Peppermints

Henrietta. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. Denizens of the nearby Super 8 converse in a darkened corner about illicit deals, Thruway drag racers stop in for a cup of coffee and exhibit their braggadocio at the counter, and a furtive-looking man sits alone at a booth, his thick red flannel shirt soaked with sweat and his hands and face covered with freshly-dug dirt. “Outsiders…” the line cook mutters as he nods in our direction, his face waxen and melty from too many years over the griddle, or perhaps from some morbid genealogical secret.

I woke from this nightmare and drove south out of the city, to where commercial Henrietta becomes countryside Henrietta. Peppermints is a diner on West Henrietta Road, just south of Lehigh Station Road. There’s a square dancing place (Nashville’s) across the street—see the Xuare Dancing Blog for our review (forthcoming).

The interior of the restaurant itself was somewhat cavernous, but only the front section was illuminated, and it was half-full with diners. More came in throughout the morning. The rest of the restaurant remained dark, creating a sort of cozy feeling to those of us in civilization. It was pretty neat that the kitchen was behind glass; another outpost of light in the darkness. And we could see what they were doing back there. Not like at other restaurants, where you order the meatloaf and you don’t know what they’re doing. You never know what they’re doing back there.

According to our menu inserts, coffee was (gasp!) free in the mornings! I ordered a short stack of the blueberry pancakes, Dave ordered the breakfast sandwich, and Pat ordered a ham and cheese omelette. The food arrived rather quickly. The two large pancakes were topped with blueberries; I conducted a small dissection to confirm that, yes, there were indeed blueberries in the batter. I was given a little glass cup of syrup (the fake stuff), but the menu offered real syrup for a slight up-charge. I almost always partake, even when, as today, I have my personal bottle of real maple syrup in my coat pocket. Restaurants need to be monetarily supported for their brave choice to stock the real stuff. The pancakes were just as they should have been: fluffy and dense. The blueberries and butterball spread atop were nicely proportioned (there was neither lacking nor deluge).

The breakfast sandwich was near-sublime. One of the finest in my experience. The cheese was melted just right. The muffin was toasted perfectly. And the ham – oh, the ham. To say the ham was magical would be an understatement. The master chef behind the glass curtain imbued the ham with a lifetime of experience and dedication to the craft (a risky maneuver with thinly sliced meat, to be sure). The crispness of the ham reflected artisan handiwork, and the combined taste of salty bovine and savory grill seasoning came together reliably on every single bite. It is fair to say that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts.

The omelette had fresh and high-quality ingredients, in larger proportions than at most diners. There was no chance of one’s hunger not being satiated. Note to self: if ever in need of a huge and fulfilling omelette, Peppermints might be worth the drive. The higher quality came with a correlative higher price, though not by much: it was about $24 and change for three entrees (upcharge for Pat’s English muffin and Bo’s maple syrup).

There was this weird statuette of a mustachioed man carrying a pizza tray above his head. I wanted to take a picture, but the two business people with their business documents out on their table would have been put off, I think. They, of course, were both eating oatmeal.