In Praise Of: Denny's

Growing up in a Christian youth group, Friday nights were sacred. Not for solemn prayer or candlelit hymns, but for the chaotic crescendo of Louise on the drums and my terrible guitaring. When we started jumping because we had caught the Pentacostal bug and did not know how privileged we were as upper middle class Silicon Valley kids.

When the "older" siblings got their Driver's Licenses we would spill out of the community center parking lot, a motley crew of teenagers high on faith, hormones, and the Big Gulp I had picked up at 7-Eleven a few hours before. And like moths to a griddle top flame, we would all end up at the same holy place: Denny’s.

Not just any Denny’s, mind you. The Warm Springs Denny's that no longer exists and now stands as a Chase branch. This beacon of late-night why did we love this mediocrity that held an almost mythical status in our lives was not just a diner serving soggy hash browns. It was our diner. We would slide into those vinyl booths, sticky with syrup residue, laughing too loud and ordering too much, long before we told our kids to "sanny" before eating. I am not sure how we ended up paying for everything, but I do remember that someone would always come up short and the rest of us would cover.

For a couple of hours, under the warm glow of terrible lighting and the comforting clatter of the open kitchen, we were free. The worries of curfews, crushes, and Mr. Lau's AP Calculus faded as we talked about nothing and everything all at once. Denny’s was the perfect backdrop for the liminal phase of life when you’re halfway between a teenager and the post-baccalaureate who is picking up their credit card from Mr. Smith's bar (RIP) on a Monday after work for the third week in a row.

And then... just a few hours later... I’d be back.

By Saturday morning, I’d shuffle into the same Denny’s, this time with my parents. My parents were creatures of habit, on our usual rotation between Denny's and Tung Kee Noodle. These mornings were quieter but just as meaningful. But somehow less cherished. In my "old" age, the visits to both church and Denny’s became less frequent. Life shifted, priorities rearranged themselves, tastes changed, and eventually, I stopped going altogether. To both.

I’m not sure when it closed — whether it was a casualty of changing times or simply the end of an era. 99 Ranch Market paid for my childhood and I should be glad it sits in the same plaza, but every time I drive past the intersection of Warm Springs and Mission Boulevard I feel a hollow ache. For Zorba's Deli Cafe, for Jonny's parents restaurant which had the best damn stir-fried Shanghai rice cakes this side of the Pacific, and Denny's. (Except for the Burger King and the Jack in the Box which still stand. Where many a Sourdough Jack and Chicken Sandwich was consumed. I still love you.)

My high school friends and many after them would likely respond "yep" if you described me as "emo". This is why we are seven paragraphs in to a blog post about Denny's of all things. And I feel a hollow ache still, like I’m searching for something that no longer exists and I should go rewatch Natalie Portman and Zach Braff in Garden State. It is not just the Lumberjack Slam or figuring out which one of our friends was a cheap skate. That Denny's was a cornerstone of the experience — the memories that place held, now occupied by Jamie Dimon's minions. The nasty vinyl booths, the crappy lighting, the feeling of belonging - we will never have that again.

Maybe I’m still searching for that feeling, a booth somewhere in the universe where time stands still and everything is carefree. Or maybe I already found it once and that’s enough. So, here’s to the Warm Springs' Denny’s: the diner, the sanctuary, the church of late-night youth. And the place where, for a little while, I felt like I truly belonged.