What these modern diners get right and wrong about the NY diner ?

Explore More

New Yorkers love their diners. But what is a New York diner, exactly?

New iterations of the breed keep popping up: There’s Carnegie Diner & Cafe, open from 6 a.m. to midnight, at Seventh Avenue and West 57th Street, and the new Soho Diner, chef Ken Addington’s 24-hour spot at the Soho Grand Hotel.

But these latest “diner” simulations are not the greasy spoons we once knew and loved.

It used to be that diners, the ultimate all-American eateries, were defined by their structure. Traditionally, these all-day restaurants were harbored in free-standing replicas of train cars. Some of NYC’s most iconic examples, like the Moondance in Soho, are sadly extinct, while a precious few — such as Square Diner in Tribeca, the Pearl in FiDi and Neptune Diner in Astoria — hang in there.

But “coffee shops” — diners in all but architecture, occupying storefront spaces inside larger buildings — are still kicking, despite some highly publicized closings. Among my modern-breed Manhattan favorites are New Amity, on the Upper East Side, and Midtown’s the Red Flame and Park Café.

New York City’s modern diners have some shared traits: They serve breakfast all day, stay open late (ideally, all night) and pour the worst coffee in town. Sugar-bomb cakes and pies hold court in display cases, while patrons slouch in square, laminated booths — the most luxurious restaurant seating in the universe, and a diner’s reason for being. There’s an anything-goes culinary spirit (lasagna and a chocolate ice cream soda? Sure!) and an emphasis on speed: Any diner worth its rice-crusted salt shakers can turn out large platters of London broil as swiftly as they can English muffins.

New Amity co-owner Mario Stivaros said his cozy eatery with colonnaded booths “feels like home. The waiters know everybody. The people are happy.”

They shouldn’t be “gussied up,” says diner doyen Richard J.S. Gutman — author of “American Diner: Then and Now” and three other books on the subject — although they increasingly are. Newer diners, he says, “stretch the limits of design features,” leaning hard into the 1920s aesthetic that call back to the eatery’s heyday. But a true diner should still be “pretty plain,” he says.

So, how do Carnegie and Soho measure up?

Carnegie, run by Stix chef Stathis Antonakopoulos, isn’t as plain as it could be, with its trendy subway-tiled walls and vivid images of musicians from the concert hall across the street. And Soho is so full of HoJo-like decor — counter seats, chrome, Formica, a jukebox — that my dining companion Stephen Silverman announced, “I feel like I’m in Hollywood Studios at Disney World!” (As the author of “The Amusement Park: 900 Years of Thrills and Spills, and the Dreamers and Schemers Who Built Them,” he would know.)

Carnegie Diner & Cafe, 205 W. 57th St.

1 of 18

And can we really call them diners when the coffee I had at both was actually tolerable?

Still, Carnegie and Soho are a lot more authentic than other joints that hijacked the diner moniker. The Spanish Diner at Hudson Yards is a sprawling brasserie. The mercifully short-lived Bowery Diner served whelks — whelks! — along with scrambled eggs.

Soho Diner avoids that particular embarrassment. Still, more standard offerings, like huevos rancheros and kasha knish, share the menu with decidedly un-diner-like vegan matcha milkshakes and glasses of orange wine. French fries, problematically, are labeled “market sides.” A high-proof “orange Julius” has a suspicious air of boozy pretension. But juicy, porterhouse-size ham steak and scrambled eggs made up for the shtick.

Soho Diner, 310 West Broadway

1 of 13

For all its modern touches, Carnegie Diner is more comfortingly old-school. Its menu focuses on the classics — waffles and a (damn good) thin-sliced pastrami sandwich — plus a few eyebrow-raisers — Israeli couscous? — as is wont to be the case on the best diner menus. Don’t expect typical diner speedy service — we waited and waited for our food — but they won us back with their lovable, old-timey spirit.

Take that questionable couscous. Arriving after a long wait (“They couldn’t find it,” the waiter explained), it resembled the cold quinoa and chickpeas of any salad bar.

Were they sure this was “Israeli”?

“I’m not sure what nationality,” the waiter said sheepishly. “I’m Greek.”

ncG1vNJzZmimqaW8tMCNnKamZ2Jlf3F7j2pma3BfrLWiwIytn56rlWK6sLDEq6VmnJmjsrO%2FjKCcrWWinrSpwIyapZ1lp6e8r7OMmpmoraRiwamxjKecsGWppL%2BsecOipZ6qXw%3D%3D