Melrose Diner was always the same. That’s what made it amazing.

In 1975, when I started teaching at Vare Junior High School, I had an apartment on Snyder Avenue, directly across from the Melrose Diner. The place was like Groundhog Day: You could order a coded menu item a thousand different times and the food would always look and taste exactly as it did before. And it would probably be served by the same waitress. Those women were lifers who knew customers by name and guarded their counter and booth assignments like Annie Oakley. Delicious cakes and pies were baked on the premises and could be ordered whole for special occasions. The coffee really hit the spot, and the tableware was immaculate.

So needless to say, the news that the Melrose might be slated for demolition has me feeling very nostalgic.

» READ MORE: Owner of the Melrose Diner and Broad Street Diner has obtained demolition permits

How can the Melrose disappear? The place never closed. If a steady customer failed to show up at the appointed hour, people started asking questions. It became South Philly’s after-hours Mecca, despite at least one mob killing in the parking lot. But loud arguments or altercations were rarer than poor service. The half-oval booths seated three per side so that you often had to socialize with other patrons, like it or not. Oh, the stories those big Formica counters and tables could tell.

One time just prior to the morning rush, two buddies and I dragged ourselves in following another long night of hippie hijinks. A couple of older men seated a few stools away at the curved counter ogled us with disdain. They began talking in the same language my immigrant parents spoke at home about what a disgrace we were, with hair down to the shoulders of our faded green army jackets. The word sporci kept coming up. I listened with one ear for a while before calmly looking over and asking them, “Per favore passa il sale” — Italian for “Please pass the salt.” After an awkward pause, the man nearest us complied. Then their conversation resumed in a more muted tone, and in English.

My favorite entrée was the CB3, which consisted of chopped sirloin steak under mushroom gravy with mashed potatoes, green beans, and a round Italian roll — always followed by a slice of their scrumptious chocolate cake. But you couldn’t strike out with any order. The club sandwiches, crab cakes, hot turkey platters, chicken crochets, and veal parmigiana were all big sellers. The breakfast selections were good enough to make you gladly jump out of bed. Fresh omelets and eggs Benedict were coupled with better home fries than you’d ever get at home. In later years, my daughters gobbled up the pancakes and waffles drenched in fresh maple syrup, while their dad proudly observed the continuance of a family ritual. Each of us had a favorite menu item, as personal as our individual zodiac signs. My sister-in-law would regularly drive down from Bucks County just for the rice pudding.

I guess almost all American communities had similar establishments. This one was ours. Hemlines went up or down. Cars got smaller and lost their fins. VHS players eventually obliterated our local movie palaces. But the Melrose was still the Melrose. It did shed some of its charm and consistency over the years, just like the rest of the old neighborhood. But it will be missed anyway, even if only for the classic decor and the brilliant outdoor clock. Not to mention that perennial question: “What’ll it be, hon?”

Anthony Nannetti is a writer who lives in South Philadelphia with his wife and two daughters.