Wild West Dining
Chances are good that if you have school-aged kids, you were elsewhere for at least one of the past couple weeks due to the conceptual oddity known as "Mid-Winter Break," which follows, of course, directly on the heels of "Winter Break." …Speaking of breaks, I think I need one.

With one child at NES and the other at the New School, we faced the logistical matter of one week versus (God help us) two weeks break, ultimately opting for a joint departure and staggered returns. I pulled my collection of zero balance credit cards out from the depths of my sock drawer in preparation for lasting the duration with the two-weeker - the one who burns holes through pockets faster.

The destination: the Valley of the Sun. The motivation: joining up with my parents and siblings for some good old-fashioned family fun and dysfunction. Think Thanksgiving out of season, the low-blows stretched out over 14 days rather than crammed into one. In retrospect, though, it wasn't so bad. In fact the most hotly contended issue was refreshingly benign - where to go to eat.

If you haven't been to the Phoenix-Scottsdale area lately, allow me to sum it up in two words: a lot. Of everything, that is: people, restaurants, stores, restaurants, cars, restaurants, houses, restaurants, hotels, restaurants, golf courses and restaurants. Did I mention restaurants?

I'm no stranger to metropolitan areas loaded with eateries, but even so, that neck of the Wild West is overwhelming. The offerings run the gamut from crazy little one-of-a-kind taco and tequila joints with barely enough room to wiggle, let alone sit, to high-end establishments with seating for a few hundred well-heeled types, and ample parking for their Bentleys. What struck me was that every single restaurant was crowded. Yet the challenge wasn't getting into places. Rather, given the complexity of personalities, likes and dislikes within my tribe-o'-dysfunction, the quest was finding any place we all agreed upon.

My kids should've been the easiest to please; all they cared about was the acquisition of burgers. But even they were dumbstruck. Poor creatures. With so many choices, their little heads were reeling. 30 miles from Nantucket, McDonald's is the be all and end all; 2,792 miles from home - their decision-making capacity became clouded. Between Burger King, Jack-inthe Box, A & W, Wendy's, Fatburger, Chuckbox, In-N-Out Burger, Lenny's Burgers, Fuddrucker's, Sonic Burger and, believe it or not, the Heart Attack Grill - home of the Double Bypass Burger and Flatliner Fries - it was a ground beef free-for-all.

Confused, they deferred to the familiarity of the least common denominator and every lunch they ate was flipped at them from beneath golden arches. But then there was dinner to contend with. Giving them autonomy over their midday gastronomic fixes didn't have the intended result of stifling them nocturnally. To the dismay of everyone over age10, we spent evenings in hot pursuit of children's menus that double as coloring books and plastic cups featuring culinary cartoon characters. Finally, I put my foot down. Benihana was the last straw. It wasn't even the disturbing ninja-festooned plastic cups that did it - it was the "chef" flipping pieces of teriyaki chicken onto the top of his toque that drove me over the edge.

If fine grown-up meals weren't in the cards, at least I deserved some good, honest grub. I wanted a tuna melt and I knew what I had to find to get one: a diner. My east coast roots are the culprit for my constant yen for diner food - a humble chunk of Americana that's as native to New England as the Pilgrims.

In 1872, Rhode-Islander Walter Scott plunked himself inside a horse-drawn wagon parked on the street in front of the "Providence Journal" selling ham sandwiches, boiled eggs and pie to night-shift workers who lined up to pay a nickel an item. Neither he nor his clientele were known for their genteel ways; he was often forced to confiscate hats as collateral and frequently demanded payment with a club. Nonetheless, his concept was a hit and copycats began springing up all over the eastern seaboard. Worcester, Massachusetts was the early hub for the commercial production of "night lunch wagons," with locals Charles Palmer and Thomas Buckley obtaining the first patents and spawning an industry that spread like wildfire across the country, influencing the way Americans ate their first meals away from home.

By the early 1900s, the popularity of "night owls" became so great that cities and towns passed ordinances restricting hours of operation and imposing curfews. An eventual revolt staged by vendors led to the covering up of their wagon wheels, the tossing out of their keys and the birth of the original "24-hour" eatery. In the 1920s, innovations such as longer dimensions and counter space - not to mention indoor bathrooms - became incorporated into design; the look of railroad dining cars and the use of the word "diner" were introduced as efforts to change the image of the early night lunch wagons which had since become dilapidated "greasy spoons."

In the 1930s, diners were streamlined to echo modern modes of transportation and the efficiency of the machine age. Within the next two decades, as the population began hopping into automobiles and migrating from cities to the suburbs, the look changed even more dramatically. Shiny, stainless steel exteriors, stylistic features and neon lighting were incorporated to attract and bedazzle passing motorists. By the late 1950s, the nation's obsession with the Space Age, jet transport and all things fast and modern were reflected in diner designs, complete with bullet-shaped ends, outlandish themes and waitresses attired in campy uniforms.

Sadly, "fast" took on new meaning in the 1960s. Not even service via roller-skates proved to be speedy enough for the increasing impatience of the scurrying dining public: home-style comfort food was shunned in favor of the mechanized and predictable fast food of franchised chains.

Since the 1980s, there's been a nostalgic interest in salvaging vintage diners with a significant number having been rescued from demolition and relocated to new sites in the United States and Europe. To their credit, the Historical Commissions of a number states (Massachusetts included) have placed functioning vintage diners on the National Register of Historic Places in an effort to preserve not only the structures themselves, but the culture of these American icons.

So, did we find a diner? Well, yes and no. We easily found the "5 & Diner" in Phoenix; it's hard to miss. It's a shiny, silver zeppelin that looks like it's ready for take-off. But it's also the flagship of a nationwide franchise chain opened in 1989. Not surprisingly, one sprouted in Worcester, Mass.; I suppose the next best thing to being authentic is pretending to be. Regardless, I was happy - a tuna melt was within my grasp.

From the poodle skirt-clad waitresses to the juke box-blaring booths, it was cute, albeit gimmicky. But I couldn't figure how the sign at the entrance fit into the theme: "All weapons and firearms must be left outside." When the check came, I posed the question to our waiter. His cokebottle eyeglasses were also a study in thematic mystery…was he channeling Buddy Holly or was he an actual geek?

"The sign's for real," he deadpanned. Seems that much of the overnight crowd enjoys dining with their heat conspicuously wedged into their waistbands. Gulp.

With that, we paid and left - I had no intention

of giving up my hat as collateral. Not to anyone. I
Only mildly dangerous-
8 ounces fresh tuna filet
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 cup red onion, chopped
1 jalapeño, seeded and minced
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/2 cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons sweet pickle relish
1 teaspoon cayenne sauce
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper,
    to taste
4 slices sourdough bread, lightly-toasted
1 large red bell pepper, seeded and sliced
6 ounces Monterey Jack, shredded
    HEAT-
                          PACKING
        TUNAMELTS

In a sauté pan over medium heat, combine tuna, olive oil and ? cup water. Cover and cook for about 5 minutes, then refrigerate until cooled. In a medium bowl, combine onions, jalapeños, mustard, mayonnaise, relish and cayenne sauce. Break tuna into small pieces and combine; season to taste. Preheat broiler. Place toasted bread on baking sheet; mound with tuna mixture and top with bell pepper slices and cheese. Broil until bubbly, about 4 minutes. Serves 2.