A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about losing my business over a $4 Diet Coke. It wasn’t exactly the Boston Tea Party, but I felt reasonably justified in my tiny act of economic rebellion. My best friend Sam and I had been enjoying our weekly Sunday morning coffee ritual at Classen Cafe until I discovered that my modest beverage was apparently being imported individually from a distant civilization.
When I questioned the price, the waitress responded with a cheerful “Oh well.” Fair enough. We decided to find somewhere else to spend our Sunday mornings.
As it turns out, that decision was considerably more ambitious than either of us realized.
Our requirements are simple. We meet at seven on Sunday mornings, enjoy some coffee, occasionally eat breakfast, and spend a couple of hours solving the world’s problems before our families wake up and remind us that we have responsibilities. We aren’t particularly demanding customers. We don’t need artisanal beans harvested by monks or an elaborate brunch menu featuring eggs that have been deconstructed and reimagined. We need coffee, chairs, and someone willing to unlock the door.
Apparently, we’ve been asking too much.
Our first replacement was Stitch, a popular breakfast spot that seemed perfectly suited to our needs. We arrived at their advertised opening time to discover a restaurant that appeared to be participating in some sort of experimental theater production about darkness. The doors were open, but the lights were off, and nobody seemed particularly interested in changing either circumstance.
By 7:15, a line of customers had wandered inside, collectively wondering whether the establishment was actually open. When we asked, the response was less than enthusiastic. Apparently, our confusion about whether a dark restaurant with unlocked doors was conducting business was an unreasonable burden to place upon the staff.
Nevertheless, we ordered our drinks and stayed for an hour. We may have spent a portion of that hour discussing the apparent collapse of morning customer service in Oklahoma City at a volume sufficient for the staff to participate involuntarily. But we enjoyed our conversation, paid our bill, and tipped generously. I’m not a monster.
We also decided we wouldn’t be returning.
Yesterday, we tried again. This time, Sherri’s Diner, an Oklahoma City institution where I’ve eaten delicious food on previous occasions. Surely a proper diner would understand the sacred importance of Sunday morning breakfast. Its posted opening time was seven. We arrived at seven.
The parking lot was empty. The building was dark. No employees, no customers, no signs of life.
We sat in the car and waited, occasionally looking at the building as though enough collective disappointment might cause someone to materialize behind the counter. At 7:15, with still no evidence that anyone intended to open the place, we admitted defeat.
Two grown men, sitting in an empty parking lot, waiting for breakfast like children whose parents had forgotten to pick them up from soccer practice.
I should point out that this is Oklahoma City. We have more than 700,000 residents. We have skyscrapers, professional basketball, a thriving restaurant scene, and enough new development to convince ourselves we’re becoming a proper metropolis. Yet somehow, at seven on a Sunday morning, finding a restaurant willing to serve coffee has become an adventure worthy of its own documentary series.
At this point, I began seriously considering the entrepreneurial possibilities. There must be other people who get up early and want somewhere inexpensive and pleasant to sit. Surely Sam and I aren’t the only two weirdos in the metropolitan area who enjoy conversation before the sun has fully committed to the day.
I could open a diner! Nothing fancy. Cheap coffee, simple breakfast, comfortable booths, and friendly service. Maybe even a revolutionary new business model in which the employees arrive before the advertised opening time.
Unfortunately, I have absolutely no desire to own another business, especially one requiring me to supervise other people at six in the morning. So that dream lasted approximately thirty seconds.
Eventually, we found our destination. A gas station.
Not an adorable little coffeehouse tucked into a historic building. Not a bustling neighborhood diner full of familiar faces and the smell of bacon. A gas station with indoor seating.
And you know what? It was open!
We got our coffee, found somewhere to sit, and enjoyed our conversation alongside about a dozen of Oklahoma City’s unhoused neighbors, who had apparently discovered the same thing we had. The gas station offered something increasingly difficult to find: an accessible place where people could sit for a while and exist in the company of others.
There’s something both funny and a little sad about that.
We spend enormous amounts of money developing entertainment districts, trendy restaurants, and carefully curated spaces designed to bring people together. Meanwhile, two friends looking for coffee and a collection of people without permanent homes found themselves sharing one of the few places that required little more than showing up.
I’ve written before about the importance of community, and I suppose this was another unexpected example. The people around us had different reasons for being there, but the underlying need wasn’t entirely different. Sometimes people just want somewhere to be.
I don’t want to overstate the significance of a failed breakfast expedition. Nobody suffered a great injustice because a diner didn’t open on time, and Sam and I survived another Sunday morning without pancakes. But I do find it strange that we’ve managed to make something as ordinary as sitting down together unnecessarily complicated.
We’ve become remarkably good at building places where people can spend money and considerably less interested in maintaining places where they can simply spend time.
There is, however, a possible breakthrough in our investigation. I posted a short video rant about our morning adventure on TikTok, and someone recommended Sunnyside Diner, which reportedly opens at six on Sunday mornings and offers $4 bottomless coffee.
Four dollars. Bottomless. Coffee.
After our recent experiences, this sounds almost suspiciously generous. I half expect to arrive next Sunday and discover that the advertised opening time refers to a different time zone, or that the bottomless coffee is available only after purchasing a $19 breakfast sandwich.
Nevertheless, hope springs eternal. Sunnyside will be our next attempt. At this point, I’m considering bringing a clipboard and conducting formal inspections.
But at least we have a backup plan.
The gas station is open.