As I shoveled food, the sleep dust still in my eyes, my mind drifted across town to the Conoco Cafe, where, I imagined, diners in their Sunday best and fresh from church were ordering their breakfasts.

I knew who they were, too: Protestants.

Or so I thought.

My separation of church and food thesis remember, I was about 8 and a recent First Communicant maintained that Protestants, free from the whole one-hour fasting before Communion business, could go out for Sunday breakfast. So why not the Conoco, where, in my mind, the food was heavenly and the atmosphere uptown.

We Catholics had timing issues, so Sunday morning chow was best left to a frying pan and skillet at home rather than the availability of a table for four clear across town. We either had to get up painfully early or starve until after Mass at least that's how one kid saw it.

During my childhood, we never made it to the Conoco for Sunday breakfast (It was always simply "the Conoco" to me).

The Conoco, a landmark eatery on West Second Street for years, is scheduled to meet the wrecking ball this week to make way for progress: a turning lane to accommodate the stresses of a city street doubling as a federal highway.

Kingly eats

I did occasionally show up at the Conoco during my high school years, when I spent my summers playing Legion baseball and mowing parks for the city. My lunch hours were simple: Wolf down a sandwich and hurry back to the parks building at the north end of Tilden Street to watch men three and four times my age play cards and kibitz.

On a few pay days, however, a handful of us teenage workers would skip the card game and walk the two blocks to the Conoco to eat like kings meals with courses, big portions, service with a smile, even though a few of our group were comparatively short on table manners and fine dining experience.

Still, we managed to fit into the ease of the Conoco without much trouble. The Conoco was how you might imagine a nice restaurant in the '60s, the kind of place for after church.

A quiet bustle hung in the air, punctuated with a steady stream of conversation and utensils clinking against plates. Waitresses knew the regulars; the appropriate banter followed. The counter was stocked with a variety of working stiffs: suits, uniforms and overalls.

Well-coiffed women, probably headed for bridge or book club or shopping, worked their way through dainty lunches, their conversations appearing to be far more important than their club sandwiches.

Outside on Second Street, traffic rumbled past on its way to important meetings, life-sustaining errands or perhaps even some bit of romantic or criminal intrigue.

Although we showed up in grass stains, sleeveless shirts and all the frightening possibilities of 16- and 17-year olds at a good restaurant, we were treated well.

Friendly, empty

The last time I went to the Conoco was some years ago when I took my mother to lunch. Her generation surely secured the Conoco's place in the city's history and lore.

We had a couple of sandwiches. She told me a few stories about the Conoco, where she went from time to time with her friends. I told her a few of mine.

The waitress was friendly.

The counter was empty.

Before we left, I looked around the restaurant, smiling, thinking about my summer feasts 40 years ago, about my insistence as a child that on Sunday morning the Conoco was serving scores of Protestants, but few Catholics.

I know more now I think about religion and fine dining and saturated fat.

But that doesn't mean life is any tastier than it was then.