This is a story I wrote and photographed while working as a lab technician for The Morning Call in 1999.  Some of these diners are long gone now but they were once an important part of the community in the Lehigh Valley.—Betty E. Cauler

In the wee hours of the morning empty streets and lonely sidewalks offer a stark contrast to to the bustle going on inside an all-night diner.  Slip through stainless steel doors and enter a world where truckers solve the country's problems over a cup of joe,  where lovers linger in back booths, where diner rats and insomniacs sit side-by-side with students and shift workers , where a night cook exhales working man's wisdom as easily as blue smoke on a 3 a.m. cigarette break.

A waitress passes by, balancing small talk and smiles with the huge platters of food she carries.  Kitchen doors swing open, and the sizzling smell of eggs-over-easy and bacon waft out.

The hostess greets newcomers, directing them to open booths with the precision of an air traffic controller.  "Happy Trails" plays on the jukebox as waitresses wave yellow checks at the night cook behind his wall of infrared heat lamps.

Night is the time for coffee, comfort food, camaraderie and a healthy helping of hominess.  In a diner it can mean 45 dozen eggs, 30 pounds of bacon and 75 loaves of bread--and on a really busy night, a dozen rolls of Rolaids. 

Wednesday is dress up night at Allentown's Silver Star, where girls will be girls even when they're boys.  Across town, it's homefries and homeboys at Dina's, all served up by the gnarled hands of a 23-year veteran waitress.  Breeze in to the Tom Sawyer and faces at the counter will turn to greet you.  It's a family thing, where everybody knows your name, where the waitress calls you "Hon" and the cook knows what you'll order before you sit down.  All-night diners are truly an American experience.