Twenty-five years ago, I wrote a story for this fine magazine. I titled it, “Only Gus Touch.” Over the years, many people have told me they still remember that tale and ask if I can send them a copy. Sure, why not?
It was about a local diner here on The Isle of Long, a place where you can find a diner on just about every other corner. Greeks own most of them, and that was the case here. The owner’s name was Gus, which came as no surprise.
I wrote about this place because The Lovely Marianne and I were sitting in one of Gus’ red booths on a hot-and-sticky August day. TLM was shivering with the cold air that was blasting from the register above our heads. She was not happy, which meant that neither was I.