Nellie’s was a bit more than a diner and hung in that casual dining category with grace. Housed in a small, salt-shingled bungalow with faded blue shutters, it looked at home in the dunes that surrounded it. Once inside, the down-home feel continued. Patterned blue curtains framed the windows. Wooden tables crowded the floor as they strained to find their place amongst the chairs. A blackboard with the day’s offerings dominated the front wall. Above all, the unbelievable smell of bacon and cinnamon and maple wafted around them as soon as they came in the door.
“Sit anywhere you’d like. I’ll be with you in a minute.” The single waitress spoke over her shoulder as she carried an armload of omelets, farmer’s breakfasts, waffles, and French toast to a table on the back porch.
“Let’s see if we can find a table overlooking the dunes,” Whitt said as she surveyed the options.
There was an interesting mix of customers to be found in this area, especially as it neared the off-season. This year, the Indian summer had been warm enough for beach time during the day but cool enough in the evenings for the firepit. As a result, there were surfers, overaged hippies, a couple of model lookalikes, rich soccer moms, off-duty investment bankers, and local regulars, all crammed into the space for second coffees, post-drop-off smoothies, or hangover munchies.
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