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We are talking over two avocado pans at Citrus Diner. No bacon, eggs scrambled and sourdough toast, please. Oh, and can we get the potatoes extra crispy? Thanks!
It is early on a Sunday afternoon and the leaves outside are beginning to turn shades of deep maroon, honey orange and vibrant and dull yellows as Emilie and I reluctantly welcome our final high school fall.
The colors in the diner reflect the changing seasons outside — bright orange cushions line the booths, still-life paintings of lemons and tangerines decorate the walls and artificial red roses stick out of a vase filled with fake oranges. Citrus Diner stays true to its name.
However, the familiar smells drifting toward our booth separate Citrus from its fresh facade.
The dining room smells of buttery potatoes and extra cheesy scrambled eggs. It smells of cinnamon French toast, berry compote and nutty boat-shaped waffles. It smells of smoked ham, greasy sausage patties and thick Canadian bacon — the kind you can hear sizzling all the way from the kitchen.
Citrus Diner is a place of warmth. Warm food and warm feelings. It’s a place full of old friends, old memories and old couples who are known by their names and orders. It is a place where the busser knows Emilie wants a bottle of Cholula with her avocado pan — always appearing when the food arrives with a smile, a small red bottle and a “How are you?”
In high school, it was the place we went every Sunday. After every Mass, every sleepover, every homecoming, we would pull into that parking lot at 11:30 a.m. And anytime we had a day off of school we would spend the coveted free time in an orange booth, gossiping and laughing and stressing about our future over two avocado pans.
Today we are stressing about college. It is Sunday, Nov. 3rd, two days after we turned in our early-action college applications. Mine to the University of Notre Dame and Emilie’s to the University of Michigan — the only schools that really matter to us.
We talk about what we want to study, where we will go if we don't get in and how our lives are dependent on one person who decides whether or not we are a good fit at schools that already feel like ours.
It’s 12:30 p.m. now and our pans are scraped clean, minus a few straggling potatoes and a piece of sourdough. We’re making our way to the cash register on the linoleum tile path separating the line of booths when we spot two friends sitting near the front window.
We stop at their booth, welcoming the chance to bring up the Halloween party where we all were the night before. We talk about the Friday night football game, and the Halloween party and the AP Calc test we have on Wednesday. We part ways with a “Well, see you tomorrow!”
Emilie and I had an ongoing joke that we couldn’t go to Citrus without running into someone from our grade, no matter what day of week or time of day. It rings true.
We are talking over two avocado pans at Citrus Diner. No bacon, eggs scrambled and fruit on the side instead of the toast, please. Oh, and can we get the potatoes extra crispy? Thanks!
It is the summer of 2021 and the sun, shining through the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass windows, makes our green mugs and orange plates appear even brighter.
Emilie and I have both been home from college for over a week and a half but haven’t made time for our familiar booth until today. I have been packing up my house, preparing for my family’s big move two towns over, and Emilie has been busy nannying for her neighbors.
It is just us at the table, but our conversation is joined by a whole new set of characters. All of the new people she has met at Purdue University and I at Notre Dame — friends, boys, classmates — crowd our booth with their names, stories and faces.
The busboy comes up the aisle with our pans, putting the identical plates in their place and reaching in his apron pocket for the Cholula. Placing it down next to Emilie’s plate he asks “How’ve you been?”
“Good,” she says , smiling. “I’ve been away at school but I’m home for the summer.”
“Oh, good, good. Glad to have you back,” he replies . He smiles at me, the one still working up a tolerance to spicy flavors, and walks toward another table.
As we begin to dig in, we continue telling each other stories about people we have never met. It is weird to hear about her new world that I am not a part of. But, for now, we are back in our booth.
And I am making for the perfect bite: jamming my fork into a cheesy potato, stacking a juicy tomato wedge with a fluffy mouthful of scrambled egg on top and finishing it off with a fresh piece of avocado.
The familiar taste brings me comfort.
We finish our pans and begin making our way toward the cash register at the front. Passing by the first booth on the right I catch the eye of a classmate from our four years of high school German.
We stop and say hello. Someone mentions how long it has been since we’ve seen each other, and we ask a brief question about how school is going and receive a brief response. We wish the other well and depart with “It was so good to see you!” I think back to the first semester of our senior year, when we sat at the same table for lunch every day.
Emilie and I joke about how some things never change — you still can’t go to Citrus without seeing someone from our grade.
We are talking over one avocado pan at Citrus Diner. No bacon, eggs scrambled and fruit on the side instead of the toast, please. (I forgot to get the potatoes extra crispy today.)
It is fall break of our junior year at Notre Dame, and I convinced my four Chicago suburbs friends to meet at Citrus for brunch before driving back to campus.
My four friends at the table order a bacon pan, an “egg-a-licious” sandwich and two plates of berry sweet waffles. We are sitting at a gray table with orange chairs on the upstairs floor of the dining room in the back left corner.
The waitress carries the food out. She asks if she can get us anything else, and I request Cholula, a flavor I have grown accustomed to in small amounts.
I look around for the busboy but don’t see him in this section of the dining room. Maybe he has the day off.
She sets the Cholula down and we fall back into conversation. We talk about our friends at school and our Halloween costumes for the next weekend, reminiscing on last year when our friend put everyone to shame with his perfect Prison Mike costume.
We continue to tell stories we have already heard about people we all know. And then the waitress brings our checks.
I still have about half of my avocado pan left. Maybe it is because I am less comfortable eating in front of my guy friends; maybe the sight of me shoveling mouthfuls of potatoes into my face is something I save for those I am closest with. Or maybe it’s because I forgot to order the potatoes extra crispy. For whatever reason it’s leftover, I box it up to take home.
“Well, how’d you like your first Citrus experience?” I ask my friend sitting across from me.
“It was pretty good,” he says. “I wouldn’t say it was anything special, but it was good.”
I look around the dining room, much emptier than I expected for a Friday morning, and see no familiar faces. We bring our receipts up to the cash register, pay and walk outside to meet the chilly afternoon.