Summary
A lone, gilded birdcage of a diner flickers to life somewhere between a nickelodeon nightmare and a vaudeville after-party: inside, the espresso machine sighs like an asthmatic cathedral organ while the zinc counter glints with the sweat of last night’s gin. Bud Fisher, that puckish cartographer of American absurdity, stages the whole fandango inside three mismatched walls that refuse to stay perpendicular—tables shimmy, chairs defect, the cash register keeps coughing up couplets instead of coin. The plot, if one insists on such antiques, is a Rube Goldberg contraption powered by caffeine and jealousy: a lovesick waiter, a flapper with a laugh like breaking chandeliers, a cook who communicates only in egg-flips, and a mysterious patron whose face keeps sliding off the film stock, all orbit a single cup of allegedly perfect java that nobody is allowed to drink. Each attempt to swallow the fabled brew detonates another comic landmine—saucers become sombreros, the jukebox births a chicken, the neon sign outside rewrites itself into obscene anagrams—until the café itself achieves sentience and files for divorce from the rest of the world. What begins as a ten-minute sketch balloon-boy inflates into a frenzied meditation on appetite: appetite for love, for caffeine, for the next gag that will erase the existential heartburn of the last. By the time the lights inside the café go black, the only thing left standing is the aroma—phantom, hallucinatory, a punchline without a joke—wafting through the projector beam and straight into the viewer’s bloodstream.
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