At the Disdain Dinette, only those who are snake-bitten and smitten dine or grind. Once the milkshakes run dry, across the bar star crossed lovers' plans often go awry. Although no mice roam the fluorescent-lit tile floors, men and bunnies alike linger a bit longer, thirsting for another pour. Eyes get stuck like flies to the bulbs outside. Ask for another plate of eggs, over easy, not fried. At the Disdain Dinette, where nights turn into distant daydreams, a reality check arrives at the table like a punch to the spleen.