A couple weeks back when I was teetering on the edge of a major funk, my lovely Girlfriend came up with what she thought would be a sure-fire cure for what ailed me: a big plate of comfort food at one of those classic cafes I so love, those places where the regulars while away the hours at the counter over a warm cup of joe (once upon a time, they would’ve had a cigarette to go with their caffeine, but those days are long gone, of course) while couples and families cram themselves into Naugahyde booths with Formica tables and enjoy hearty meals of home-style meatloaf, chicken-fried steak, or a burger the size of your head.

The cafe she had in mind was new to both of us, a vintage-looking hole-in-the-wall she’d spotted while running errands, not too far from her place of employment. It sounded perfect, and I was surprised and touched by her willingness to spontaneously try some place new for my sake (Anne is generally a creature of habit when it comes to food), so in less time than it took to type this sentence, we were off on a new culinary adventure.

We had no idea what we were getting into…

The Vertical Diner is located in exactly the sort of neighborhood you’d expect to find a good old-fashioned greasy spoon, a mostly industrial area dotted with warehouses and blue-collar businesses where manly men do manly things with power tools and go home at night with grime under their fingernails. The Vertical looks the part, too; it’s a modest, single-story, whitewashed building with two big windows facing the street and a door in between, just like so many neighborhood cafes I remember from my youth. One corner of the building is inset with translucent glass blocks, and on the roof are a rusting metal arrow outlined with disused light sockets, the remnants of an ancient sign.

The authentic cafe/diner ambiance continued as we stepped inside: there’s a counter with a row of vinyl-topped stools, and a jukebox was playing Frank Sinatra at a refreshingly low volume. There were some Asian-style artworks on the walls that suggested the current owners were a bit on the bohemian side, but essentially the place reflected the same homey atmosphere it’s probably held for 50 years.

So far, so good.

We seated ourselves at a table for two and almost immediately our waitress was there with menus and a friendly smile, asking what we’d like to drink. Considering the day I’d had, I ordered a beer. Anne wanted a Coke.

Cue the cliche’d sound effect of a phonograph needle being dragged across a hapless record. The waitress looked slightly embarrassed as she explained that the Vertical doesn’t carry Coke products, but they have a lovely natural cola beverage with no caffeine or HFCS. Anne said that’d be fine — neither of us have any love for corn syrup, and I’d like nothing better than to see Coca-Cola wise up and offer a “Coke Premium” product using the original cane-sugar formula — and we flipped open our menus.

That’s when we learned that the Vertical Diner isn’t… exactly… what we were expecting. It’s a vegetarian diner, you see. There wasn’t a chicken-fried steak in sight.

We should’ve known when we parked next to a Smart car with an Obama bumper sticker.

Now, look, I’ve got nothing against vegetarianism in principle. I know vegetarians claim to derive a lot of health benefits from their lifestyle. I’m even sympathetic to some of the political causes that’ve somehow gotten bound up with the idea of subsisting on leafy greens and bean curd. But The Girlfriend and I are both contented omnivores — we like eating yummy, yummy meat products — and we couldn’t help but feel a little bait-n-switched under these circumstances. Still, the two of us are too soft-hearted to walk out of a place once we’ve been acknowledged by the staff — who, I hasten to point out, seemed like very nice people — and, after all, the whole point of the evening was to try something new, so we went ahead and did our best to find something appetizing.

It wasn’t easy. For one thing, the menu was… confusing. It proudly claimed that “all items… are prepared using pure vegetarian ingredients,” but there were several dishes whose names and descriptions made them sound like they maybe had chicken in them. We could’ve — and really we should‘ve — asked our waitress for clarification, but we already felt awkward enough over the Coke gaffe, so we discussed it and I came up with a theory that perhaps this place simply didn’t use red meat, that they had a few “less evil” meat dishes for its non-veggie customers. That’s not exactly what the menu said, of course; it was just me grasping for straws. Or perhaps sausages would be a better metaphor.

I finally ended up ordering fajitas, which seemed a cautious enough choice, while Anne went for what she thought — or at least hoped — would be chicken strips and fries with gravy. In the meantime, our beverages arrived and turned out to be rather nice. My beer was an organic offering from a local microbrewery, and it tasted fresh and flavorful. Anne’s Blue Sky Cola didn’t taste like Coke — not even original-formula Coke made with sugar — but it was sweet and reasonably pleasing. I grew hopeful that our experience might be a good one after all.

Then our food came, and my “some items have chicken” theory evaporated like a dream in the bright sunlight of morning. I don’t know what was actually sitting there on our plates — tofu, I suppose — but it very obviously was not chicken, or anything else that had ever been part of anything that roams a barnyard under its own power. In my case, the… protein substance… had been formed into narrow, flat slabs that kind of resembled fajita meat, but not really. It was well-seasoned with Jamaican jerk spices, though, and actually didn’t taste too bad. The texture was oddly smooth, like eating the skin off cooked pudding, but it tasted fine. Not like anything I’ve ever eaten before, but it was fine. Honestly, the thing I had the most difficulty with was the “sour cream,” which, apparently being vegan in nature, had no actual cream involved with it. I was okay with the non-meat fajita meat, but the non-cream sour cream was very… wrong. Still, my dinner was acceptable, if not quite what I’d been hoping for.

Anne was not as lucky. Her pudding skins had been coated in some kind of flaky breading material, just like real chicken strips would’ve been, and appeared to have been deep-fried, again just like chicken would have been, but the end results… well, let’s just say the non-chicken strips weren’t nearly as effective at simulating chicken strips as my protein slabs were at pretending to be fajita meat. Actually, they were pretty diabolical, and I’m willing to eat damn near anything, within reason. Fortunately, she had a huge mound of french fries — now made with real potatoes! — to fill the void. When the waitress asked if we’d like boxes for the leftovers, we felt obligated to say yes, but I’m ashamed to admit that non-chicken chicken strips never made it to Anne’s fridge. We both went to bed that night craving, for the first time since we were children, probably, two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, and onions on a sesame seed bun. Yes, that’s right, the Vertical Diner, which is supposed to promote healthy dining, made the two of us want McDonald’s, a place we can only stomach once or twice a year, and then usually only if we’re nursing a hangover (the salty food really helps settle the symptoms of over-indulgence; no, it’s true!)

I’ve tried not to be too snarky here because, truthfully, there’s no reason to be. It wasn’t the fault of the Vertical’s staff or owners that it didn’t turn out to be what we thought it was, and I’m sure there is a reasonably healthy (sorry, but it’s the best word) market for the kind of food sold here, as there were several other patrons in the place and Anne says it’s been open for some time. But she and I definitely are not that market. If nothing else, I suppose the evening was a valuable experience in finding our own boundaries.

Consider this entry a PSA for those who would experiment with unfamiliar dining establishments: do a little research and find out what you’re getting into…

* Once upon a time, the coffee drinkers at the counter would’ve had a cigarette to go with their cups, but those days are long gone, of course. Many people, at least around here, figure it’s good riddance, but I have to confess I miss that scene, myself…

[Addendum: The Girlfriend reminds me that, while our entrees were strange and disappointing, the salads we were served prior to the pudding-skins were fabulous. Fresh, locally grown, organic vegetables really are remarkably tasty — even the celery had flavor! It’d be worth going to the Vertical for salads. But we’ll skip the meat substitutes, thank you very much…]