuts the mustard

I don't want to go all maudlin here, but what the hell happened to diners? Maybe they do exist still, like endangered pachyderms retreating ever farther into inaccessible forest; you might catch a glimpse of some gleaming, bullet-shaped shadow on blue highways running through Church Hill or Greer's Ferry or Evening Shade. But we're a long way from Tarpley, Texas, now, notwithstanding any armchair chowing with the Food Network. I lift my nose every so often and inhale, catching nary a whiff of hot apple pie à la mode on our Floridian breezes. At the risk of sounding like something out of Prairie Home Companion — what happened to all the places where the coffee was strong, the layer cakes good-looking?

The question's rhetorical; we know what happened. Mom-and-pop diners, with their slim profit margins, couldn't compete with fast-food franchises. Some few have hung on in South Florida or been made over with superkitsch into nostalgia factories. The corporate world has certainly seen the value of the greasy-spoon "concept." But the only real diners thriving these days are in New Jersey. You gotta go visit your folks in Hackensack to get anything like a serious egg cream, much less homemade meatloaf with mashed potatoes and sautéed carrots.

I have our chatty, endearing local historian Clemmer Mayhew to thank for spinning me forcefully around and pointing me in the direction of City Diner, which set up shop — or should I say shoppe — in an old Pizza Hut building on West Palm's Dixie Highway last July. "Oh, it's fabulous," Mayhew said. "You remember Jo; she had a couple of restaurants in Palm Beach. And she has such a following; the whole Palm Beach crowd comes over the bridge to see her."

Joe Rocco

Location Info


City Diner

3400 S. Dixie Highway
West Palm Beach, FL 33405

Category: Restaurant > Diner

Region: West Palm Beach


City Diner, 3400 S. Dixie Hwy., West Palm Beach. Open 8 a.m. till 3 p.m. Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, till 8 p.m. Wednesday through Saturday. Call 561-659-6776.

It's true: Ladies in hats were sliding out of Jaguars in that tatty parking lot the day I showed up for lunch, the same way they were when Jo's chic eatery was on Southern Boulevard or on South County Road. But so were construction workers jumping down from the cabs of gargantua-vehicles and hipsters hopping from Minis. Salesmen were parking their elbows on the countertop while waitresses mopped up crumbs around them, and guys from Jersey were dropping in for pie and coffee, the goods delivered with a flourish and an "Isn't that pretty?"

We thought we recognized all the waitresses, or maybe they just have the kinds of faces we wish we recognized. Not one of them is under 40, and they're as spry, good-humored, and efficient as you could ever hope for. There's also a lanky kid busing tables, a guy with an Eastern European accent mixing milk shakes, and Jo Larkie herself, the matter-of-fact matron with a heart made of penny candy strung together with hairnets and blue ribbons.

Not only has Jo, a spunky woman of meager height and indeterminate age, put together a menu of what's absolutely necessary, from hot fudge sundaes to country fried steak. She's also collected wall-to-wall memorabilia. Larkie's got so much stuff crammed onto shelves, pasted on the ceiling, and arrayed behind the counter that it takes half a dozen visits before you can get a handle on the toy cars and model airplanes, the Elvis photos, the signs for 5-cent orange sodas. One day, we sat under a poster advertising June as Dairy Month, depicting Granny, Ma, and Son beaming around a dinner plate that contained nothing but pats of butter, a wedge of cheese, and a scoop of ice cream — if only every month could be Dairy Month! You can almost hear them saying, Thank God National Cabbage Week is finally over.

Some of the memorabilia works, and some of it doesn't: The '50s TV is turned on, broadcasting a perfectly clear picture, but the big Wurlitzer jukebox at the door is just for show. So are the minijukes on the counter. The massive metal cash register, though, sounds its bell just as clearly as it ever has, popping its drawer out on cue; and the motor on the milk-shake mixer is still strong enough to whip your chocolate malt into a froth. I don't know if the whiskey still made of an oil can and copper tubes would ever turn out any decent hooch — but who needs moonshine when you've got root beer floats?

None of this would matter — not the comforting waitresses or the tall fluted soda glasses, not the spinning chrome counter stools or the black and white tile floors — if the food weren't good. And it isn't good. It's fantastic. My grilled Reuben sandwich ($8.50) had a pile of warm, glossy corned beef stashed along with sauerkraut, sweet Russian dressing, and melted Swiss in perfect proportions between two extra-thick pieces of rye-pumpernickel swirl toast, the toast saturated with buttery juices. That sandwich may be the single best thing I've ever put in my mouth, at least since I was forced to give up my thumb at the age of 8. It had a finish as lingering and pleasurable as expensive wine, and the minute I'd finished, I wished I could do it again.

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