THE LAST HONEST ROOM IN ATLANTIC CITY
At three in the morning, after the casinos have taken everything a man brought with him and some things he did not, the Lucky Clover is still open. The coffee is still hot. The pie case still turns. And the restroom in back is kept so clean that it borders on an act of defiance.
The tile dates from 1974, harvest gold and avocado, cracked in places but scrubbed to a shine. The mirror is old and freckled at the edges, but someone had wiped it within the hour. The soap was full. The paper towels were stacked. A small vase on the tank held a plastic carnation, dusted.
I asked the waitress about it. Her nametag said only "Dot." She told me she cleans the restroom every time she refills the pie case, about once an hour, and has done so for nineteen years because "somebody's got to treat people decent at this hour." Then she topped off my coffee without being asked.
Up on the boardwalk, the casinos spend millions on chandeliers, carpet and free drinks designed to make losers feel like kings for exactly as long as their money lasts. Down here, Dot spends nothing but effort to make strangers feel like people. Only one of those operations is lying to you, and it isn't the diner. Somebody should build Dot a statue.
SCORE: 5 plungers. Dot.