A Friday night in February at Dengeo’s
Photo: Gerald Farinas.
The fluorescent lights of Dengeo’s hum with a steady, low-frequency comfort that only a Greek diner can provide. Outside, the February winter has settled over the corner of McCormick and Main, thinning the usual Friday night crowd but deepening the intimacy of those who made the trek. Inside, the ritual of the meal begins. I slide a falafel sandwich out of its aluminum sleeve, letting it rest on a proper ceramic diner plate. I lay the Kronos pita flat and take a knife to the lettuce, tomato, and falafel, slicing and flattening them in an orderly fashion. I layer dollops of tzatziki from a bistro dressing cup, preparing to eat with a fork and knife. It is a precise architecture because I need falafel in every bite.
Photo: Gerald Farinas.
The room is a cross section of the neighborhood, a mix of blue-collar young adults and middle-aged men ready to unwind for Super Bowl weekend. And retired folks just enjoying a night out.
At a nearby four-top, a group of old Jewish men huddles together. One asks in a deep Skokie accent if the others had heard that Josephine died. The news travels across the table in the space between heartbeats. No one had told them until one man mentions an email from her daughter. The others check their phones, the blue light of the screens illuminating the confirmation of a stroke. God bless her, they say, as the reality sinks in.
Overhead, the song "I Am Not Okay" by Jelly Roll plays faintly, nearly drowned out by the chatter and the servers yelling for orders to be picked up. Nearby, a retired couple in Carhartt coats licks away proudly at ice cream cones, a prize the wife secured after their matching Italian beef and fries dinners. The old man beams at a jolly attendant wiping down tables, showing off his treat with a thick Polish brogue. You just got it and you’re almost finished with it, she laughs. She yells in Spanish to the kitchen to get him a second scoop on the house.
Photo: Gerald Farinas.
The demographics of the booths shift like a living map. Four Loyola Academy students in school sweatshirts and pajama pants sit with their Crocs tucked under the table, their phones commanding their attention while their gyros plates grow cold. Next to them, a handsome, hefty Black man with a sleeve tattoo of intertwining snakes holds his girlfriend’s hand. She uses her free hand to fork at her spinach pie, a quiet anchor in the buzz of the room.
Behind her, the labor of parenthood is on full display. A Korean father carefully divides French fries for his son and daughter, while the mother cuts their chicken into manageable pieces. In the next booth, a skinny redhead with curls wearing a blue and yellow Marquette hoodie struggles to fork beef kabobs off their skewers, a small task he meets with a smile. Further back, four Filipinas in blue Endeavor nursing scrubs are packing their food into to-go boxes. They are preparing to head back out into the cold, leaving behind the warmth of the diner where, for an hour, everyone was fed and accounted for.
After taking in the sights and finishing the last Greek potato, I put away my Kindle. I am almost finished with "Death in the Haymarket" by James Green. I arrived here sweaty in a purple T-shirt and matching shorts, covered by a Cubs hoodie that I am now swimming in after losing some weight. Dengeo’s was a treat after daily treks to the LA Fitness on Touhy Ave. Every single person in this room will go on and tomorrow will be a new day. I’m ready for it.
