One of my very favorite memories of working in New York City was a ritual I enjoyed each morning before the onset of my work day. Tucked neatly away in a corner of my office building lay a parallel universe of culinary delight known as Howard Johnson’s. Famous for its orange roof, fried clams and 28 flavors of ice cream, Ho Jo’s as it was affectionately known, also offered a first rate breakfast. Whether a short stack of piping hot pancakes topped with a dollop of butter and jigger of syrup or a deep and dark cup of their aromatic coffee, for me there was simply no better way to start the day.
Located on the northwest corner of 42nd Street and Lexington Avenue the Chanin building’s lobby of gilded gold never failed to impress and within it, Howard Johnson’s an icon in its own right, had found the perfect home. Each day, at approximately 7:30 AM I ascended the subway escalator and made my way through the building’s sleepy corridors, still devoid of the morning rush. Entering the doors which led to the restaurant’s takeout counter I joined a line which snaked around the premises and boasted patrons of all ages, colors and creeds sharing the simple commonality of breakfast.
It was not just the Howard Johnson takeout counter I remember with fondness but the Irish waitress who worked there daily, never missing a shift. Neat and polite she was exemplary in her job, friendly and welcoming, beloved by all. She uttered two words the moment before each patron stepped up to place their order. Briskly wiping down the spotless counter, she would smile warmly and call out, “Now….NEXT!” Always the same two words delivered with grace and confidence. I grew to love this phrase and her lilting Irish accent, a badge of efficiency and never ending optimism.
One morning, I noticed the line was almost double in size. I heard murmurs among the waiting customers and sensed a definite feeling of dissent in the air. The Irish waitress was nowhere to be seen. In her place was a short and stout woman with a tuft of orange hair which she had carelessly bobby-pinned into a frenzied bun. Heavy streaks of rouge framed her face and two dangling earrings one in the shape of a fork and the other a knife adorned her earlobes. An endearing overbite added to an expression of confusion though her demeanor was kind and friendly. A thick smear of tangerine lipstick framed her mouth which sported a perpetual grin as if she were having the time of her life rather than working. She suddenly held up in each hand, two plates of eggs then called out loudly, “Who ordered the fried eggs?” A stern looking older woman, dressed impeccably, immediately stepped up. She called to mind the old school description of “ladies who lunch” though this time it was breakfast. “I ordered eggs but specifically asked they be cooked over-easy. Which ones are mine?” The waitress stared intently, furiously studying the two plates before her. Then taking her bare index and middle finger, placed them atop the eggs on one of the plates and pressed down gingerly. TWICE. Smiling in relief she looked up and reassured, “These are definitely over-easy, guess they are yours…” I watched the older woman’s expression as she attempted to digest what she had just witnessed. Firing back at the waitress she asked “You expect me to eat those eggs after you just put your fingers on them?” Needless to say we never saw the new waitress again and breathed a sigh of relief when the Irish waitress returned the following day.
Last month I returned to the Chanin Building for a visit. As I walked through that beautiful lobby, ghosts of the past amiably welcomed me home. My beloved breakfast haven that once pulsated with life like the entire chain of now shuttered Howard Johnson restaurants, is now a distant memory. A bygone era. I sometimes recall the Irish waitress whose work ethic and demeanor I so admired and wonder with some regret why I never asked her name. Besides fond memories of those takeout counter days she also left me with two words I will never forget, “Now…Next!” which I sometimes use in her honor while serving dinner to my family.
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Thank you for sharing your funny and fond memory with us! Love the egg poking waitress, as long as she is poking someone elses eggs!!😊
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I am amazed to this day what I witnessed. It was so funny to see but yes, glad it wasn’t mine! Thanks for reading. 🙂
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I can see and smell the culinary delights of that bygone era.
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Yes, I long for those simpler times. Appreciate your reading.
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Lovely read.
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Thank you🌸
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Very enjoyable early morning read! Thank you. My sister’s best friend is from Ireland. The next time I see her, I’m going to ask her to say, “Now … Next!”. She’ll think I’m crazy but, like your waitress, this gal is pleasant and obliging. 😊
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Thanks so much Terry. Impossible to explain the “now/next” scenario scene in writing unless experienced in person but did my best.. It was almost a way for her to psychologically prepare for next customer. She would clean counter to a shine, pause to admire her work then look up to take order. The “Now” was always followed by a 3 second pause, then “Next!” Try to follow that when relaying to sister’s friend who yes, will likely think you crazy (lol). Appreciate your reading…:)
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A great read – you really brought both waitresses to life for me!
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Thank you Toonsarah! Both will stay in my memory forever.
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A great reminder of the good old days when we were all commuting into the city! Beautifully written, Kathy!
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Thanks sister xxo
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Wonderful memories! Now U must cover Manhasset HoJo’s! Am sure U remember. Love, Tootie
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Think that’s where your nick name originated!! Do you remember? Maybe began with “Tootie Fruitie” icecream flavor and stuck xxo
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Beautiful tribute to HoJo’s, could see that waitress plain as day as you described her, felt your daily morning ritual through your story. Interesting how the pattern of her “Now….Next” became expected and how you still use it with your own family! Love your stories! More please!
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Thank you Leslie. Will be in touch for some in person laughs🌝. Hope you and Mark well.
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my father managed that Ho Jo’s for many years. I worked there as a kid. The Chanin building. I would sometimes watch the Lane Ltd store while the manager went for lunch next door. Thanks for the article.
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Oh, I love this! Thank you for reading my memory. Every time I visit the city, I walk through the lobby of the Chanin Bldg 🙂
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An Irish waitress who pokes eggs. I’d go there to eat, just for that. The Irish are so delightfully entertaining. Such a good read 🙂 Thanks for sharing.
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Have to correct you to give credit to the Irish waitress who was always pristine, neat, exacting in her job a lovely girl. It was not she but her stand-in for the day that put her fingers on the eggs. The Irish have a magnificent wit and sense of humor but are meticulous in cleanliness and “tidying up.”
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I’m so sorry, that was my blunder. Thanks for that 😊
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Your story about the Chanin Building lobby brought back my own commuter-morning memories, though mine were from a different era — I used to grab a coffee at a similar counter before heading up to an office job, and that ritual of a warm cup and a familiar face really set the tone for the day. It’s funny how those small daily encounters, like the Irish waitress’s ‘Now…Next!’, stick with us long after the place is gone. Speaking of preserving memories, I’ve been experimenting with AI tools to recreate old scenes from descriptions — there’s one that can turn text into video, which might be a fun way to visualize that lobby and the takeout counter as you remember them. seadanse.com could help bring those ghosts back to life in a new way, though nothing beats the original experience you’ve captured so vividly here.
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Thank you. Think I will leave that memory of the Irish waitress and the iconic Ho-Jo counter forever in memory. Although fascinating what can be done these days, for me, nothing can ever recreate that particular period in time.
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The detail about the waitress pressing her bare fingers into the eggs to test whether they were over-easy is the kind of thing that makes this story stick. I’m curious whether the takeout counter was a separate operation from the sit-down restaurant or just a service window inside it, since you describe a line snaking around the premises before most of the building had woken up. Also struck by the ending, that you never learned the Irish waitress’s name, which seems to be part of why she stays so vivid in the retelling.
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The scene of that waitress and the eggs, will remain with me till the end of time. The take – out counter was indeed part of a full service restaurant that operated on main floor of building which I never frequented, opting rather to race down in morn for a gorgeous short stack of pancakes which I happily devoured at my desk. The vision of the Irish waitress and her excellent work ethic, too stays with me. I do wish I had known her name. Thank you reading and this thought provoking comment.
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The detail about the waitress pressing her fingers onto the eggs to check whether they were over-easy is the moment the whole piece turns on, and it works because the earlier description of the Irish waitress sets such a specific standard of efficiency and care. I’m curious whether the Chanin Building lobby still looks the way you describe it in the opening, or if the gilded gold has been altered since the Howard Johnson’s counter closed. Posts like this one on a blog of New York memories make me wonder how much of that era survives in the architecture itself.
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