 |
| [Al's Breakfast, a staple on 14th in ever-changing Dinkytown Minneapolis.] |
“Come on in, there’s plenty of room,” piped the server as I entered the narrow confines of Al’s Breakfast.
Each of the 14 stools was full. Two people lingered in the far corner of the narrow room, perched awkwardly behind the people eating, forming the beginnings of a line.
If you haven’t been to Al’s, it’s a place best experienced in person. I’ll tell you about it, but you have to see it to believe. It’s tiny -- like Japan tiny -- which is so unusual in extra-large USA that it’s like being dropped into another world.
I’ve written about it before here on this very blog, how Al’s Breakfast illustrates the potential for small spaces to be full of life. It’s a diner version of William H. Whyte’s argument about Paley Park in New York City.
At only ten feet wide, Al's Breakfast consists of 14 stools crammed into a tiny alleyway with a roof and a tiny kitchens in the front and back. There are series of rules about how to eat there (more on that below), and while the food is good, the experience is the real treat.
It’s all still true, thank goodness. I also checked in with Al’s Breakfast during COVID, as it seemed anathema to every concern people had at the time (read: space, more space, social distance). But they survived. A new owner (Alison) had taken over the place, and judging by the vibe and branding and fundraisers, it's doing fine.
At least, that's what I thought.
This spring, I had a classroom near Dinkytown and have been spending more time over there. One morning, I had Minneapolis BET official Eric Harris Bernstein as a guest speaker and, after his delightful talk, he took me to Al’s Breakfast. To my shock, when we got there on a random 11AM on a weekday it was almost entirely empty. That would not have happened ten or twenty or years ago, when you had to forget about Al’s during peak breakfast hours. Nobody went there any more, it was too crowded.
My curiosity piqued, and I re-formed the habit of stopping at Al's. A few visits later, I can report that it’s not as busy. I hate to be an old crank, but my suspicion is that **kids today** have trouble with the landmark. I suspect that a good percentage of people just don’t have the chops when it comes to an Al’s Breakfast encounter.
On another visit: The place was buzzing. All the seats were taken, but there was no line and I was enjoying my Spring Special. I watched pair of students trickle in the door.
“Come on in, just wait a minute and a seat will open right up,” the server chimed.
The kids looked befuddled. They waited for a few moments in the line, and then walked out of the restaurant again.
This happened again a few minutes later. Two bro-looking guys came in, were next in line, and had only a few moments to go before ether too would get a coveted seat at ehe bar.
“Is it better if we wait outside,” one of the bros asked when confronted with the awkward situation.
“No, just stand there for a minute or two,” assure the server.
After about 90 seconds, they walked out.
“It’s happened a bunch of times,” the veteran server said later. “People take off right before they get a seat.”
Al’s Breakfast has always represented a learning curve. Learning the social conventions and rules that I went over back in ’13 is half the fun of the place. This is true for most worthwhile independent businesses (and even a QR code automated McDonald’s if you think about it). But Al’s Breakfast is unique in the Twin Cities; the learning curve is not the usual fare.
If you travel just bit to big cities that have defied corporatization, you'll find idiosyncratic local joints are relatively common, especially in other countries. Ordering from an udon joint in Osaka involves putting money into a vending machine and getting a small ticket, which you then hand to the cook, before taking your bowl of soup to a corner of a nook somewhere. British pubs or Italian espresso bars or countless examples all from all over the world have similar opaque conventions. The American equivalent, I suppose, is the drive-thru Taco Bell… But what a come-down!
Over the last few years, though, some people have lost the ability to interact. So much of our social apparatus has eroded over the last decade or two, accelerated since the massive COVID pandemic disruptions. QR codes. Self-check-outs. Door dash. Grocery delivery. Parking lot pickups. Online ordering. Amazon. Noise-cancelling ear buds. Talking on the phone.
I am a fan of kids today; I wouldn't be doing my job otherwise. But as a whole, our social habits have grown rusty. This is true for everyone, mind you, no matter your age, but perhaps younger generations have become accustomed to bubbles, don't remember a time when interaction was normal.
Al’s has survived and thrived for many generations, students pre and post-Vietnam, internet, cell phones, you name it. Meanwhile, the latest generation of kids have been through it: COVID, Trump, gun violence, ubiquitous technological meditation, and a half-dozen other things. This might be a problem for a place like Al’s Breakfast, that depends on the youth.
Well, if social interaction is what you need, Al’s Breakfast has the cure of what ails ya.
It’s like asking to share a table at a coffee shop, only more so. Get over there, take your dose of awkward encounter, and eat beautiful, theatrical eggs. Soak in the idiosyncrasy. Savor the miracle that is this 75-year-old alleyway diner. There’s nothing like it in the Twin Cities, the opposite of everything else you’ll find trending these days.
 |
| [Behind the bar at Al's Breakfast.] |
