The Come Again Diner: the best bad decision I have ever made at 2:47 in the morning, and I once married a carnie in Reno

★★★★★ (5/5) Reviewed by Ramona Q. – “Night Owl, Pie Addict, Professional Detour Taker” November 26, 2003

Let me get this out of the way: the Come Again Diner is the best bad decision I have ever made at 2:47 in the morning, and I once married a carnie in Reno.

I was westbound out of Seligman, chasing the ghost of a relationship and a full tank of premium, when the dashboard clock rolled past the hour that reasonable people call “bedtime.” Cell service had died somewhere around the Burro Creek Bridge, the radio had surrendered to evangelical static, and the only light for fifty miles was a single pink-and-turquoise comet flickering on the horizon like God’s own neon wink. The sign said COME AGAIN DINER in letters tall enough to humiliate every billboard in Vegas. My stomach growled. My better judgment was asleep in the passenger seat. I took the exit that isn’t an exit—just a wide spot in the cracked asphalt—and rolled into the parking lot of the most beautifully desperate roadside temple I’ve ever seen.

The building looks like 1957 and 1974 got drunk, made out behind a Stuckey’s, and nine months later this chrome-and-cinder-block love child popped out wearing too much mascara. The paint is the exact shade of Pepto-Bismol that has given up on life. The neon tubing has more patches than a biker’s vest, yet somehow every tube still glows like it’s personally offended by darkness. A hand-painted plywood banner leaning against the cottonwood reads “YES, WE’RE OPEN. COME AGAIN!” in letters that have been repainted so many times the plywood has warped into a smile.

Inside, the air is 40% bacon grease, 40% coffee that could strip paint, and 20% whatever perfume Delores “Dee” Valdez has been wearing since Nixon was president. Speaking of Dee—she is the reason this review is five stars instead of a polite four-and-a-half.

Picture a woman who has seen every version of human stupidity that rolls in on four wheels and still chooses to wear winged eyeliner sharp enough to perform an appendectomy. Flowing hair the color of fresh crude oil, cat-eye glasses on a chain, and a mouth that can deliver “sugar” like it’s foreplay or a death threat depending on your tip. She calls everyone hon, darling, or trouble, and she means all three at once. Dee doesn’t walk so much as prowl the checkered floor in orthopedic shoes that somehow still manage to look like stilettos had a religious experience.

I slid into the end booth—red vinyl cracked in all the right places—and before my butt hit the seat Dee was already pouring coffee into a mug that said “I Survived the Come Again Diner and All I Got Was This Lousy Hangover.” She didn’t ask if I wanted coffee. She knows what time it is.

The menu is bolted to the wall on old Arizona license plates because, as Dee says, “Paper menus are for quitters.” I ordered the Second Coming Skillet because the name alone felt like a dare. Ten minutes later a cast-iron pan the size of a hubcap arrived: hash browns crisp enough to make angels weep, chorizo that bites back, green chile with legitimate heat, two over-easy eggs, and a biscuit so tall it needed its own zip code. I’m not saying it cured my heartbreak, but my ex’s name did briefly leave my brain, which is close enough.

The pie deserves its own paragraph. The Come Again Pie is banana cream with a meringue peak torched to the exact color of a desert sunset and a texture that can only be described as architecturally suggestive. One bite and I understood why a Baptist youth group once tried to get it banned in 1998. They lost. The pie remains undefeated.

The jukebox is a 1959 Seeburg that allegedly still has Margie the ghost waitress trapped inside. Play B-17 and the volume dips for four seconds like someone just leaned in to listen. I dropped in a quarter on a dare. Margie approved. Prince came on next and Dee did a little shimmy behind the counter that made a trucker in the corner choke on his coffee in the best possible way.

Conversation at 3 a.m. here is its own art form. The regulars include a one-eyed Navajo mechanic who swears he outran a UFO in a ’67 Mustang, a retired dominatrix from Vegas who now drives an RV full of rescue chihuahuas, and a German tourist who keeps trying to pay in euros and tears of joy. Dee presides over them like a benevolent dictator in a gingham apron. Tip well and she’ll let you initial the underside of the counter with a Sharpie. Tip extravagantly and she’ll tell you which of her famous ex-lovers was the astronaut and which one was the senator. (Spoiler: there’s overlap.)

Bathrooms are clean enough that you won’t die, but the graffiti is a PhD dissertation in late-night philosophy. My favorite: “If you can read this, you’ve already stayed too long. Order pie.”

By 4:30 the sky outside had turned the color of a bruised peach and I was on my third cup of coffee and second slice of pie. Dee slid the check across the counter with one crimson nail and said, “Come again, sugar. Door’s always open.” I believed her. I still do.

Look, the Come Again Diner isn’t on the way to anywhere. The food is too much, the coffee is illegal in three states, and the pie will ruin you for all other desserts forever. But if you ever find yourself alone on that endless stretch of Route 66 where the stars feel close enough to touch and the silence starts talking back, follow the pink glow. Pull into the cracked lot. Walk through the screen door that still plays the same four-note squeak it has since Eisenhower.

Order whatever you want. Save room for pie. Tip like your soul depends on it.

And when Dee leans over the counter and gives you that wink that has launched a thousand return trips, you’ll understand why the sign doesn’t say “Welcome.”

It says Come Again.

Because you will.

PS- Remember to visit our friends and neighbors at the Hackberry General Store!  Right near the diner!