The Blue Benn is open every day of the week from six to five, or six to eight, or six to four. Closing time doesn’t really matter though, because you can have just as good a dinner at seven in the morning as you can at six at night. If you’re craving chicken fried steak, there is no time of day during which it is considered indecent to shovel glorious, dripping forkfuls of it into your mouth, which is exactly what I did for breakfast on my first visit. It's one of my favorite gluttonous comfort foods and the Benn’s version was up to snuff. One large cube steak pounded to fork tenderness, with a crispy flour-coated crust of nut-brown hue, drenched in smooth, pepper-flecked cream gravy. A mountain of home fried potatoes full of sautéed onions and peppers, and a massive biscuit were perfect sponges with which to sop up all those flavorful juices; and the optional sunnyside eggs I ordered to go with my meat were giant, golden mounds of quivering yolky goodness.
Also indulgent is the homemade cinnamon bun which I ordered twice and consumed, both times, with the aid of three friends. It would be possible for one person to devour the sinful circle of fluffy, yeast dough swirled through with a ribbon of cinnamon and coated in gooey frosting, but it would also land said person his own studio in the deepest depths of hell.
The Boston Reuben was smaller than I’d anticipated: probably a good thing since I ordered an individual crock of baked beans to go along with it. The beans were a little pot of love that brought back childhood memories of my South Shore-transplant mom spending all day on steamed brown bread and her own giant earthenware crock. Brown sugar juxtaposed against the smoke amd salt of fat back—strips of which could be found mixed in amongst the tender legumes.
A California omelet, with its requisite avocado and sprouts, does a good job of satisfying those who arrive at Big Benn looking to maintain their slender frames, which should hardly be the point of any first visit. If looking for a vaguely health-conscious breakfast, opt instead for crunch-berry pancakes. Three to a serving and the size of a standard issue Frisbee, they are made from scratch with whole-wheat flour, granola and assorted fresh berries. If the corroded state of your arteries is of little concern then order, as I did on my third visit, the stuffed French-toast. Two slabs of challah split length-wise and stuffed with fresh strawberries and cream-cheese frosting. Make sure you drench it in real Vermont Maple syrup, which will cost you an extra two dollars but when in Rome, or Vermont, or wherever, well, you know the drill. The Smokehouse omelet, packed with a variety of pork products will get your heart pounding, if only until it explodes; and the sausage biscuits and gravy are as good, if not better, than any I’ve had in my travels through both the American South and Midwest which, while not exhaustive, are admirable.
Make sure you tell the waitress ahead of time if you plan to order dessert (which you should); otherwise she’ll cut your check immediately. The Benn only seats 44 people and the wait can creep towards 20 minutes, despite an efficent (and sometimes brusque) staff's best attempts to turn tables. If you do wait, you will do so in the Benn's miniature vestibule where the honor system rules.
For dessert, try the Indian pudding, another New England staple and rarely done well due to its ludicrously long cooking time. It’s entirely possible that what the Benn serves is in fact Mock Indian Pudding, an easier-to-produce replica of its more challenging cousin. Either way, it’s some of the best I’ve tasted. Served piping hot with a rock-hard scoop of vanilla ice cream, it achieves the perfect balance of sweetness and spice. Indian pudding is made primarily of cornmeal, milk and molasses, and has a consistency that can turn some people off. At its best—and the Benn turns it out at this standard—it is something like porridge, just slightly firm, with the earthiness of ground corn and none of its potential for grit. Also good is the banana bread pudding which is spiked with so much rum they should card anyone who orders it.
You can select what you like from either the regular menu or one of the hundred or so “specials” typed out on white paper and tacked to every inch of the Blue Benn’s walls. It appears that this diner—an original Silk City model manufactured in the 1940s—is outfitted to make nearly anything that a guest could desire, and at any time of day. A family affair, the Blue Benn has been owned and operated by the Monroe family since 1974, though it’s been turning out classic diner fair for some 40 odd years. They’ve never expanded the restaurant, choosing to expand the menu instead and though they stick close to tradition, they also attempt to accommodate the ever changing tastes and attitudes of this progressive New England college town.
The Blue Benn is not the type of place you visit only once in your life, or for that matter, once in a week if you’re lucky enough to live close by. I’m not entirely certain what I’ll do when I visit next Thursday, knowing that my next visit won’t be for some time. But I’ll figure it out. I’m thinking one omelet, a side of pancakes, chicken fried steak and desert should do me just fine.