The Bitter Season
“They had been going to the diner for breakfast for half a century. It was a mean and nasty place in an ugly brick bulldog of a building that squatted at the edge of the vast cracked blacktop wasteland known as Downtown East. For many years the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome had been the centerpiece of the area, a sports stadium that rose up from the desolate fields of parking lots like a giant, ugly concrete ottoman. For years the neighborhood had all the charm of a postapocalyptic war zone. Chea...p Charlie’s had flourished.
The current fear was that while the diner had thrived in a climate of adversity, it might not survive the new wave of gentrification that the extravagant new Vikings stadium was bringing with it. Pricey lofts and green spaces, juice bars and trendy bistros—all had a way of crowding out blue-collar hole-in-the-wall traditions, starving out places like this one with boutique rental rates.
For now the place remained, defiant, too mean to die. Everything about it was original, including the grease on the ceiling.MoreLess
The current fear was that while the diner had thrived in a climate of adversity, it might not survive the new wave of gentrification that the extravagant new Vikings stadium was bringing with it. Pricey lofts and green spaces, juice bars and trendy bistros—all had a way of crowding out blue-collar hole-in-the-wall traditions, starving out places like this one with boutique rental rates.
For now the place remained, defiant, too mean to die. Everything about it was original, including the grease on the ceiling.MoreLess
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