Eulogy for Lucky Cafe

There was always a damn hair in my eggs. Always one, thin, black, straight strand. I never said anything about it, because without the hair, it wouldn’t really be Lucky Cafe.

Today we got news that the beloved greasy spoon is most definitely closed. The Bee reported this afternoon that an eviction notice from the sheriff’s department hangs on its door. I really wish I would have noticed that when I drove by Tuesday morning looking for a dip into the sodium pit that was their chicken-fried steak.

The loss hit many of us hard, myself included. It may be difficult to describe, but if you’ve been there, you likely know. The diner oozed with dirtbag panache, the sort of vibe that comes from a place where a low-grade human being can feel comfortable eating a meal without pretense. That may be a part of why some people aren’t feeling the pain right now.

It hasn’t taken long for every area asshole on social media to crop up and offer opinions such as, “lol that place was garbage.”

They, of course, miss the point. Who the hell goes to a greasy spoon because it’s good? We’re here to drown our misery in grease.

Lucky was kinda awful in its own beautiful way: Too much grease, too much salt, too much fat, too much everything. The hideous mural depicting Sacramento landmarks without regard to perspective or color theory. And the hair. Always with the hair.

All of these disparate elements made it what it was, a unique, almost trashy, almost reserved little spot that you don’t get the pleasure of losing yourself in in these days of mass homogenization and aesthetic obsession. It was almost like the place was built out of spare parts. As Sacramento gets classier and classier, selling itself to tech bros and whoever else can afford the apartments we’re barely even building out here, it’s hard to imagine seeing something as carefree as Lucky ever coming up again.

Now, our means for brunch remain as irredeemably limitless as ever, while the dirtbags have even fewer places to enjoy our gutbuster grease-bomb breakfasts in relative peace. We’ll miss you, Lucky–a fact we’ll be reminded of every time we’re forced to hit Pancake Circus in your stead.


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Anthony Siino
Freelance idiot.