Scenes from a Timonium diner

Nothing's finer than being at your diner.
- Montesquieu. Or Seinfeld. (I always get them confused.)

A rainy Sunday morning and we're meeting her friends for brunch. The cookies in the dessert case are as big as your eyes get when you see giant cookies.

"You make all gone, I'll get you a cookie," I say as I put my hand on her lower back. Her smile can't hide her eye roll. Bless her for putting up with me.

We are walked to our table, the first ones there. She slides into one booth. I pause. To slide on her side means we'd be the people sitting on the same side of the table, even if it's only temporary. To me, there are only two times when that is acceptable:

1. You're at an outdoor cafe in Paris
2. You'd be looking at the dessert case or the chef preparing the food in front of you
   

I admire the blueberry muffins as I sit next to her. I mention my feelings about same-side sitting.

"I think it's OK," she says.

Hmmm, I never thought of it that way. Maybe she's right.

The other couple arrives. She's known the girl since college, and I've never met either of them, so I'm glad to be sitting across from the guy. We can always talk sports when the girl talk breaks out.

Before that can happen, though, it's time to order. The waitress has already circled back twice; another time and I'm probably in for a 30 percent tip. We're ready this time.

If brunch is the best meal of the day (and it is), then a diner is the best place for brunch. So many options, so little time. I waffle between an omelet and French toast but go for the latter. Open-faced turkey and French toast are the true tests of any diner.

I hedge my bet and get a scrambled egg, too.

The whole meal is pleasant, the food delicious. The diner doesn't have the Lazy Susan filled with syrups in various flavors, but the single packets on the table don't leave your hands sticky. Call it a push.

The obligatory Loud, Crying Baby at a Crowded Restaurant is only heard from once. The waitress keeps coming back for refills; I'm in now for a 25 percent tip, minimum.

The slightly hungover, college-age trio leaves the table nearby, replaced by the teenage goths. Forget the chefs; these three should be wearing the hairnets around the food. At least the black clothes are slimming. I'm glad my teenage rebellion phase just was frosted tips.

The girls excuse themselves to go to the bathroom for the girl talk. My new friend guesses they'll be talking about me. I nod in agreement and we talk about the Duke-UNC game.

They get back and it's time to fight over the check. We go for the Solomonic 50-50 split. I like these people even more.

By the cashier are those white mints with the flavors hidden inside. On the off chance I get a licorice-flavored one, I decide not to risk ruining brunch.

We say our goodbyes outside and go to our respective cars.

"That was fun," I say as we drive away. "I like them."

She nods in agreement. She didn't make all gone.

I should've gotten a cookie anyways.