Goodbye to the Smoky Yolk diner

“Actually, yes, please, I would like the pastrami corned-beef hash on the side – extra brown, extra peppers. Perfect complement to my Prime Benny. May want to hold the cheesy grits, though, but I’d love a side of maple and a large strawberry shake. Man needs his fruit!” “Whip cream?” “Oh, I think, absolutely.” It wasn’t a novel conversation. I used to entertain similar, equally weighty questions at least three times a week here. But I do recall thinking, then, and many times previously: if one is scarfing a monster shake at 7:30 on a Tuesday morning, is whipped cream really your most likely coronary catalyst? (Always skip the cherry; nothing found in nature – even adjacent to nature – can achieve such brilliant degrees of radiation red.)

No one in diner-world cares. It’s a judgment-free zone. A celebration of freedom and options and culinary abandon. It is a perpetual carb-and-protein rush, an extravaganza of grease and oil and butter, with ample amounts of sugar in all its blissful variations. There were no scolds here. There were also no glass coffee “mugs.” No avocado toast and no burrata. Nothing was served on artisanal bread. Good luck requesting a “smoothie.” Or masala chai. Same goes for non-fat yogurt, Greek or otherwise.

I’d never ordered a salad here, but it was certainly represented on the menu. Have faith, it wouldn’t be arugula, endive, kale or some other iceberg-usurper, the name of which is not even worth the attempt to pronounce it: it did not exist 25 years ago. Shaved radish. Bean or Brussels sprouts. Strained and extra virgin truffle oil. Balsamic “glaze.” None of these striving posers were welcomed here. No visa. No green card. Not even a day pass. Whether you were tucked away in one of the plump maroon booths that lined two long walls, or, perched, as I often was, upon one of the brown faux-leather, full-backed, boot-pegged, counter-swivel-stools, your personal cluster of spices sat before you, along with ample, and endless amounts of butter.

This is the family-owned Smoky Yolk, in the middle of James Island, South Carolina. And, until it shuttered without warning in November, I was proud to call it my local diner. It was seemingly unchanged in the past half century, save the free WiFi, surround-sound music and habanero mustard on request. The Smoky Yolk didn’t have a website or employ a hostess. It didn’t accept Amex, ApplePay or Bitcoin. The eggs were fluffy and the bacon was crisp. The three-egg omelets were fat, half-pan crescents of ridiculous goodness and could be stuffed with any manner of protein or vegetable the mind and salivary glands could conjure, from fresh jalapeño to chorizo. Thick slabs of non-processed cheddar and Swiss were perpetually on-deck. The waffles were browned and thick, yet light and crunchy.

Chicken and waffles were a legitimate dish here and came with a special high-heat honey mustard, as well as syrup and an angioplasty balloon (or at least they brought me one. Perhaps others had to request it). There were certainly no calorie counts. There were no handwritten menus or meticulously curlicued wall-chalk-art depicting the daily specials. On weekends, a cute teenager named Maddie – with scrubbed cheeks, athletic efficiency and the waning innocence of the barely pre-corrupted – ushered the elderly and stroller-clad families to their tables. The rest just grabbed a menu and sat themselves.

A word about that menu: it was a thickly laminated, double-sided one-sheet and, at first glance, acceptably clean. But it was old and presumably unchanged across the decades. It had been fondled, grappled, clutched, smeared and spilled on by legions of South Carolinians and random passers-through. I often wondered if there were any cold cases in the forgotten files of the James Island homicide bureau and, if so, whether they’d ever considered subjecting the menus to forensic examination.

Often, there were no paper towels in the bathroom dispenser. Soap either, though the floor was always clean, there was an ancient toe-to-breast American Standard, white porcelain urinal and the water in the sink flowed hard and hot – so hot, you didn’t even need soap. Dogs often joined their owners for a meal, though my own five sat in the car, too unwieldy – and pork-focused – to handle the welcoming confines of the Smoky Yolk. Instead, they waited, tense and wet-mouthed, hoping Jeremy, cheerful sous chef, would sneak them some bacon, as he often did. A small Christian cross adorned the back wall next to an American flag, weathered, but clean and untattered. Not enough politics in your life? Want some virtue-affirmation with your short stack? Sorry, kings may actually have lived here. No signs claimed otherwise. No harpy admonitions this was a “gun-free zone.” My own Kimber K6 revolver often sat snuggled in its soft case atop the counter, hardly the only firearm in evidence. This is the American South.

There was “endless coffee,” good, and hot, served in heavy, stain-veined formerly off-white porcelain mugs, sturdy enough to brain a mouthy waiter named “Chad.” Fortunately, there were no waiters here named Chad. No waiters at all. This was strictly waitress domain. Every size, shape and age, and each possessed with the cheerful, contained, competent professionalism and dignity that used to define the American service industry. And the country. When I track the owner down to convey my obvious grief, I’m also going to inquire about that American Standard.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s December 8, 2025 World edition.