Monk’s Café wards off the hipsters. Consider yourself lucky if you’re not one of them.

The Upper West Side working-class joint welcomes its own and that’s about it. Fortunately, the far and few between are loyal enough to keep it in business.

It doesn’t advertise, receive any press, and the menu doesn’t change. The ability to plop where you want to adds to the no-frills charm.

The interior is a hodgepodge of kitsch and dive. The cashier, one of the few regular employees, only welcomes cash. 

Instead of going to Broadway for a show, she watches the customers. They’re entertaining enough.

There’s nothing special here. Behind the counter, the cooks take the ticket, plop a scoop of tuna on two pieces of rye toast, grab up a handful of fries, plate it up in no particular order, and yell at anyone who wants to hear that an order is up.

No need to look at the menu. You walk in already knowing what you want or bluff that you do.  

Waitresses are all like tenured professors at a university.  They don’t care if you complain, there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.

When you sit in one of their booths it’s almost as if time is frozen and you can talk for eternity with your party about nothing.  People don’t come here for business, to propose, or break up.  They don’t come to chat about sports or newsworthy events that matter.  They just sit down, eat, and converse about frivolous things.  Their conversations don’t move forward. 

It’s comedic and tragic at the same time, but isn’t that what great theater is?