by David Dominé, the Bluegrass Peasant

I’ve been eating high on the hog lately. Monday night was a Bastille dinner at the Bristol in Jeffersonville, and yesterday I had lunch at Napa River Grill. Last week I did dinner at Morton‘s and at Avalon. I think I might be developing a goiter. Maybe it’s time to change my eating habits.

At least for the time being I’ve decided to stop eating at all those fancy places, but I doubt it will help my goiter. In a project I’ve dubbed “The Dive Diaries,” I’m going to devote some time exploring the dark underbelly of the local food world. Yes, I’ll start going to the greasy spoons, patronizing the pits, hunkering down in the honky-tonks, hiding out in the holes in the wall, all in search of those diamonds in the rough we call dives.

According to Merrian-Webster OnLine, a dive is “a shabby and disreputable establishment (as a bar or nightclub).” I found another place that defines it as “a cheap disreputable nightclub or dance hall.” The disreputable part sounds especially enticing, so this should be a fun project. Of course, I’ll be concentrating on the victuals at the places we affectionately call dives, but as I come down off my culinary high horse, please feel free to chime in with your recommendations. I’d like to find out where the best dives in the ‘Ville really are, so I’ll be counting on you all for your comments.

But, before I set off and start spelunking the culinary catacombs of the ‘Ville and its environs in search of those locales most worthy of mention, allow me to elucidate my own personal requirements for a dive. For me, a true dive is a place where:

1) Food must be relatively cheap, and generally good. It doesn’t necessarily have to be good for you, though;

2) You must feel slightly out of place when you walk through the front door;

3) It must be dark on the inside. Preferably, there are no windows at all. If there are windows, they should be dirty;

4) When you leave, you should feel a little dirty yourself;

5) Alcohol must be served. (Since there are many dive-worthy lunch counters and diners that do not serve hootch, however, I will create an ancillary category to make sure these places get their fair mention alongside their boozey cousins. They will be called Southern Baptist dives.)

And, although not requisite, the presence of any of the following makes the dive all the more memorable in my book:

1) Grumpy waitresses, preferably the ones who have done a lot of livin’

2) The lingering smell of fried food in the air, mingling freely with the aromas of stale cigarette smoke and beer

3) Leatherette booths with random missing chunks that expose the soft yellow of foam rubber, its jagged edges inviting us to ponder the dubious past events that resulted in the production of said missing chunks

4) A preponderance of linoleum, Formica or cheap wooden paneling

5) Blatant disregard for the concept of interior décor

6) Large jars of scary pickled things such as pig’s feet and Pepto-Bismol-colored eggs

7) Customers who actually eat scary pickled things

8) Deep-fried pork rinds

9) A juke box

10) At least one drunk at the bar

(Once again, feel free to chime in and add your criteria to the list.)

And, although the dictionary definition for a dive seems to cast a bit of aspersion on the moral character of the establishment in question, I by no means wish to impugn the gastronomic merits of a good dive. Dives have some of the best food out there, so any place mentioned in my culinary chronicles should wear this distinction as a badge of honor.

Now, with the groundwork laid, it’s off to the seedier side of the Louisville dining scene.

Watch tomorrow’s post for the first installment in The Dive Diaries. And, make sure you share your recommendations with the rest of us.