A reflection on the Bridgeport Flyer.
All good meals must come to an end.
Sadly, my last meal at the Bridgeport Flyer—a diner in Milford, Conn.—came on Feb. 22. My younger brother John and I met to send-off one of our favorite local eateries. He had his typical chocolate chip pancakes and side of French fries; and I had my Arizona wrap, crammed with breaded chicken, peppers, onions, and pepper jack cheese. Both orders came with a side of the mystifyingly unique and delicious Green Goddess dressing (which no other version I’ve tried has topped).
We were only two among the throngs of customers grabbing one last taste before the old establishment shuttered its doors. It was truly a sight to behold—one of love for what has been called the “heart” of Devon, a neighborhood within Milford. For more than 50 years, the Flyer had been a hub for camaraderie and a mainstay on Bridgeport Avenue; and for 80 years, since its original founding in Bridgeport (hence the name), the establishment served not only hot coffee, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but as a “home away from home.”
However, the diner’s owner—Dennis Kokenos—wanted to retire to spend more time with family, and his children had other vocational pursuits. In the end, Kokenos had to “make a bittersweet compromise,” as he wrote in a letter announcing the diner’s closure. No one can fault Kokenos or his children. He deserves a good, peaceful, and long retirement; and they deserve a chance to follow their aspirations.
Still, it’s hard not to mourn the loss of the Flyer, which had been a Milford institution. For my family, friends, and myself, the diner was our “Cheers.” It was our dependable “go to.” Countless hours had been spent in its booths, between nourishment after late night escapades to date nights to book club hangouts and catching up with old friends revisiting the hometown. There were hearty laughs, good cheer, life updates, deep conversations, heartbreaks, and even reconciliation.
In the last outing, my brother and I discussed movies, video games, and history—perhaps nothing of great consequence to eavesdroppers (if there were any), but simply being there with him, in that moment, is something I will treasure for a lifetime. Those memories are irreplaceable.
Truly, there are too many memories. One Saturday evening in 2023, I was eating alone at the counter, reading a book. A gentleman in his 60s sat near me and, somehow, we struck up a conversation. He told me about his work—delivering and assembling movie displays—and how his wife had, at the time, recently passed away. To this day, I wonder if God placed me there to be a listening ear or even a temporary distraction, but that evening two alone souls found brief companionship. (Frankly, I may have needed his passing friendship more than he needed mine.)
There is a sacredness about sharing a meal. Indeed, not only do our bodies receive sustenance, but the bonds of fellowship are fed and strengthened. Both occurred at the Bridgeport Flyer.
There are fewer community hubs nowadays. The pandemic exacerbated this disconnect between an individual and society at-large, especially on a local level. In its own way, the Flyer served as a last glimpse into old world America, with people occupying the same space for a common purpose where political and social affiliations did not completely dominate. No doubt there were rowdy moments—especially when it was open 24/7; but the Flyer had a family-friendly atmosphere and good food. And for that, the diner was beloved.
In the coming months and years, an apartment complex will take its place, reshaping the look-and-feel of Devon. And the ancient wisdom, that the only constant thing in life is change, proves true once again. Yet it’s sad to see a community epicenter slip away. Things don’t often end the way we expect or want, but they do, nonetheless. The Flyer’s closure is a healthy reminder to cherish the time, people, and places while we can.
As my brother and I finished our last cup of coffee and stepped out into the afternoon winter sun, the cashier — with a melancholic smile — imparted a “See you again, soon,” salutation, perhaps a reflex from years of serving thousands of customers. I truly hope to see it again. If heaven has any eateries, and I’m blessed to enter the pearly gates, I hope the Bridgeport Flyer is one of them.
This piece originally appeared in the author's newsletter, "Andy's Newsletter," which you can subscribe to here.
