chrome border wraps around the upper exterior of the St. Claire Restaurant, beckoning patrons with bright, neon lettering and the promise of a true diner experience. A few steps inside, through the swinging wood-paneled door, the steady hum of customers eating and conversing is punctuated by the occasional screech of a knife on thick porcelain or frequent bouts of laughter from those hunched over the counter, swiveling on red leatherette stools as they wait for take-out or just whittle away the afternoon.

Red and white “crystal” chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Plates slide easily on worn pea-green tabletops reminiscent of elementary school desks. The booths are covered in a thick, deep mahogany vinyl and divided at eye-level by wrought-iron designs, and brass coat hangers stand ready for use at every table. Old fishing nets hanging from the dark, wood-paneled walls are strung with plastic swordfish, lobsters, crabs and eels, most likely designed to take you back to the Mediterranean, or as the diner’s owner Andre Costa calls it, “the old country.” On the counter sit three cake racks displaying homemade chocolate cake, coffee cake and assorted muffins and danishes.

Thirty-five years ago this small luncheonette on the corner of Smith Street and Atlantic Avenue was all the Costa family had. After losing everything in Cyprus and coming to America as a refugee in 1968, Andre Costa was not going to lose his livelihood to the drug dealers and criminals that plagued the area at the time. So, every night he would sit on the roof of the three-story building with his shotgun loaded, guarding all that was important to him: the St. Claire Restaurant, his six sons and his wife.

Shotguns are no longer needed in what seems to be an up-and-coming Brooklyn neighborhood. Trendy restaurants and boutiques are popping up on Atlantic Avenue in the same fashion that has recently claimed Smith Street. Andre Costa’s sons, Tony and Pieris, are now the owners. Both in their 50’s, the second generation of Costas has worked at St. Claire since their youth. “I never liked school,” says Tony. “So I used to hide behind that counter right there until the police would come drag me away; you still can’t drag me away.” Indeed, Tony and Pieris are here everyday, cleaning counters, taking orders, replenishing a three-foot stack of coffee cups, and fixing the motorized milk shake machines.

When the Costa family first bought the diner, it was the only open storefront on the street. “Up and down the street, you would look to the left, you would look to the right, and all you would see was ‘For Rent’ signs in all the store windows,” says Tony. “You couldn’t find a cab driver brave enough to drive you here.”

To Tony, it seems that everyday a rent sign is being taken down and a new business is moving in. “It is horrible to say, but I think that 9/11 had a positive effect on this area,” he says. “People had no place to go so they came here and bought. It has been a good time for everyone’s business here.”

Although new shops and restaurants bring more people to a neighborhood, there is something missing in the newness of many places that customers seek out at St. Claire. “You can sit here for hours and no one is trying to clear you out,” says Mary Sweeney, who typically spends her Sunday hours at St. Claire. “It’s casual and homey; if you want a piece of chocolate cake you just help yourself to it from the counter.” Shelley Pasnick, 33, agrees, saying, “It’s one of the few real diners left in the area. It lacks the pretense of many new places.”

Whether it is the familiar service, the all-encompassing smell of home cooked chicken potpie, or just an old fashioned counter to sit at, the diner has succeeded in attracting new customers while keeping regulars. Some have been there almost as long as the place itself. Rigoberto Bautista is famous at St. Claire for being their oldest patron. Everyday for the past 25 years he has come in for a black coffee and a cinnamon pastry. “For me there is no other place,” says Bautista. “The coffee is number one.”

The staff also adds to the comforting feeling of the place. Florencio Garcia, the head cook, has been at St. Claire for 20 years. As he whips the eggs in a metal bowl, he looks around wistfully, as if not thinking at all, and effortlessly holds the bowl two feet off the griddle as he pours the yolky mixture into a perfect pool every time, not a drop of spatter. Like a well-orchestrated composition played out day after day, Garcia grabs a thinly sliced turkey breast and throws it on the left side of the griddle, moves the hash browns off to the right, scrambles the eggs dead center, and then moves to the fry machine. As he dips the right basket in, he pulls out the left one and shakes it free of grease before tipping the golden fries inside onto a worn and chipped porcelain plate that is finally moved to the window for pick up.

A brass bell sits to the right side of the kitchen window, tarnished from neglect. Much of the staff has worked here for many years—15, in some cases—so there is little use for a bell. Like couples who have lived together for years, waiters move around one another effortlessly, instinctually knowing the motions of the other, always knowing when their order is up.

On their way out, customers pay at the counter, chatting with neighbors from the area or people they often see at St. Claire on lunch breaks. “How is business?” they’ll ask Tony Costa, or “I saw your mother in here yesterday, how is she doing?” Outside, as Atlantic Avenue undergoes a transformation into a land of boutiques and upscale dinning, the St. Claire Restaurant remains the same—just the way they like it.