Our second outing to the Goshen Diner, which is actually the Goshen Plaza Diner even though it’s not in a plaza. Maybe that was the hopeful dream of its first proprietor—an empire of storefronts that never came to fruition. Our first trip here followed a demoralizing Frozen Ropes Baseball Tournament, where dismayed parents plotted a revolt against the head coach.
This time it was just the three of us, reflecting on today’s game in the same tournament, which was going much better. By chance, we ended up at the same table. The booth on the left fit the table exactly, while the booth on the right stretched awkwardly far, as if built for a missing fourth diner. I sat there the first time, hunched sideways over my plate. That odd design, along with the faux wooden panel above us decorated with an American flag and perched eagle, gave the place its peculiar charm.
The menu was classic diner fare with extras, the kind of list that makes you think of Pee-wee telling Dotty, “It’s a thing you wouldn’t understand… a thing you couldn’t understand.” Prices ran two or three dollars cheaper than other diners we’ve visited lately, which likely explained why the place was hopping on a Saturday night. We were surrounded by a rush of senior citizens, a kind of corralling of prescription-powered, hungry elderly looking to stretch their social security checks.
Our waiter, a young man with a sunny attitude, seemed half-present and half already imagining a future where he’d escaped diner monotony. Still, he was attentive enough.
I briefly stressed over some of the more unusual menu items but settled on my old reliable: the Farmer’s Omelet—yellow American cheese, veggies, bacon, sausage chunks, rye toast, coleslaw, home fries, and a decaf coffee.
The service dragged with the crowd, and hunger set us on edge. Then, like a leprechaun popping out of a rainbow’s backside, our server appeared with the food. A few sides were missing, but my omelet and potatoes were excellent—flavorful enough to be memorable despite how often I order them.
Across the table, my wife faced a crisis. No white toast. She always starts with toast dipped in over-easy eggs, and its absence forced her onto the pancakes instead. The anger monkeys were on her back, throwing things, and we were about to get hit. The fuse was short before all hell broke loose. I buried myself in my plate, silently praying the bread would appear. Fortunately, it arrived in time, and peace was restored.
In the end, the experience was pleasant. We ate, we talked baseball, and we absorbed the diner’s rhythms. At six o’clock the place was packed; by seven it had emptied to only a few tables. The turnover was so fast it was almost invisible—efficient, seamless, like the diner itself. As we left, we noticed they were voted Best Diner in 2023 and 2024, and if they keep the coffee hot and the toast coming, I don’t see anyone stealing that crown.
Final Verdict 7.55/10
Life with Chicken and Broccoli 