The vents open and the hash brown grease intoxicates the city smell of Baltimore. It’s better than incense and stronger than Poo-Pourri.

         As if they were a bread crumb trail, the smells lead to Fells Point Diner, a no-frills greasy spoon.

           This isn’t your run-of-the-mill, farm-to-table gentrified, whatever, the community frequents this old-standby time and time again. There’s many reason why Fells Point is special. It’s cheap, free refills on coffee, fries with gravy, and the waitresses know who you are even if they just call you, “honey”. Don’t worry, they call everyone honey.

            Fells Point Diner doesn’t care what color your collar is. You don’t even have to wear a color at all. Everyone has to eat. And if you’re a part of everyone, then have a seat.

            The only time people judge, is when you embark on the epicurean journey of eating every menu item. And even when that happens, all you’ll get is a round of applause. Tables hold a group of guys busting each others balls over how they’re going to get laid, first dates, and made men.

            The fries and gravy is what to get. The Kennebec’s are crisp for being on the rather large side, but not steak fry size, and are unusually consistently golden. And even if you don’t know what you want, say “the usual.” “The Usual” isn’t listed. It’s not a special. Everyone has a usual, even if it you don’t know what it is yet. The slice of apple pie with extra cheddar and a cup of Joe is a usual. Three well-done scrambled eggs with a mountain of ketchup, a usual. A juicy roast beef sandwich that you don’t want to share, but do anyway, a usual.

            But what’s the main reason to keep going to Fells Point Diner? The ambience is one thing, but the feeling being lost in time, waiting for your song to play from the miniature juke box on your table, and drinking a tepid cup of coffee while breaking bread with your fellow neighbors is something of a lost art in today’s society. Long live Fells Point Diner.