Normally we try and strike a stylish pose of urbanity and wit. As we live in the cosmopolitan centre of North America–London, Ontario–known the world over for its progressive attitudes and ground-breaking cultural events, it seems fitting to strut down our main streets, cognac in hand, doffing a hat to our fellow aesthetes, and enjoying the Flâneur lifestyle that our tres belle downtown offers architecturally. This past week, though, our strident posturing has been destroyed by a bit of news that has shaken our mortal coil.
PRINCE ALBERT’S DINER IS CLOSING!!!
In our hysteria, a few, well-meaning, customers and friends have reassured us that it is only a diner, that businesses come and businesses go, that change is inevitable. We say to them, while WEEPING into our arms, “THIS IS NOT HELPING!” Prince Albert’s Diner is NOT just one of those things and NO the rationalist birds-eye-view of the world, Matthew, that you ALWAYS bring up in these times of strife does not help in this matter. one. little. bit. Prince Albert’s Diner is a rare, unexpected gem in this city, a true townie spot, real, persistent, unchanging and inclusive, where teenage Jason and Vanessa and middle-aged Jason and Vaneesa BOTH feet welcome. We had our wedding dinner there! In our wedding clothes! We smoked cigarettes there before it was illegal, and talked about all sorts of pretentious shit while learning how to poet and true crime and sell all the books. We drank coffee sober and ate poutine drunk. We saw Bill Paul hand out balloon animals and Roy MacDonald shout prophecies. This is an ESTABLISHMENT.
It is the Call the Office of restaurants. The Brunswick Tavern of restaurants (although much, much cleaner). It is the corner store of restaurants, the place where you’d see your doctor, your drug dealer, your band mate, your future partner, your most-feared enemy, your greatest regret and your best friend POSSIBLY IN ONE VISIT. It is a true local legend, perched beautifully on the corner we still contend is the ACTUAL heart of the city, and the thought that it won’t be there–at least in this incarnation–honestly breaks our hearts.
Betsy has been an exemplary neighbour. She has come into our store whenever she has sensed there was trouble. She has supported us, guided us, given us shit, and has just simply smiled and patted us on the back while running a busy restaurant. And, yes, the world changes. Yes, new opportunities need to be there for people with dreams. We were those people seven short (long?) years ago. But when a friend goes away, whether that be a friend like Betsy, or the restaurant she ran, it passes a raven over your grave.
We have no doubt that someone will build something truly beautiful there. Our landlord, the ORIGINAL owner of Prince Al’s, the guy who started this whole beautiful dream, who most likely suffered teen-age Jason smoking on the floor of his diner ordering ONLY coffee (see below), has the heart of this block protected. He grew up in business here. He worked here as a little kid. He opened, nurtured, and loved, London’s best, most approachable, and honestly coolest bloody restaurant here. And we will EGG HIS HOUSE if he leases it to morons.
In the meantime, we will be weeping into our pillows. DAMNIT change hurts sometimes.
With love,
In heartache,
Jason and Vanessa
