Here's a paper I did on Coney Island cause Wieners rock!!!
 
Coney Island  
Scranton, Pennsylvania is a town buried in the past. At one time a city of more than 100,000 people, it has become a museum for its now 77,000 residents. Coal mining originally brought people to the area and drew other industries like iron and textile manufacturing. A new workforce was found in European immigrants who wanted to work and would do it cheap.  Irish coalminers made up the bulk of the workforce and population and gave the city three tangible elements �a large, hardworking middle class, Catholicism, and beer drinking. As the area de-industrialized with the rest of the country, manufacturing plants were closed, a thriving downtown disappeared, and the number of elderly in the city skyrocketed, rivaled in number only by those of St. Petersburg, Florida.The city�s tangible elements; however, remained.

The long-held ideas of a simple life enjoyed by many of the people in this city has led to a downtown littered with �mom and pop� stores, some of which are boarded up, and others which have thrived because of the traditional conventions they have maintained.  Tall brick buildings line the city streets and still hold some of these businesses in their ground floors.  The Steamtown Mall �named for the locomotives that were once built in the area �stands in contrast to the small stores around and across from it, and is hailed as the crown jewel of the city.

Coney Island Texas Lunch, shortened to Coney Island by any who have eaten there just once, is located just two blocks from the Steamtown Mall and has been a part of my family since I was old enough to swallow solid food. This whole-in-the-wall restaurant, famous for its Texas wieners, has kept simplicity as its motto for more than 80 years.

Built into the basement of a now empty building on the corner of Adams and Lackawanna Avenue, Coney Island is half buried under pavement and concrete and cuts an obscure triangle into the side of an empty hill. The building itself looks ancient. Dark brown brick makes up the fa�ade of the ground and second floors and matches most of the buildings on the street. These two floors at one time held the Steamtown Trading Post, a pawn shop that moved up the street to be nearer to the mall, and now stand empty. The unused upstairs portion serves as a haven for pigeons and their friends and provides easy access for them through broken windows. Its rear faces a graffitied alleyway dotted with fire escapes and dumpsters and the only real sign of life on the corner is the face of Coney Island itself.

Small brown bricks make up the bulk of Coney Island �s front and are interrupted sparingly by a doorway and four small windows �each getting narrower as the front comes to a point at the street corner. The windows and glass door were at one time transparent but after years of being spattered with grease and other foreign substances, they now only give the outline of some shadowy figures moving back and forth. A passerby might notice a cardboard sign leaning against the clearest window giving Coney Island �s open hours of 10-8 in bright red letters.

A wide bar of green painted above the door and windows has Coney Island Texas Lunch emblazoned in thickly-shadowed white letters on its surface and �Texas� is italicized. Large checks of white and green above the words give the building the appearance of an oversized flag and are a beacon to those who might drive by.

Entering, the strong smell of onions hits my nose and no one gives the impression that they have noticed me. To the right of the entrance a large, flat grill covered in three inch hotdogs sizzles and pops as a man in white works at it with a spatula. To his side and behind him a cash register occasionally dings and a line of two or three people stand against a long white wall waiting for their order to be called and placed in tall, brown paper bags to be taken home. A box of Gutheinz brand hotdogs teeters on a nearby windowsill.

A clear plastic pane no more than six inches high stands between me and the grill and is the owner�s best attempt at adhering to health codes and protecting his customers from flying grease. The noisy cash register begins a long run of faux marble countertop extending 15 feet or so into the room, stopping right before a doorway leading to the kitchen, and facing the waiting people.  Waist-high stools supported by single steel rods bolted to the floor and circled with several chromed orbits parallel the counter and provide some seating for those who want to eat-in.  The fabric is the same leather my barber uses and the seats themselves are wide enough that you can sit spread-legged and still be firmly planted. 

A short wall across from the spitting grill displays newspaper clippings of major baseball accomplishments and local news, each one given its own small frame.  �Prohibition Ends� hangs right next to a clip of downtown Scranton in ruins after the demolition of a city block in preparation for the building of what would be a new mall. A large map of the globe sits among these hangings and clusters of pins stuck throughout.

As a younger boy I remember being in Coney Island with my father while we waited to pick up an order of Texas Wieners.  Like many families in Scranton we often ordered a number of them to be picked up for dinner and the tradition continues still.  With permission from my father and who I vaguely remember as the same man in white behind the grill, I pushed a pin into Connecticut for cousins who make a trip to the area once or twice a year to pick up an order of 100 to 150 Texas wieners.  Though I know little about them other than their affinity for Coney Island , this seems enough to ensure them as part of our family.  Sometimes, when they came to Scranton for wieners, they would visit us as well.

Below the map a wooden ramp echoes my footsteps as I step down into the room where the flooring changes to black and white tile �chipped and browned through the years.  The walls here are thick with a shiny white paint which may or may not be the only thing holding up a few coat racks and some duct work. Turning away from the countertop, I head through a space in the wall with a half duck of the head and emerge on the other side.

Six, high-backed booths are hidden here and sit parallel to the main counter. Each table is made of the same faux marble as the countertop and the dark wooden bench I choose provides little comfort.  The booths are identical in the dim light produced by an electric sconce hung over each table containing a light bulb of negative wattage. Through the walkway I can still see the man behind the grill moving about and can hear the occasional opening of the main door.

A small, thin, gray-haired woman with glasses approaches me from the grill-side of the restaurant and not in an unkind voice asks, �What can I getch ya?�  The only hint I have that she works here is the small notepad her hand hovers over holding a yellow pencil and the knowledge of her serving me before. She wears no name tag and doesn�t offer me the information �I should know it by now but without asking I�ll never find out �still she is nice enough to take my order �no need to look at the menu, just two wieners, chili fries, and a coke.

My mother, a native of Connecticut but a long time Scranton resident, claims that her first experiences with Coney Island didn�t involve a menu either.  �I don�t remember if they had a menu because we only ever ordered wieners.  Root beer�was the only soda you could get.�  Now a small letter board, hung on a wall where it will be out of the way, acts as the restaurant�s menu.  Texas wiener, fried hamburger, chili, fries, and soda �nothing over two dollars.

Not long after I order my food arrives and as I eat off a small paper plate with a plastic fork I can hear the cash register ring in between the cook�s acknowledgments of food orders and customer �Hellos.�  A permanent fixture of Coney Island , he is always there and is the only one trusted to do the grilling.  Not a small man by any means, behind the counter he has little more room than what he needs to turn in a circle.  His white, short-sleeved t-shirt matches his apron and is his standard uniform. Thin, gray hairs are brushed straight back from his forehead and he works his grill with a long metal spatula.

My parents remember this same man from their experiences with Coney Island and any mention of the restaurant invariably leads back to the same piece of information:  Back when they were dating the cook would line up several buns along his arm when making wieners, all the way to his armpit if the stories are true, and place the hotdogs one at a time on each bun.  A hepatitis scare, however, abruptly halted this practice and ever since; safety in mind, he prepares one wiener at a time in either of his ungloved hands.

I finish my meal and head to the cash register to pay my bill.  Looking at the slip of paper she scribbled on in 'waitressese', the same old woman who took and brought me my order takes my ten and gives me change for six thirty-five.  I hear the cash register ding once more and hoping that one day I�ll be able to attain the rank of �regular,� I go back and throw a few dollars on my booth table, give the chef a nod, and start out the door.  None of the three convenient street parking spots located in front of the building are mine so I head two blocks down the road to pick up my car from the 11-year old �new mall.�  It�s a short ride home and I�ve made it many times with a full stomach.