The 24-Hour Diner Is Disappearing — but It’s Not Dead Yet

10:30 p.m. Three memories of 24-hour diners: I’m drunk, friendless, and eating a plate of eggs with a side of coleslaw at Cozy Soup ‘n’ Burger on Broadway, within stumbling distance of Manhattan’s East Village. It’s the weird hours, between 1 a.m. and last call. It is 1998.

Next, I’m sitting in a booth at Kellogg’s Diner in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It’s 2000-something. I’m dragging fries through puddles of ketchup. It’s not yet midnight. The night is young. There is someone screaming in the bathroom, but I pretend not to hear it. 

Finally, it’s the summer of 2010. I’m sitting at Mike’s Diner on 31st Street in Astoria, Queens. It is late, maybe 3 a.m. I have not told a soul that I’m sober now. I sit there for hours; no one bothers me. I walk home as the sun rises.

I’ve been thinking about diners. I read a stat recently that New York City has lost 13% of its 24-hour greasy spoons since 2020, according to Yelp data. The diners that are still hanging on have cut their hours. Broadway favorite Westway Diner and the Montague Diner in Brooklyn Heights both close at 10 p.m. Tom’s Restaurant near Columbia, the one from Seinfeld? 10:30 p.m.

The cultural and economic challenges driving this decline are beyond the control of these struggling businesses, ranging from the restaurant-cratering pandemic of 2020 that rewired how and when we go out, and whose aftershocks are still being felt, to a growing demographic of eaters who are hungry but inundated with a variety of culinary options that can be easily delivered any hour of the day. And then there are appetite-dampening GLP-1s.

The owners of Cozy Soup ‘n’ Burger closed up shop in June after 54 years of serving cheap grub to NYU students and East Village nightcrawlers. In 2022, after 94 years in business,  Mike’s shut down. Kellogg’s also went out of business in 2023, but was bought by young, ambitious restaurateurs and relaunched in 2024. It’s now open 24 hours a day. 

So I made a plan to swing by four diners over the course of the night, check in on old friends. I just wanted to know, were the diners open? Would anyone be there? Could I get the bacon extra-crispy? 

11:23 p.m. The Flame Diner

I used to work near The Flame Diner, a Hell’s Kitchen mainstay since 1941. It was a 9-to-5 media job that frequently spilled over to an Irish pub. In 2004, coworkers were more likely to get trashed off the clock together, and a few of us would end up at The Flame to fill our stomachs before rushing to catch trains to Jersey, Westchester, and Queens.

The dream of the diner was a space where people from all walks of life would crowd together and eat food that was fast and affordable: swells and clock punchers, students and starving artists, drunks and misfits. I have only a distant memory of The Flame; I’m smoking a cigarette outside, looking in through the window. I don’t remember if I was coming or going. I can see there’s a wait for a booth. 

Tonight, I count 13 people, including two four-tops. I am seated at the lunch counter and order over-easy eggs, home fries, buttered rye toast, and bacon — extra-crispy. I also ask for a side of coleslaw. New York-style coleslaw is sweet, and sloppy, and the vinegar cuts through the fat of the standard diner breakfast. I ask for a side and they bring me a gigantic pile, easily two fistsful of the stuff, served on a leaf of decorative lettuce. The coffee is bitter, the bacon fatty. The eggs are too runny.

The diner smells like cleaning fluid. The lights are bright, like a dentist’s waiting room. It’s a humid summer night but the air conditioning is on full blast. I am the only person sitting at the lunch counter. 

“How long have you worked here?” I ask.

“A long time,” the server replies. 

I ask his name. He says Billy. I ask his age. He shrugs. I am given a check for $32.35. The coleslaw side is $9.75. I tip 20%, like always.

“Who are your customers?” I ask.

“People from the neighborhood, people from the bar, people from the nightclub, people from the show, from the hospital, kids from college.”

Also the unhoused.

“We don’t let them in, but we always feed them.”

What’s the secret to running The Flame?

“Show up to work, be nice to the customer. That’s it.”

12:45 a.m. Court Square Diner

I am in Queens. The 7-train slowly lurched under the East River and I get off at Court Square. The subway is crowded, hopeful. I can’t remember the last time I’ve gone out this late.

I want to go to the Neptune Diner, a massive Greek restaurant with a red tile roof that sat at the mouth of the Triborough Bridge, which some people — non-New Yorkers — incorrectly call the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. The souvlaki platter at Neptune’s was unbeatable, but after 40 years in business, the place served its last Greek salad and Friday fish cakes and spaghetti in July 2024.

I settle for the next best thing: the shiny chrome Court Square Diner, a standalone spot underneath the elevated train. There was a point in my lifetime when this part of Queens was as desolate and seedy as nearby Queensboro Plaza — a no-man’s-land that has transformed itself into a bustling corridor of hip hotels and buzzy restaurants leading to now-fashionable Long Island City and its stunning views of Midtown Manhattan. What was once an oasis in an urban ruin, is now valuable real estate next to a Trader Joe’s.

I’d say there are at least 40 people inside and I take a seat at the counter next to a pair of older men. One of them is eating a tuna salad sandwich, the other hunched over a burger. They are complaining. “There used to be a diner in every neighborhood.” “You know how much the pancakes cost me? $21.”

A third shows up. Big guy, younger, but not by much. He’s here for Charlie, who he calls a homophobic slur. Trash talk. The diner winces. Charlie shakes his head. The new guy plops on a stool between Charlie and me. He’s talkative. Doesn’t order anything.

“When you smoke, you get skinny.” “I got suspended by the TLC for six points.” “My rent went up, I swear to God, $1300, so I’m going to Florida.” 

Charlie wolfs down his burger. 

“Charlie, come on! Sit down. Three minutes. Give me a break.”

Charlie says goodbye. 

My eggs are firm but runny, and perfect. The rye is well toasted, buttered, but not sliced. The bacon is rubbery. Around me, people are talking and eating. Onion rings. Spaghetti and meat sauce. French toast. There is a couple by the window: she steals a pickle off his plate and he pretends to take offense. 

The check: $15.19. 

1:50 a.m. Kellogg’s Diner

There are two doormen at Kellogg’s Diner when I roll up, a line of six ahead of me patiently waiting to be let in. Kellogg’s Diner’s neon sign has buzzed on Metropolitan Avenue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn for 100 years. When I first slid into its vinyl booths, Williamsburg was a sparsely populated industrial neighborhood bisected by the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and slowly became home to artists and musicians and hipsters before mutating into its current manifestation as the center of New York’s elite party destination.

The stereotype used to be that Williamsburg was where 20-somethings learned how to “adult” — a loathsome verb, for certain — but that was not the scene at the Kellogg’s Diner I knew. I just assumed the clean-cut, well-put-together customers who patiently stood in line for late-night snacks and drinks were all running VC-funded crypto apps, and whose tastes were more sophisticated than previous generations. 

I felt, for a moment, underdressed, like I was the only person who had sweated at all that day, but the service couldn’t have been more professional. That is different from friendly. 

The menu is a mix of diner standards and trendy Tex-Mex-inspired bites, like the chipotle honey wings and the vegan queso. It’s an admirably eclectic mix, actually: enchiladas, matzo ball soup, a plate of Peruvian-style lomo saltado. The guy next to me at the counter orders the meatloaf, and it looked properly gravy-drenched. The all-day breakfast offers no classic breakfast plate, so I order the huevos rancheros, with the eggs over-easy. This was the quick meal my mom always made me for breakfast and dinner, and to my surprise, it was pretty authentic. The red sauce was smoky and spicy, the refried beans creamy. The egg was perfectly runny. 

The staff are attractive, objectively speaking — stylish and solicitous. My coffee is topped off once. I’m never rushed. The bill is a surprisingly reasonable $19.10. 

I count, roughly, 60 people, all tucked into booths or crowded at the counter. There are at least 15 people in line when I push my way outside.

3:02 a.m. Daisy’s Diner

I end up at Daisy’s Diner & Bar on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, about six or so blocks away from my apartment. It first opened in 1935, and recently upgraded its offerings, including fast Wi-Fi and a massive menu featuring cartoonish AI-generated images of eggs and burgers, pastas and salads. Daisy’s is under new management. I’ve been recently, on a Sunday morning. The diner was crowded with families because some children will only eat chocolate chip pancakes.

Tonight, the vibe inside is quiet, like Christmas Eve. The flat-screen TVs flicker but there’s no sound, just sports recaps and an action movie I can’t quite identify. There are, maybe, six or seven assorted nitehawks scattered throughout the narrow restaurant. One person is hunched over a glowing laptop. 

In the hierarchy of so-called “third spaces” — those dwindling locations that aren’t work or home where people are free to dawdle — the diner ranks somewhere behind libraries and parks. Certainly, in the pre-dawn hours, it’s the only game in town. I’ve spent many hours in diners scribbling thoughts on napkins, or reading books, or staring off into the distance, or the kitchen.

I seat myself at the counter and wait. And wait. 

About 10 minutes later, after lazily chatting with a customer, the server saunters over, smiling, and I mouth the word, “Coffee.” 

What I don’t know is that this is the calm before the last call, and everyone is moving slowly. I ask what happens when the drunks come in. “There’s never any problem.” he says. “So long as they’re not destroying the place.” 

What do you do then? 

“It’s all about patience. You have to have patience.”

His name is Malachi. He’s been working at Daisy for a year. He’s 23, a New Yorker, and his shift started at midnight. It ends at 7 a.m., an hour after the nearby hospital workers pop in for a quick breakfast. His order is the house’s “country breakfast,” which consists of “two fresh biscuits smothered in our house-made savory country sausage gravy and two eggs over medium.”

I order my usual: eggs, home fries, buttered rye toast, bacon. The yolks are hard, the toast dry. The coffee is exactly how I like it: so hot it poaches my tongue. The bacon is burnt to a crisp. It’s perfect.

I pay the bill. $18.12. There’s no rush. The bars will empty soon, and Daisy’s booths will fill. Orders will be slurred. Then the sun will rise.