I can remember the three restaurant experiences of my childhood.

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets of New York glistening like spilled mercury. Steam curled up from the grates, and the smell of roasted chestnuts drifted faintly through the night — the old city breathing nostalgia into every corner. Inside a tiny diner on 34th, the kind that still had chrome stools and pie displays, the world felt smaller, warmer, truer.

Jack sat at the counter, hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee, his reflection warped slightly in the metal. Jeeny slid onto the stool beside him, her coat damp at the shoulders, her eyes alive with the glow of neon light bleeding through the window.

Jeeny: with a small smile “Alice Waters once said, ‘I can remember the three restaurant experiences of my childhood. All I wanted to do on my birthday was to go to the Automat in New York... but I don’t know if you consider that a real restaurant.’”

Jack: chuckling “The Automat — glass doors, nickels, and trays of mystery pies. A democracy of dining.”

Jeeny: grinning “Exactly. Everyone equal at the machine — the millionaire and the janitor, both dropping coins for a slice of chicken pot pie.”

Jack: nodding “And yet, to her, it was magic. Funny how simple things become sacred when you look back.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered, casting red light across their faces — the kind of glow that makes time blur. The smell of grilled onions drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the hiss of the coffee machine.

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about her words. It’s not just about food — it’s about wonder. About that childlike excitement when something ordinary feels extraordinary.”

Jack: sipping his coffee, eyes thoughtful “And the Automat — it wasn’t fine dining. It was a promise. That food could be shared, accessible, no tablecloths required. Maybe that’s what made it real — more real than any restaurant that needed reservations.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. The Automat wasn’t about cuisine. It was about belonging.”

Host: A couple of late-night regulars murmured at a corner booth, laughter rising and fading like background jazz. The waitress refilled coffee without asking. Outside, a cab splashed through a puddle, the sound soft but sharp in the quiet rhythm of midnight.

Jack: “It’s strange, though. Waters — the woman who built her life around artisanal everything — still remembering that mechanical cafeteria with affection. It says something.”

Jeeny: “It says that authenticity isn’t about quality, it’s about emotion. The Automat fed her hunger before she knew what hunger really was — not for food, but for experience.”

Jack: leaning back, eyes on the rain-streaked window “So, the Automat becomes a metaphor — the machine that gave her the taste of connection she’d spend a lifetime recreating, only with better ingredients.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. Every chef’s first masterpiece is memory.”

Host: The jukebox in the corner clicked, a slow Ella Fitzgerald song spilling into the room — smooth, wistful, filled with longing for times when the world was smaller and sweetness came in small doses.

Jeeny: “You ever have a place like that? Somewhere that felt perfect when you were young — not because it was great, but because it was yours?”

Jack: pausing, then nodding “Yeah. There was a pizza parlor near my dad’s shop. Greasy, loud, jukebox always skipping. I used to think it was heaven. I go back now, and it’s gone. But the memory — that’s still fresh-baked.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s how nostalgia works. It’s not memory — it’s emotion looking for a home.”

Jack: “And the Automat was hers. Maybe that’s what she meant when she said she didn’t know if it was a real restaurant. She wasn’t talking about food. She was talking about magic.”

Host: The rain started again, soft this time — a slow patter against the window like the ticking of a clock you don’t want to hear. The city outside blurred into watercolor, colors melting together in motion and reflection.

Jeeny: “Funny thing is, when you think about it, the Automat was the opposite of what she later stood for — local, organic, personal. It was mass-produced, industrial, mechanical.”

Jack: “And yet it was hers. Maybe that’s the lesson — that even the mechanical can feel human if it connects to your soul.”

Jeeny: smiling “Maybe the real flavor wasn’t in the food, but in the independence — putting in your coin, choosing your own plate. The ritual of freedom.”

Jack: quietly “Like childhood itself — simple, brief, and sacred, until you understand what it costs.”

Host: The waitress refilled their cups again, the steam rising like small prayers into the dim air. Jeeny looked around the diner — the chipped counter, the faded menus, the hum of the fridge — and smiled, a kind of knowing smile that carried both affection and melancholy.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Alice Waters built Chez Panisse as an adult’s Automat. Not mechanical, but magical — a place where eating was wonder again. A place where people could feel connected.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So, full circle — from coins and glass doors to candles and farm-to-table. Still chasing the same feeling.”

Jeeny: “Because in the end, food isn’t about dining. It’s about remembering — who you were, where you came from, what made you feel seen.”

Jack: softly “And that’s the real restaurant — the one memory builds for you.”

Host: The song on the jukebox ended, leaving behind the faint buzz of the old machine. The clock above the counter ticked toward midnight. Outside, the rain began to slow once more, leaving only its shimmer on the pavement — a city rinsed clean, if only for a moment.

Jeeny finished her coffee, stood, and pulled her coat tighter.

Jeeny: with a gentle smile “Maybe every restaurant is real if it feeds something you didn’t know you were hungry for.”

Jack: nodding “And maybe the Automat fed her not just food, but the first taste of imagination.”

Host: They left the diner, the door chiming softly behind them. The city stretched before them — endless, hungry, alive.

And somewhere between the glow of nostalgia and the hum of the present, Alice Waters’s words lingered, fragrant and tender:

That a real restaurant is not defined by tablecloths or cuisine,
but by the memory it nourishes,
the child it awakens,
and the freedom it serves one coin at a time.

And as the rain began again, Jeeny whispered into the mist, almost smiling:

“Maybe the Automat wasn’t a machine at all.
Maybe it was an invitation —
to taste belonging.”

Host: The city exhaled.
The lights reflected.
And memory — warm, metallic, and sweet —
kept on glowing behind the glass.