Note #1: Lemme hear a big CASH ONLY! An ATM can be found inside for your convenience.
Note #2: Ritters is a 24/7/365 restaurant that offers its entire menu from breakfast to lunch to dinner all day and all night every single day. And man, did we have a blast with this! Keep readin', pilgrim...
I am not a lush of any kind, and this past Friday morning, I unsuspectingly fell madly in love with Ritters Diner.
We had thought of going to Ritters during the graveyard shift one weekend, but being that the establishment reportedly attracts Pittsburgh's young, intoxicated, and obnoxious during that time and that I have little patience for such humanoids, that plan was nixed. However, on a frosted, lightless payday Friday morn, Kay was waiting on a background check before she could start her new job, and I needed sustenance before work. When we both awoke earlier than expected, Ritters immediately came to mind, and suddenly, it was Bloomfield or bust!
I enjoy a wholesome, solid, mountain-man breakfast sans bells, whistles, and rainbow jimmies as much as any other blue-collar bloke, but when burgers and fried chicken can be had at 6:30 AM, omelets and pancakes become too drab and obvious. Besides, I'm also an Aquarian, and when put into boxes, we tend to think our way out of 'em.
And the Pittsburgh City Paper said that Sousa's main gentrification vehicle Salt of the Earth "blurs distinctions." Heh.
Enter the beast known as The Pitts-burger. Centered 'round a thick, bleeding medium-rare patty, this Goliath of ground beef included BBQ sauce, cheddar cheese, grilled onions, bacon, and a fried egg. One of THE essential burgers encountered during my dining lifetime, it dripped, oozed, kissed, stung, and occupied that roaring void in my stomach like few have. The bun was toasted and was not without a hint of butter. The Pitts-burger may strangle your heart, but it will do it so, so softly.
The french fries were burning majestic scepters of yellow, mashed potato chip glory.
Kay's fried chicken smacked of honey, crackling when our teeth punctured the homemade batter to reveal sultry poultry inside. Our lovingly irreverent and streetwise server told us that Ritters sells more clucker parts than the nearby KFC does, and I want to believe her. The Colonel's mass-produced swill deserves to be outclassed.
Our desserts were Chocolate Cream Pie and Strawberry Shortcake. The Chocolate Cream Pie should be renamed the Chocolate Dream Pie for its velvety, otherworldly pudding filling, it's flagrantly flaky crust, and its sweetness-cutting whipped cream garnish. The Strawberry Shortcake was akin to slices of golden shortbread mortared together by preserves and topped with a gilded white buttercream.
To us, there was nothing dingy about Ritters. Jukeboxes lined the perimeter of the dining room and abstract sculptures of labyrinthine iron jutted from sides of the booths. Burly, middle-aged men in work clothes patronized the diner instead of immature partygoers. Some are making Ritters out to be a "last chance" sort of place that they seem to want to like less than they do, giving out backhanded kudos to it as if it were a dirty old strip club that amused them and nothing more. When I looked around Ritters and relished its classic, economical cuisine, I saw, tasted, and felt nothing but timelessness, integrity, and an affectionate mindfulness of quality.
I don't know how many years Ritters Diner has been in operation, but I do know that I'd hate to see it uprooted by renewal and replaced with something that is exploitative of indigenous food such as Thai fusion or whatever else the privileged have co-opted this week.
Forgo the East End's glitter and skitter o'er to Ritters for some food that will leave ya the opposite of...bitter. read more