PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

The Instagram account of Garrett Thomas (@garrettfromgoldies) has been popping up in my algorithm lately. The meat and potatoes — or, perhaps, the sausage and eggs — of Thomas’ content is reviews of New York diners.

The Instagram algorithm apparently knows I’m hungry. And that I have a fondness for quirky food-service establishments.

In his “Diners, Diners and Diners” series, Thomas evaluates traditional breakfast and lunch spots on merits including the quality of the counter banter, whether the toast comes pre-buttered or not and the pivotal “Triple-D Pancake Index.” When I was in New York last month, I made my way to one of his recommendations, starting a day at the Chelsea Square Restaurant. The 45-year-old establishment was as good as promised, impressing as much with its delicious food as its remarkable decor (way more chandeliers in there than in most “greasy spoons”).

Then, this past weekend, I had a similar — entirely offline — experience. I had made a Sunday-morning journey to Ligonier, where my wife was determined (despite the frigid temperatures) to run the annual “Set Your Year on Fire 5K,” a benefit for the local fire company.

She asked if I’d like to run, too. I sat in the car with the heater on.

As we chatted with other runners after the race, however, we got a diner recommendation: We should head to nearby Ruthie’s Diner, a Ligonier staple. We took the stranger up on his advice, and discovered a bevy of satisfying grub (I got the scramble, which featured just the right amount of tangy sausage gravy) and delightfully owl-focused decor.

I also paid $20 for two meals, as opposed to $40 for one in Manhattan. (To be fair, I sprang for the cheesecake at Chelsea Square.)

Other than a difference at the cash register, though, something occurred to me: These were nearly identical experiences, despite dramatic geographic differences. One stranger may have been on an Instagram reel, while the other was crowded around a heater in Ligonier, but the results were identical: Someone mentioned a good diner; I went there; I had a delicious and filling breakfast.

The difference, of course, is that last month’s trip was in one of the busiest cities in the world, while Sunday’s trip was in Westmoreland County.

An affinity for diners may be the last great leveler of American culture. There are few places with less in common than midtown Manhattan and Route 30, yet hunger is vanquished similarly in both — during the daytime hours. At Chelsea Square Restaurant, my fellow diners were theater professionals and young men with indefinable jobs in finance; at Ruthie’s, they were blue-collar workers on the way home from church.

Yet all were eating eggs, pancakes and sausage.

The Waffle Houses of the South, the roadhouses of Texas, the neon comfort-food dives in New Jersey — even the morning-after menu explosions in Las Vegas. This basic arrangement of booths, stools and counters can be found from coast to coast. There may not be a Starbucks nearby (seriously, there are still PSL deserts) in some rural locations, but there’s likely a diner; Chelsea may lack in roadside antique barns, but there’s a diner on every corner.

I don’t mean this as some kind of “we’re all alike” paean to unity; having been to most of the aforementioned places, I can confirm that we are decidedly not all alike in this country. I’m just glad to have noticed that there is still at least one common thread: When we wake up, we want eggs, and we want them without pretension.

Now I’m hungry. It’s 4:15 p.m. as I write this, and I may head to Ritter’s anyway.