Not Everyone Can Stomach Being a Food Writer

Jean Hayes at Birdseye Diner in Castleton Credit: Caleb Kenna

This “backstory” is a part of a collection of articles that describes some of the obstacles that Seven Days reporters faced while pursuing Vermont news, events and people in 2024.

When new acquaintances find out I’m a food writer, their usual reaction is, “You get to eat for a living? Cool!”

Yes, technically, though the writing part of the title takes up most of my time. My dining companions are the ones who really have it all figured out. For every restaurant review I file, there’s someone who sat across the table. If they’re willing to order what I tell them to, they eat for free.

It’s not always fun for those plus-ones, though. For assignments such as the cover story Melissa Pasanen and I cowrote this summer about classic American diners, the physical slog of back-to-back meals can be a little much.

Pasanen and I set out to visit diners from Bennington to the Northeast Kingdom. We hoped to find out how their no-frills business models were faring against challenges plaguing the restaurant industry, from rising costs to staffing shortages. While we were there, of course, we’d also find giant pancakes, piles of corned-beef hash, bottomless coffee and so many pies.

Pasanen was headed to southwestern Vermont, so she hit the Blue Benn and Castleton’s Birdseye. We split the diners close to Chittenden County, and I took the other four we were checking out, three of which ended up in the story.

For my first road trip, I picked up my friend Diane Corsones, a diner expert, in Burlington. We’d been in grad school together, where she researched the unchanging cultural portrayal of diner waitresses; before that, she covered immigration patterns that led to so many Greek-owned diners in the U.S. I hounded her the whole way to Martha’s Diner in Coventry about the history of diner car manufacturers and why their stools are bolted down.

Like a true pro, Corsones had her order ready to go the second we sat at Martha’s counter: coffee, home fries, dry toast. She’s vegan, so I was on my own tackling a massive mound of sausage gravy over biscuits — with a plate-size pancake slathered in butter on the side.

Corsones had the right idea. From Martha’s, we hopped down Route 5 to our second stop, arriving an hour later after a quick dip in Lake Willoughby. I was still digesting my first meal when we sat in a booth at the stalwart — and sadly now-closed — Miss Lyndonville Diner. I hyped myself up enough to order a tuna melt, but I skipped a shake and got my slice of chocolate-peanut butter pie to go. Meanwhile, my friend downed her whole veggie burger with fries.

My omnivorous husband didn’t fare so well on the next reporting trip, which took us to Chester and North Springfield. I learned my lesson and ordered light, but I didn’t say anything when he chose a forearm-size breakfast burrito at the Country Girl Diner. A 13-minute drive away at the Springfield Diner, I sadistically encouraged him to order a patty melt. He ate it, but I could see the meat sweats starting. Back in the car, he said he’d never been so completely, uncomfortably stuffed.

It was a long drive home.

The original print version of this article was headlined “Fullest Plate”