If Worcester were a restaurant,we’d be a diner.

“Meet me at the greasy spoon”, my old man would say on my answering machine. He meant the Gold Star Cafe.

Like many of us who grew up in Worcester each family had their favorite diner to whom they ‘belonged’, like a church. 


The Blue Bell, The Green Island, the Boulevard, the Kenmore, the Corner Lunch, the Gold Star, Lucky’s and Lou Roc’s; the list goes on.


Small in scale, intimate in tone, a diner is a little like a boat. There is nothing superfluous, every tool serves a purpose.

Luxury thrown over board in favor of cleanliness and speed.


Simple, quick, and cheap meals meant for working men & women. Coffee flows hot and often. The mugs were sturdy and the utensils made of tin.



The Worcester Brouge

Massachusetts is a mess of dialects. You’ve got :the Boston Accent; the North Shore Slur; the Medford Mumble, the Springfield Twang; the Provincetown Lisp; just to name a few. But the most indecipherable to outsiders is the Worcester brogue.

Have you Heard the myth?

Of the “monster” who lives in Lake Quinsigamond?

It’s old. Older than than whole of us. Older than Homo Sapiens.

the Loch Quinnsiggamond Monster squats implacably between what we call “Worcester” and what we call “Shrewsbury”.

It is often mistaken for a pile of rocks moving through the water. Sometimes it is mistaken for a dinosaur. It is neither: the Loch Quinsiggamond monster is an ancient turtle.