Round the Clock Diner – literally: I spent 24 hours at the York icon. Here's what I saw

It’s five o’ clock on a Friday, and the regular crowd shuffles into Round the Clock Diner.

There's an old man sitting next to me, ordering a slice of apple pie as his lady applies eyeliner.

Doris Henry and Tim Enders, regulars and friends for 30 years, hand their longtime server Kellum Dietz a blue envelope, just before getting up, unaware of the celebration about to unfold.

Surprised, Dietz asks, "You remembered my birthday?"

"Of course we did, silly," Henry replies.

Minutes later, Dietz returns from the kitchen with a careful balancing act of plates piled high with meat and potatoes as the chatter of the packed dining room turns into a chorus.

Before my eyes, tables of families join in unison singing "Happy Birthday" to Dietz, who stands deeply moved, in awe.

A typical day in the life of a 24-hour diner unveils surprises, along with unusual, memorable moments.

Moments such as holding a local artist's cherished "Jesus stick," while enjoying a slice of double chocolate cake at midnight, or being handed a warm piece of caramel candy, straight out of a sweet old woman's purse.

Theses 24/7 eateries are havens for families, solo diners, the young, the tipsy, and the conversation-starved – where stories are shared while plates of sizzling bacon and coffee carafes emit a comforting scent.

Nowadays, diners struggle with staff shortages, rising costs and maintenance over time.

These factors haven’t stopped Themis Sacarellos and the army behind him in York, Pa., as he's managed to stay in business for 30 years.

But have you ever asked yourself: what happens in the quiet early morning hours of a 24-hour diner − when the late-night crowd pours in after the local bars close. Or do you ever find yourself interested by the random conversations of the strangers sitting around you?

I did, so I sat in the corner of a diner throughout three consecutive 8-hour shifts to find out just what goes on.

Welcome to Round the Clock Diner, a Greek-owned, American diner that never sleeps.

5 p.m. | "Happy Birthday"

Doris Henry and Tim Enders make it a point to meet there once a week.

"Sometimes if I get sick of him, we'll meet every other week," Henry jokes.

The two even grew a bond with their longtime server Kellum Dietz.

"Kellum. Like the oysters," he says, as he shows me a photo of Kellum Brand Oysters while I jot down his name.

Originally from Baltimore, he's a commercial artist by day and server by night, named after his late father. When he's not at work, Dietz, the oldest of 10 siblings, is like a dad to his younger brothers and sister.

Enders says they did not intend to make a scene by giving Dietz his birthday card, but they wanted to express their gratitude and appreciation for him.

"It's why we keep coming back here. Not only is it a great place to have dinner, but the people are wonderful and really make you feel at home," Enders says.

Dietz thanks the pair for the card and for coming in, "I hope to see you again," he says.

"Of course you will, you're our entertainment for the night," Henry says.

7 p.m. | "I love this place"

The dining room has pretty much cleared out, and staff is prepping for the next rush – the late-night crowd.

Spiridoula Karampouli, or "Loula," the second shift manager, takes a seat across from me and chats with me before her shift ends.

As soon as I hear her name, I know she must be Greek, and vice versa. Our conversation is mostly in Greek, which I always enjoy because it helps me practice.

"I love this place – the people, the workers, the owner," says the mother of two. "I am here so much, sometimes it feels like it's my restaurant," she laughs.

9 p.m. | Reminiscing

I've been hearing that the late-night rush is about to start, but the only people coming in are door dashers.

Sitting idle, I play a round of "Clash of Clans" on my phone while I think back to the days I waitressed at my neighbor's three Thai restaurants, where I worked for seven years. I miss my time there as I watch diner staff joke with one another during the slow hour.

I'd often kill time on slows days by goofing off with my coworkers, which included my two brothers – Tasos and Paul. On a really slow day, I'd avoid customers and stay in the kitchen, helping the cooks cut vegetables and pack takeout orders while they prepare a bowl of lemongrass soup for me, or an extra spicy Pad Thai with broccoli – my favorite dish.

10 p.m. | Miss Connie "Cow Tails"

I plant myself at the coffee counter, eager to strike up conversations with the solo diners who will soon fill the bar. Before the crowd arrives, I speak with Dietz and Kyra Taylor, distracting them from work.

We play a game where we write down words that are commonly pronounced differently depending on where you're from.

With a piece of scrap paper, we take turns jotting down words and repeat them out loud – crayon, caramel, water and orange.

As our banter reaches its peak, a woman the staff knows as "Miss Connie Cow Tails" sits next to me. She slowly pulls out several, warm, caramel Cow Tails candies from her purse, handing them out to me and several workers before heading out the door.

11 p.m. | Voodoo tattoos

As I wrap up my shift, my friend Julie Panyard joins me for a few hours.

Throughout our random, ever-changing topics of conversation, we find ourselves talking about voodoo dolls – and I still don't quite remember why.

What I do remember is the moment Taylor, who has been listening in, emerges in front of us, showing off the vampire bunny voodoo tattoos displayed across her arm.

When I ask about their significance, she answers with a mischievous smile, "I just like vampire bunnies − I think they're cool."

11:30 p.m. | Stories about tipsy patrons

Dietz walks over with a kitchen rag. "I have a story for you," he says.

He goes on to tell us about the time a customer alerted her server that a pair of women's underwear had been found inside the women's restroom.

Upon hearing this, another woman in the diner at the time, who came in shortly after the bars closed for the night, was pleased to inform dining staff that the lost underwear in the restroom did not belong to her.

She did so by pulling up her dress, fully proving her point.

12 a.m. | A man and his Jesus Stick

I decide to live out my "Seinfeld" fantasy of indulging in cake and coffee late at night in a diner.

As I eagerly wait for my hefty slice of homemade double chocolate cake, I observe a man a few chairs down from me gripping a wooden stick with an oddly shaped aluminum head.

"Could you tell me about this stick?" I ask him.

His eyes light up. "I call it my Jesus stick because it's my helper, and Jesus is our helper," answers Parker James Hooker, a local artist.

He lets me hold the stick and within a few minutes I feel a desire to have one of my own.

Hooker, a sculptor and artist of unconventional work, created the stick himself, among hundreds of other sculptures and pieces of art he keeps in his York backyard – an open-air art gallery that's open to the public.

"When I leave bars around 2 a.m., and I have my stick there with me, it gives people a moment to rethink their decisions," he says with a laugh.

2 a.m. | The magic of sitting at the counter

In need of an outlet to charge my laptop, I move to the inside corner of the coffee counter, finding myself in the company of Clark Bixler, a teacher at the York County School of Technology.

As our conversation evolves, I learn that Bixler has talents beyond teaching.

He orders a glass of iced tea and a salad and proceeds to tell me about the creations he's brought to life over the years, showing me images, one-by-one, through his phone camera roll.

Lace pies he baked to shoes he made to hammers he welded to shelves he's built – the list goes on.

I can barely get in a word for over an hour, though it's eye-opening to see this man, a stranger to me, openly share each of his accomplishments.

"The people who sit at the counter are all open and welcome. Each has their own life events and experiences that lead up to their current position. No one's opinion is valued less than another's opinion," he says.

Bixler says that since becoming a substitute teacher, he stops by the diner for adult conversation, stories about the "good old days," which act as a "a reprieve from the teenage drama."

8 a.m. | Strangers share stories

I'm greeted by Robin Taylor, a hostess at Round the Clock for 25 years. She calls me “honey” and shows me to my seat: an upholstered red booth by the coffee counter where five people had already been seated.

Waitresses are running around, taking orders. Through a small window in the wall, they shout orders to the cooks in the kitchen.

“I need a side of bacon, extra crispy − now please,” shouts Suzy. Not a second passes before a plate of sizzling bacon is tossed onto the pass-through. “Thank you, honey,” she tells Adolfo, the cook.

Meanwhile, the five strangers are chatting away at the counter, each well into their 50s, sharing stories about their children, grandchildren and health ailments.

“The worst kind of pain comes from a root canal, now do I have a story for you...” one woman says, describing her recent dental procedure.

Not the kind of conversation you want to hear while eating brioche French Toast, but I endured it.

11 a.m. | Solo dining

A man sits in the booth next to mine. He could be 60. Simona Ionescu, the waitress in our section, walks over with her coffee carafe.

She predicts his order, saying: “Eggs sunny side with toast. Do you want bacon today?”

This same type of interaction takes place four more times at different booths surrounding me. It's a nice feeling to know that I'm among fellow solo diners, though they aren't people-watching and vigorously taking notes, as I am.

We dine in silence that rainy morning, with only the sound of silverware clinking plates.

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1 p.m. | Changing scents

The plates entering the dining room smell of the fryer. Potatoes, chicken, onion rings, cauliflower – you name it.

As the lunch hour nears, hungry patrons crowd through the door. Friends and families with children, construction workers in their neon vests, a handful of business professionals carrying laptop bags fill the diner.

The volume grows with energetic chatter, the cries of babies and contagious laughter.

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2 p.m. | Shift change

With the start of second shift, the early morning servers pack their things and head out for the day as they are relieved by the next wave of servers who will hold down the fort until 10 p.m.

It's so quiet, you can hear the gentle sounds of spoons being set down or tapped against the ceramic advertisement-lined mugs, until around rush hour.

Ionescu sees me staring out the window. "Would you like anything else, honey?"

"Another coffee, please," I reply.

Lena Tzivekis is a Central Pa reporter. Email her at etzivekis@gannett.com, or message her on Twitter at @tzivekis

This article originally appeared on York Daily Record: Round the Clock Diner: I spent 24 hours at the York, Pa. icon