Ben Robinson soaks up last night’s ale at the Harley Davidson American diner
“I’m off to an American diner at the back of a Harley Davidson showroom, so what I’m going to do is put my leather jacket on, don my Weetabix helmet and cycle into the car park making throaty revving noises like a badass.”
“For Pete’s sake Ben, you’re a 28-year-old man, you need to grow up. You’ll get smacked in the face and they’d be within their rights.
“In fact I’d smack you in the face if I was there...”
“Alright mum chill out, I’ll just walk instead”, I said before quickly hanging the phone up mid-tirade.
I met my friends, Bainsey Four Bellies and Big Dog Dave in the car park before sidling painstakingly among hundreds of hypnotically shiny bikes.
Gleaming exhausts stretched my face while a tiny fob sucked it in as I became transfixed by a million distorted images of myself.
Just as my nose got within a hair’s length of the handle bars I caught a glimpse of the price which sent me scuttling to the cafe at the back, terrified by all the noughts.
With fixed-table booths, bowling pins and swathes of chrome, Harleys Diner captured a sense of the authentic American roadside joint.
Instead savouring the States however, we took the roadside dining theme a little further and sat on the terrace, off one of Preston’s most famous highways – Strand Road.
We barely scanned the menu before making our choice.
“Jeez can you imagine us out on Route 66 pulling over for a cheese and ham toastie?” said Big Dog.
“Yeah that sucks”, agreed Bainsey Four Bellies.
Big Dog and I chose ‘Phat Boy Burgers’, which included a hearty two burgers, bacon, cheese, salad and relish, (3.95) but Four Bellies hadn’t eaten for over an hour so he chose a Cornish Pastie (£1.65) with gravy and a hot dog (£2.45).
No mention had been made of French fries and when I checked, I was told they cannot cook chips because the smell and the grease perforates through into the showroom.
My first instinct was to baulk at the idea of an American diner without chips but then all those mesmeric twinkling bikes shimmered back into mind and I could see the problem.
The Phat Boys lived up to their billing perfectly.
The waitress borrowed a United Utilities crane stationed nearby to lower them on to our bench and there they sat towering over us.
With the top bun hanging backwards they looked like the mouths of angry ogres bellowing at us (perhaps about the lack of chips).
We need not have worried about the fries because the Phat Boy was than enough to contend with on its own.
And Four Bellies was also impressed with his plates declaring at least three of his stomachs were full and contented, which had not happened since his infamous 24-hour takeaway challenge of 2010.
And with the three sodas the whole bill came to an incredibly reasonable £15.05, which is why I’m treating my mum next time she rides into town.