Miranda Dickinson - Take A Look At Me Now

But losing my job had thrown everything into question: it had removed my sensible living arrangements, challenged my savings and absolutely, definitely, ruled out any future with Aidan Matthews. I was already in a risky situation with no guarantee of anything other than unemployment and two months to do whatever I wanted to. Given this, the playing field was open wide and anything was now possible …

Lizzie squeezed my arm. ‘I’m going to make sure you have the best time here. And we’ll start by getting you something to eat.’

If my grumbling stomach could have whooped for joy it would have done so with gusto at that moment. ‘That’s a fantastic idea. Where are we going?’

Lizzie’s broad smile seemed to illuminate the room. ‘Only the best place in the neighbourhood! I’m taking you to Annie’s.’

There are times in your life when you find yourself in exactly the right place. It might not make sense at the time, but deep down inside you feel it: you were always meant to be there, on that date, at that time. Walking into Annie’s diner on my first day in San Francisco felt like one of those moments.

Annie’s was everything I’d hoped a true American diner would be. Nestled on the corner of Haight and Clayton Streets, it was a neighbourhood hub that had been feeding the good people of The Haight for nearly forty years. From the outside it was unremarkable, save for the pink and blue neon signs hung in its wide windows, which wrapped around the corner that joined the two streets. The wood panelled frontage was painted the colour of very milky coffee and bore the scars and scrapes of years of weather, traffic and city air. Had it been in England, it would probably have been dismissed as a ‘greasy spoon’ café and avoided. But here in San Francisco, its time-earned war wounds of standing proud in the city merely added to its charm. I could imagine a scene from a US cop drama set here – where the hard-bitten detective would arrange a secret rendezvous with one of his illicit moles, dishing the dirt on a crime gang over huge stacks of pancakes and coffee so strong it could melt spoons …

Lizzie laughed when she saw me taking in all the details of Annie’s exterior. ‘Your face – anyone would think I’d taken you to Disney World for the first time. It’s just a diner. A great diner, mind you, but still a regular, Stateside eatery.’

Now it was my turn to giggle. ‘You said eatery … You’re such a Yank now!’

But Lizzie was wrong. Annie’s was so much more than just a diner. I was later to learn what an institution it was in the community and how even people who had moved out of The Haight faithfully made the pilgrimage back here every weekend for brunch. The whole building smelled of coffee, sugar, vanilla, the delicious aroma of pancakes and frying steak, which wrapped around our nostrils. We approached the polished chrome counter, where customers were hunched on bottle-green leather bar stools over enormous cups of black coffee and gargantuan portions of food that made your eyes water as much as your mouth. Faded black and white photographs of past customers and staff peppered the red-painted walls, the smiling faces and bulging brunch plates in them no different from those filling the diner today. It was as if history hung heavily around the current customers, the eyes of the past bestowing their blessings on the faces of the present.

‘I’ve been coming here since my first weekend in San Francisco,’ Lizzie said. ‘You have to try the French toast – it’s pretty much legendary in The Haight.’

‘Hey Lizzie! You on a loyalty bonus from Annie now?’ shouted a broad-backed, balding man from the far edge of the counter.

Sat next to him, a man of similar build with an impressive bushy beard but less hair chuckled. ‘Yeah – she’s on a short-stack bonus. One more customer introduced and she finally makes the three-stack!’

‘You wish,’ my cousin called back, as several other diners raised their heads in greeting. ‘Marty, Frankie, this is my cousin Nell from England. She’s here for a couple of months so you’d better get used to another Brit in the joint.’

Marty – the one sans beard – raised his hand in greeting. ‘Well hello, Nell-from-England. This your first time here?’

‘It is, yes.’

‘You gotta be gentle with her, Marty,’ Frankie said, wiping ketchup from his beard with a paper napkin. ‘Annie’ll skin ya alive if you spook any more customers outta here. Nell, nice to meet ya. Don’t you listen to a word Marty says and you’ll fit right in.’

I laughed. ‘I’ll remember that, thanks.’

A couple moved from a table near the counter and Lizzie grabbed it quickly. ‘Marty and Frankie are cab drivers,’ she informed me, holding a menu up to her face to shield her words, ‘and our resident philosophers. Anything you want an opinion on, they’re your men.’

I looked at the considerable array of options on the laminated menu card, which wouldn’t have looked out of place on the tables of Al’s Diner in Happy Days . ‘Wow, when you said French toast was big here you weren’t kidding. Seventeen varieties?’

‘Oh yes. And every one of them awesome .’ Lizzie’s expression reminded me of years before when our families would meet for Pancake Day tea. Out of the two of us, Lizzie had always possessed the sweet tooth, which made her extremely easy to buy birthday and Christmas presents for. I never saw her happier than when she was about to consume obscene amounts of sugar. ‘You should try all of them, of course, but my favourite is Banana Maple Walnut. Unbelievable. Some nights I actually wake myself up dreaming of it.’

‘I’ll give that a go then. And a cup of coffee, please.’

‘Oh don’t worry about that. You get coffee here even if you haven’t ordered it.’ She righted the upturned mugs on our table. ‘And coffee here is the best.’ She looked up as a young waitress approached us. ‘Hey Laverne. This is my cousin Nell from England.’

Laverne stuffed her order pad into the waistband of her apron and shook my hand. ‘Hi! Lizzie’s told me so much about you!’

‘She has?’ Her enthusiastic welcome took me a little by surprise.

‘I was telling Laverne about that amazing chocolate orange cheesecake you used to make when we were teenagers, do you remember?’

It had been a long time since I had last thought of that, but instantly memories of consolation cheesecake afternoons at my house after inevitable teenage breakups rushed back. ‘Yes, I do. We ate a lot of cheesecake after all our disastrous relationships.’

Laverne smiled. ‘I’m, like, a total baking fan. You have to give me the recipe before you go back to England.’

‘No problem. If I can remember it, that is. I haven’t baked in a while.’

‘Thank you so much! So, what can I get you guys?’

‘One Banana Maple Walnut, one Nutella Pomegranate please.’ Watching Lizzie ordering struck me how utterly San Franciscan my cousin had become. The inflection of her voice now had a characteristic West Coast upward flick and she was relaxed and happy.

‘Sure thing. I’ll go grab the coffee pot for you guys. And hey, I’ll tell Annie you’re here. She’ll bust a gut to meet you!’

When she left us, I leaned closer to Lizzie. ‘Annie? Is that the Annie?’

‘The very same. Founded this place thirty-seven years ago and still going strong. You’ll love her.’

‘I’m looking forward to it already.’

Lizzie folded her hands on the checkerboard tabletop. ‘So what’s this about you not baking, Nellie? You baked all the time when we were kids.’