All heads returned to their own plates before I finished my sentence. I shrugged. Chances were the double meaning had sailed right over the heads of these wholesome townspeople anyway. Deciding this was definitely a seat-yourself establishment, I made my way to the counter. It was more conducive to making friends than getting a table, which might suggest I wanted to be left alone or, worse, was stuck up.

Disappointingly, the person behind the counter wasn’t dressed in fifties gear, nor did she resemble a cute, white-haired grandmother type like in the small-screen movies or a grumpy hottie à la Luke Danes on Gilmore Girls. Doreen—she wore a charm name necklace—was a nondescript white woman of indiscernible, not-old-but-not-young age with large brown eyes and dark brown, wavy hair that fell just above her shoulders. She handed me a menu and placed a glass of water in front of me. “What can I get for you?”

“What do you recommend?” I sniffed the air, hoping for the aroma of something sweet baking in the oven, but got french fries instead.

Doreen removed the pencil from behind her ear. “It depends on what you’re in the mood for. We serve breakfast all day, as well as burgers, grilled cheese, club sandwiches. The usual diner fare.”

I leaned forward. “How’s your pie? Is it homemade?” There were pastries in a glass display on the counter, but they looked stale and unappetizing.

Doreen pursed her lips. “Sorry. We don’t have a bakery on the premises. We order it from the Stop & Shop over in Newburgh. I think there might be a slice of cheesecake left if you’re interested.”

My mouth opened and closed. No bakery on the premises? Pie from a chain grocery store? What kind of cozy town was this?

“The burgers are pretty good. We have beef, turkey, and veggie. The onion rings are decent too.”

“An order of onion rings would be great. And a coffee, please. Thanks.” I was still reeling from the “no bakery on premises” comment. Mentioning Pinkie’s “famous” homemade pie with an accompanying picture would have made for a cute detail for the story, but it wasn’t a big deal. I opened my notebook and wrote: Doreen: friendly local waitress, held pencil behind her ear and made dining suggestions.

Doreen poured my coffee and stepped to the other side of the counter to help another customer. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to catch someone’s eye or maybe overhear a conversation about the new condos.

The minutes ticked by, my onion rings were served, and I got nothing…except annoyed with myself. A good reporter did not wait for the story to come to her. She sought it out. She asked the right questions. It was basic Journalism 101. I hadn’t come all this way to eavesdrop and hope to strike gold by chance.