[A repeat from January 5, 2017] When I was a kid, we rarely went out for dinner.  But when we did, my folks would take me to different places – mainly burger joints.  One night – I was maybe 7 years old – we went to a place on Milwaukee Avenue in Chicago.   I don’t remember much about the place or the food.  But I remember – keenly – my father’s reaction.   “Man – this is really a greasy spoon.”  Greasy spoon.  I looked around on the table.  No spoons.  I thought – Wow!  That is a cool term. 

The next time we went out for dinner to one of the regular sit down burger joints, the waitress came over and took our order.  I looked up at her and asked – quite seriously – “is this a greasy spoon?”   I don’t recall the waitress’s reaction but I remember my father’s nervous laughter and attempt to wriggle out of my inquiry. 

The term “greasy spoon” has probably diminished in usage (does anyone remember it?). But my use of the term likely pales to the time when my father’s boss – Mr. Lovell – came to the house for dinner.  And I said quite innocently “gee Mom – we oughta have company more often.  This food is really good!”