The Denny’s waitress could tell I was miserable. I slouched in a corner booth, donning a bright blue suit and tie as I stared out the window. A few other patrons chatted and laughed, acting as though they wanted to be there. But not me.
The waitress wanted to know what had brought me to the diner at 4 a.m. I told her I had mistakenly set my alarm for 3 a.m. instead of 7 a.m. and did not notice my mistake until I had driven all the way into town for a mock trial scrimmage. Denny’s was the only place open and, therefore, my only refuge. After topping off my coffee, the waitress left me alone. I took a sip and looked out the window again, waiting for the central California sunrise.
I was 16 years old at the time. Four years later, I would spend another very early morning at a different Denny’s. But this time, I would not let the sights around me slip by. I wanted to peer into the 24-hour world of Denny’s and see what I could learn about its food, culture and patrons. My own experiences with the national chain had been hit or miss, with most trips occurring when I lacked better options. I wanted to learn if my middling opinion was justified and hear from other patrons about why they chose Denny’s over anywhere else to dine.
So I made plans to spend 24 hours straight at Denny’s. I figured there was no better way to understand the restaurant than to spend a whole day there. To preserve my sanity, I asked friends and Daily Bruin colleagues to visit me. But while they were allowed to come and go freely, I would be trapping myself inside, making the most of my very long visit.
I arrived at the Westwood Denny’s at noon on a Saturday. The beige exterior walls matched the dullness of the overcast sky, which felt like a bad omen. After greeting the hostess, I claimed a table in a hidden back corner of the restaurant, out of sight from the waitstaff and other customers.
A friendly waitress laid a menu on the table. With 24 hours ahead of me, there was no better way to start my journey than exploring the full slate of Denny’s offerings. For the time being, this meant looking beyond its iconic breakfast options and instead tasting its overlooked lunch and dinner entrees. After a few minutes of deliberation, I selected the Bourbon Chicken Sizzlin’ Skillet. I was attracted to the verdant forest of mushrooms, broccoli and squash that sat underneath the chicken, hoping to find vital nutrients that could sustain my body and mind.
Instead, I received a dessert masquerading as dinner. The bourbon glaze served as a gloopy, sugary base for the entire meal, overpowering everything with its sweet flavor. The ostensibly grilled chicken became a mere vessel for the sauce, with very little of its natural flavor powering through. The vegetables also tasted disastrously sweet, and the mushrooms were conspicuously absent.
As I finished my skillet, I checked the time. It was 1:17 p.m. Without a meal in front of me, time began to move rather slowly. To pass the hours, I began to browse the Denny’s menu once more.
I quickly discovered the Denny's augmented reality experience. By scanning a QR code on the menu’s cover, my phone brought the laminated paper to life, highlighting featured items and displaying fun facts. As I turned to the "Signature Breakfasts" page, I helplessly watched the menu burst into flames on my phone. Then the Spicy Moons Over My Hammy sandwich arose like a phoenix emerging from its fiery rebirth. I noted the sandwich for later before promptly closing the AR experience.
I quickly became bored of the menu and its gimmicks. Time slowly crawled forward until several Daily Bruin colleagues arrived to keep me company. We relocated to a table in the center of the main dining area. Before long, we were alone in the restaurant.
Without anything to do, I relied on my visitors to fight my burgeoning boredom. Our behavior was nothing less than what one would expect from young adults in a Denny’s. We ravenously feasted on every kind of food imaginable, from greasy chicken fingers to surprisingly flavorful mozzarella sticks. As we answered The New York Times’ 36 questions that lead to love – sourced from a 1997 study on interpersonal closeness – we delved into honest discussions about our character flaws, parents’ divorces and deepest insecurities. I left that restaurant with brand-new friendships.
Starting at around 6 p.m., a trickle of customers began shuffling in. Zachary and Yvonne Hill were part of the dinner crowd but only came for dessert. Zachary, a newly admitted UCLA student, enjoyed an ice cream and cookie concoction. Yvonne, his mother, sampled an acceptable piece of cheesecake.
The treats came after the Hills attended Bruin Day, UCLA’s annual event for newly admitted students. They had already attended the American Indian Student Association’s admission event the weekend prior, which Zachary had nothing but praise for.
"I just knew after that evening – UCLA was my place," Zachary said. "We had already planned to come back for Bruin Day, and it’s just sold it even more for me."
While Denny’s was a convenient choice, it was also symbolic for the Hill family. Yvonne’s father was a Denny’s enthusiast before his death, making every Denny’s meal sentimental for the mother-and-son pair.
"Eating at Denny’s – it encapsulates part of my dad," Yvonne said, tearing up as she told me this.
When I approached the Hills, I expected to casually discuss the dubious quality of their desserts. Instead, I gave Zachary advice about UCLA meal plans and discussed my own grandfather’s death with his mother. It was a heartfelt conversation I never expected to have at a Denny’s. I felt a twinge of sorrow as I left their table.
Before my conversation with the Hills, I had found it difficult to imagine such a profound attachment to a place like Denny’s. I had always seen it as a last resort – the restaurant you visit when you have no other option.
Some of my Daily Bruin companions disagreed. Daily Bruin photographer Christine Kao and Assistant Photo Editor Joseph Jimenez both told me that Denny’s was their first meal after arriving in Westwood. This initiated a roundtable conversation about the restaurant’s merits that evolved into an endless stream of anecdotes, quips and lighthearted arguments. As more colleagues dropped by, we slowly transformed the Denny’s into a social club where conversation and camaraderie mattered more than the menu.
But I could not ignore the food forever. The conversations made me hungry, so I absentmindedly ordered a Quarter Pound Cheeseburger from the All Day Diner Deals value menu around 8 p.m. For $10.49, it seemed like a decent deal.
It was. The veggies felt crisp, the bun tasted mildly sweet, and the American cheese perfectly complemented the juicy patty. It was the kind of burger that anyone could appreciate. The burger surpassed every other meal I ordered during the 24 hours but only because it had no major flaws. It excelled by being perfectly average, just like Denny’s itself.
The restaurant grew busier as the late hours of the night approached. College-aged patrons rolled in from nights out, dressed up in shades, sequins and jewelry. Many appeared drunk. I watched one table erupt in laughter as several men smacked each other with menus. Across the restaurant, a woman bit into an onion ring but separated the onion from the batter as she pulled her teeth away. She spent 30 painstaking seconds trying to reinsert the onion entrails with her long, flat acrylic nails before giving up.
Amid the chaos, a party decked out in peculiar garb grabbed my attention. One member wore clown makeup and a birthday hat, and another sat dressed as an Uncle Fester doppelganger. At the end of the table, a man sported an outfit ripped straight from a Nu-Goth Pinterest board. In my heart of hearts, I knew what they were: Frank-N-Furter’s convention guests.
Alessandro Signorini confirmed my suspicions. He told me the group was part of Sins O’ The Flesh, a shadow cast of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" that performs at the Nuart Theatre in Los Angeles. The shadow cast, founded in the late 1980s, pantomimes the cult-classic film as it plays in the background.
The thespians were visiting the Denny’s at 2:30 a.m. for a post-screening meal, a tradition familiar to any high school theater student. When I asked the group why they chose Denny’s, Signorini gave me a blunt response.
"I genuinely believe there’s no reason to go to Denny’s before midnight," Signorini said.
I asked why.
"There are better options that are open," Signorini said in reply.
The group was making the most of their visit. One of them sipped a birthday cake milkshake, while another ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. I was too afraid to ask why their colleague had been served a bowl of limes. They told me all these items were part of the Denny’s secret menu. Their superior knowledge of the restaurant made me embarrassingly jealous.
When I confessed to the group what brought me to Denny’s, Shaylaren Hilton paused for a moment before asking a pertinent question:
"Are you on drugs?"
I wasn’t, but I did feel the buzz of caffeine in my blood. I am not a regular coffee drinker, but I knew this trip would be impossible without it. I acquiesced around 2 a.m.
I had decided to order a meal to accompany my first cup of coffee. I had been eyeing the steak entrees since I arrived, intrigued to see how the diner might mishandle such an elegant cut of meat. I allowed morbid curiosity to take hold as I ordered the Sirloin Steak.
The steak itself was juicy but unnaturally tender. I foolishly poured the accompanying country gravy – seemingly a mixture of powdered milk and watery ranch – onto the entire steak before sampling it, which tainted the whole dish. The side dishes were no better. The Red Rustic Mashed Potatoes were a salty, flavorless mash, while the Fresh Vegetable Medley felt like a watered-down imitation of real vegetables. Yet it was the best part of the meal.
I people-watched as I slowly pecked at my steak. As more party dresses and sweaty cut shirts streamed through the door, the restaurant became incrementally louder. A nearby table was loudly celebrating a girls’ night out. Someone behind me was listening to a sports broadcast at full volume on their phone. When one conspicuously silent patron lifted their shades, I could see my reflection in their dilated pupils.
The pervasive noise reached its peak at 3:26 a.m. when shouting erupted from the table behind me. A group of men had entered the restaurant and approached a table of women. One man sat down, initiating an argument with a woman he seemed to know. When the men aggressively stood up and left the restaurant, the women gathered their things and chased after them. Nobody paid.
That incident marked the end of the Denny’s rush hour. By 5 a.m., I was once again alone.
The staff took advantage of this sudden calm. They bussed tables, refilled syrup bottles and cleaned the bathroom. They never acknowledged my presence, even when they cleared my table. I felt like an ephemeral observer, watching the employees restore the restaurant to its original state.
I was tired. The coffee helped, but it was more than exhaustion. Boredom had set in. There were neither patrons to observe nor any visitors accompanying me. Even worse, my stomach began to hurt. The stomachache persisted for the rest of my journey, preventing me from eating any more food.
I found myself staring at a black-and-white photo of a beach on the wall of the restaurant. It presumably depicted Santa Monica, but it could have been anywhere. Florida? Bermuda, perhaps? The lush isles of Greece? I did not know what exactly I was looking at. All I knew was that I would rather be there.
As my mind wandered, customers began plodding into the restaurant for their morning meals. They ordered their breakfast platters – referred to as "slams" on the menu – and quietly minded their own business. They seemed to want a peaceful morning without any trouble.
This was especially true for William Stanley, a logistics officer for the United States Army. He was hesitant to speak to me and asked – for the first time in my student journalism career – that I prove my association with the Daily Bruin. After earning his trust, he explained his unique connection to Denny’s.
"I happened to meet my wife there," Stanley said. "Denny’s has been near and dear to me ever since."
Stanley had just graduated from college when he visited the fateful Denny’s. When the waitress asked if he needed anything else, he responded that he wanted one more thing: her number. She wrote it down on the receipt, which he still has to this day.
Stanley eats at Denny’s about once a month, partially because of these fond memories but also because he enjoys the food.
"I’ve never been displeased with any of the slams I’ve had," Stanley said. "Now, I can’t speak to this place, but I will tell you this spread looks very delicious."
He looked down at the French Toast Slam before him. I took the hint and ended our conversation.
To escape boredom, I turned my attention to the Denny’s menu and performed some rudimentary calculations. How many calories had I eaten? At least 3,500. How many entrees listed on the menu had fewer than 15 grams of fat? Two, but both required at least one substitution. How many Build Your Own Grand Slams could I hypothetically create? 330 by combining any four regular options, but up to 1,001 using the premium options such as seasonal fruit or a ham slice.
The arrival of my friends pulled me away from mathematics. Time went much faster with good company. For the first time, I felt no different from other guests enjoying a pleasant Sunday morning.
Before long, it was noon. As I crossed the 24-hour mark, I got up and checked my belongings. Then I double-checked them. I could not find my debit card. I did not care.
I lifted my backpack onto one shoulder as I approached the exit. A waitress I recognized from Saturday afternoon was clocking in. She smiled at me. I think she knew.
I walked past the table where the fight broke out, past the booth where Zachary Hill reminisced about his grandfather and past the register where I had paid for three square meals. I had made some fond memories, such as late-night people-watching and bonding with colleagues, and I had met people with even fonder memories of the restaurant. But, despite others’ praise for the establishment, my middling opinion of Denny’s was no different than when I began my expedition. I was more than ready to leave.
There was a QR code on the door asking patrons to take an exit survey. I took the opportunity, hoping to leave thoughtful feedback about my extended stay. The questions were mostly mundane, asking about restaurant cleanliness and staff amiability. But the final question made me stop and think.
"Please share more about your experience by rating your agreement with the following statements," the survey read. One of the options was: "I would come back again."
I was standing on the sidewalk, facing away from the restaurant. I was smelly, I was tired and I was distressed. At that moment, I felt like I had seen enough of Denny’s for a lifetime. The restaurant was perfectly fine, but I doubted I would ever muster the wherewithal to return. I skipped the "Strongly Disagree" button, typing a custom response instead:
"I am never going back to Denny’s."