Zora O’Neill mourns the end of Amtrak’s dining cars — a dining experience that might not be the one we want, but is the one we need.
The news that Amtrak is cutting dining car service on its East Coast trains hit me hard. I ate in the dining car for the first time in 1992, as a junior in college. It was a thrill. It is always a thrill. You sit and eat and talk face to face, just like in a real restaurant — even if the plates are plastic now, and the menu no longer quotes Brillat-Savarin. Meanwhile, all the open space of America whooshes by outside.
I’m angry on behalf of the cooks, those people who make relative magic out of very little, in a windowless tin can, who will lose their jobs. But it also upsets me that Amtrak representatives are selling this as a social improvement—when, in fact, it’s a major social loss.
In the end, though, I never do eat by myself, because by the time lunch rolls around, I’m bored enough and ready enough for an adventure to go into the dining car and take whatever fortune has in store.
Here’s how dinner in the diner works: When you enter the dining car, the attendant directs you to a table. These tables seat four, and in order to serve dinner to everyone on the train in a timely fashion, all seats must be filled, The dining car attendant directs the next people who walk through the door to sit with you. And there you are, sharing a dinner—starters, main courses, dessert, and coffee, too—with complete strangers.
Does this sound excruciating? If it does, maybe you’re a millennial — an Amtrak rep claims passengers of this generation “don’t want to feel uncomfortable.” More likely, you’re just an introvert, like me. Whenever I gear up for a solo Amtrak trip, I dread the dining car — even when I travel with my husband. The thought of chitchat with complete strangers is stressful. To get past this, I tell myself it’s fine to take my meals in my roomette — that’s a totally normal option.
In the end, though, I never do eat by myself, because by the time lunch rolls around, I’m bored enough and ready enough for an adventure to go into the dining car and take whatever fortune has in store.
The business at the beginning of the meal helps break the ice. Filling out the special Amtrak receipts, maybe sharing the pen around. Then inspecting the menu. It’s not long, and if you’ve already been on the train for a day, you know what you’re ordering just by process of elimination. Your server takes your orders. And then it’s time to talk.
You’re on the train in America, and that’s a rare enough thing that it’s a natural conversation-starter. Those of us who’ve been cross-country are quick to share tips with newer riders. Yes, sleeper fares are high, we say, but they’re cheaper with each person you add, and meals are included; think of it more like a cruise ship! Or get the Amtrak credit card — that will set you up with enough points for a sleeper.
Because taking the train is an uncommon choice, most everyone has a story about it. On the Coast Starlight, with the Pacific Ocean glimmering under the setting sun, a woman told me about the new job she had in northern California. She and her daughter were taking the train to make their new life an adventure, to make a real fresh start.
Sometimes you sit with natural extroverts, with stories and props at the ready. On a trip on the Southwest Chief with my husband, we spent a whole meal rapt by an Alaskan Native artist, telling us about his project of portraits of all the tribal elders; he even gave us a postcard of one of his paintings. More recently, a woman handed out pins that said “Love One Another.” “My little act of defiance right now,” she explained, as our server pinned hers to her apron, next to her name tag.
Sometimes you sit with quieter people. In those cases, I pretend I’m one of those naturally chatty people, making jokes and asking questions. One night rolling through the Midwest I sat with another solo woman and two others who’d come in together. I broke the ice with some stories from previous train rides, and soon we were all laughing. After the couple had left, the other solo woman, who’d been quieter than the others, told me softly, “You’re so good at this. It’s hard for me.”
“It’s hard for me too,” I confided. “But it’s worth it to meet new people — like you.” I like to think she’s been on more train rides since, and passed on the compliment to others.
Not all conversations are objectively good ones. Some people reveal aspects of America I rarely encounter in my daily life in New York City. One meal I shared with a Texas history teacher who vented about the state-mandated curriculum. We were mid-meal when he started to complain about how much time was wasted on African Americans. I was stuck — at the table, on the train with him. So I sat and listened, and he segued into stories about his childhood — experiences that didn’t justify his bigotry, but at least helped me see him as a whole person. I lacked the nerve then to say anything to him, but I think of him now every time I talk with someone who doesn’t bother to differentiate between individuals and groups.
The best conversations are, of course, with simpatico people who love trains and, by extension, all the various ways humans make communities — because what is a long-distance train but a fascinating spontaneous community? My best conversation was my most recent, with a man who not only knew everything about the Texas Eagle line, but had also been instrumental in mandating sidewalks in his town. We sat together chatting until the whole dining car had emptied and we were close to Chicago. Our conversation touched on trains, economics, race, education and health care. It left me energized, brain spinning with more questions to ask and reading to do, and heartened about our giant country and all the people working at a local level.
In Chicago, I changed to the Lake Shore Limited, on which Amtrak has already implemented its new meal-service strategy. On these trains, the dining car has about half as many tables, and boxed meals are served from a counter at one end. Breakfast was packaged food, with an optional prefab egg sandwich. People shuffled around, uncertain where to sit. Without a structure that forced me to chat, I lost my old verve and slipped into an empty table. I ate quickly and shared just a few words with the person who sat down as I was finishing. At lunch, I regressed even farther: the tables reminded me of a school cafeteria, groups of friends huddled together, so I escaped to my sleeper. For the first time on an Amtrak train, I ate completely alone.
America is so spacious that we have very few situations in which strangers are forced together to talk. We’re at a time when it’s easier than ever to stick with people just like ourselves — and when it’s ever more critical that we resist this tendency. For almost 30 years of my life, Amtrak’s dining car has given me an opportunity that I didn’t ask for, and if I’d been surveyed, one I would probably say I didn’t want: to sit and talk with complete strangers and find we all have something in common.
