Unearth The Voyage
Scranton still believes in plates that push back. Fork into these spots and you will wonder if the kitchen mistook your order for a family reunion.
What follows is a street-level guide to oversized dinners, with practical ordering intel and a few hard numbers where it matters. Come hungry, leave plotting how to carry leftovers up the hill.
1. Viewmont Diner
Viewmont fills like a church social on payday. Greek plates here do not flirt with abundance; they commit.
A gyro platter arrives with pita fans, a hill of meat ribbons, and fries sluiced with oregano and lemon. Moussaka slices are dense, creamy, and tall enough to shade the next plate.
Salads spill feta like snow. You will reach for extra napkins and maybe reinforcements.
The room runs bright and practical, coffee refreshed before you notice it dip. Order the chicken lemon soup as a warm-up, then negotiate sharing rights across the table.
Staff steers you well: ask what came out strongest tonight. Overhear regulars praise portion value against rising food costs, a reminder that generosity still anchors loyalty.
Best move: box half early, then linger with coffee until the traffic thins on Scranton Carbondale Highway.
2. Coney Island of Scranton
Chili perfume greets you before the bell snaps shut. Dogs line the grill like soldiers, buns warming in a cloud of steam.
Order two, thinking moderation, and watch a tray land with a pile of crinkle fries that could moonlight as a doorstop. The chili is brick-red, clove-whispered, and spread with confidence.
Onions crisp like punctuation. Mustard brings it home.
Plates come fast, cheap, and larger than memory swears they used to be. Counter seats give you front-row views of choreography: ladle, swipe, stack, repeat.
Regulars trade knowing nods when a rookie underestimates the fry mountain. Strategy: add a cup of snap-top pickles for acidic relief.
Cash moves quickest. If you leave hungry, that is on you, not the Coney.
Pace yourself and accept the paper boat as destiny.
3. Keystone Restaurant
Keystone plates look like someone’s Nonna saw winter coming. Chicken parm spills past the rim, red sauce pooling like a small lake, mozzarella bronzed and blistered.
Mashed potatoes sit in a proper crater of gravy, not a polite dab. The salad arrives in a bowl roughly the size of a mixing basin, peppers biting through oil and vinegar.
Bread basket? Refills without ceremony.
Servers carry four plates per arm and somehow remember your extra napkins. Prices still read as pre-inflation sanity, and portions hedge against tomorrow’s lunch.
Ask for the house-made meatloaf on nights it appears; it slices clean, holds moisture, and takes gravy like a friend. Practical tip: split an entree, then each order soup to stake your claim to the table.
Pie case glows like stained glass. Choose coconut cream, then plan a slow walk home.
4. Glider Diner
The stainless curve of the Glider catches streetlight like a polished Airstream, and the parking lot hums even after nine. A server drops a platter of fries with gravy so heavy it lands like a book, steam lifting in beefy curls.
Burgers come with a sear you can hear, edges laced with salt and memory. Ask for the thick chocolate shake and spoon it like pudding.
Expect friendly but no-nonsense pacing.
Established in 1948, this place still runs on quick hands and big plates. Prices hold at diner-sane levels, and portions tilt large enough for a second dinner.
Locals quote waits in minutes, but turnover moves. Target the open-counter seats if solo.
Pro tip: split the hot turkey plate, then box a half-loaf of bread-stuffing for tomorrow’s breakfast.
5. Poor Richards Pub
Poor Richards runs on wing baskets that test the structural integrity of plastic boats. Sauces lean classic: hot with honest vinegar, garlic butter that shines like lacquer.
Sandwiches arrive in halves the size of softballs, toothpicks skewering them like tents. Fries threaten spillover, crisp at the edges, good for dragging through bleu cheese.
The din reads friendly, not frantic.
Weeknights carry neighborhood energy; weekends tilt shoulder-to-shoulder. Order wings extra crispy and give them a minute to breathe.
Burgers come fat and open-faced. Share a pizza if you dare, but one pie plus wings suits four if you pace.
Check the chalkboard for specials and the clock for happy-hour math. Best seat: high-top near the corner TV, sightline to both the game and the kitchen pass so you can time a second round before the rush.
6. Cooper’s Seafood House
Cooper’s looks like a ship ran aground and decided to serve dinner. Inside, it is all wood, nets, and the soft slap of conversation.
Order the fisherman’s combo and prepare for a breadcrumb storm: shrimp, scallops, haddock, and a side of fries that could fill a tackle box. Coleslaw cools the edges, lemon wakes everything.
Crab legs stack like scaffolding on busy nights.
Decades of lore hang from the rafters, but the portions stay modern-big. Prices run higher here, yet plates justify with heft.
Ask for broiled if you want lighter, though the fried has fans for a reason. Pro move: split an entree and add a cup of chowder each, then share a slice of peanut butter pie if you still have range.
Park early, wander the nautical oddities, and time your order to dodge the queue.
7. Minooka Pub
Minooka’s roast beef sandwich shows up big-shouldered, pink-centered, and riding a roll that works for its living. Au jus comes in a bowl, not a thimble, and your sleeves are in danger.
Pierogi arrive slippery with butter and sweet onions, a heap that could anchor a table. The room feels like old union jackets and good jokes.
You will not leave without smelling like dinner, in a good way.
Order the beef rare if you like it honest; request extra horseradish for a fast wake-up. Fries hold crisp under jus raids, a small miracle.
Portion math says two can share one sandwich and still carry leftovers. Cash-friendly, card-possible.
Sit near the window if you run hot, since plates steam like saunas. Friendly bar regulars will steer you toward the day’s soup without fuss.
Listen to them.
8. Farr Street Tavern
Farr Street plays it straight: cold beer, hot fryer, portions that dare your appetite. The nacho mountain rises in layers, not a flat sprawl, so every dig finds cheese, beans, and jalapeno.
Fried chicken crackles with a peppered crust, meat shockingly juicy for the volume they push. Sides roll deep: slaw, pickles, and fries that wear spice like a tan.
Plates clatter, laughter crosshatches the room.
Order at the bar when it is slammed and you will eat sooner. Ask for extra plates if sharing the nachos, then defend your corner.
Daily specials sometimes hide the biggest value: meatloaf Monday has a loyal following for a reason. Expect TVs with the game, but the sound is mercifully low.
Practical tip: bring cash for the pool table and an appetite for leftovers. The to-go boxes live near the register for a reason.
9. State Street Grill
Do not let the polished bistro look fool you. Plates at State Street come with the same Scranton generosity, just dressed sharper.
A braised short rib lands heavy and soft, draped over mashed potatoes like a weighted blanket. The chopped salad is not a sidekick; it arrives in a bowl with ambitions, pistachios and goat cheese tumbling through.
Cocktails lean robust, not precious.
Weekends get loud; patio seats offer reprieve and a breeze. Ask about the daily fish, then brace for a portion better suited to two.
Service keeps pace without rushing you out. Split an entree and order an extra side to explore: Brussels hit with balsamic, fries that stay proud.
If you are hunting leftovers, the burger runs half-pound honest. Park behind the building and cut through the patio to beat the front-door knot.
10. Olde Brook Inn
Olde Brook Inn whispers date night, then drops a platter like a Sunday feast. Chicken francese arches over linguine in lemon-butter gloss, cutlets so wide they eclipse the pasta.
Veal parm could be a placemat. Bread arrives warm in a basket that refills if your eyes ask nicely.
Servers pace the meal so you can linger under the soft glow of the fireplace stone.
Portions skew celebratory, prices mid-tier fair. Ask for extra lemon on the side to brighten leftovers tomorrow.
Wine pours land generous, and the martini glass comes brim-full. Best plan: split an entree, take a salad each, then make peace with dessert because the tiramisu will call your name.
Parking wraps the building; grab a spot near the side door if drizzle starts. This is where you propose to a takeout container.
11. Victory Pig Pizza & Barbecue
Victory Pig serves fried-pan Sicilian squares with edges that shatter and centers that pull like taffy. Two slices look modest until you realize each is a brick of dinner.
Sauce leans sweet-savory, cheese freckles caramelized. Barbecue plates stack pork in honest heaps, smoke clinging to your jacket and maybe your dreams.
Coleslaw and beans crowd the tray like friendly neighbors.
Bring cash and a friend who can carry boxes. Order a half-tray if you value movement later, but know leftovers taste even better cold.
Peak hours mean a slow shuffle to the counter; use the time to watch trays rocket from the oven. Ask for well-done corners if you chase crunch.
A small statistic from locals: groups almost always over-order here and never complain. That should tell you how the portion math pencils out.
12. Steve & Irene’s
Steve & Irene’s cooks like a family reunion with assigned seating. Pork chops arrive bone-in, thick enough to carry momentum.
Haluski slides buttery and peppery, cabbage sweet at the edges, noodles fat with comfort. Pierogi line up like little moons, browned in butter and topped with onions that flirt with caramel.
Mashed potatoes play support but hog plate space anyway.
Servers speak plainly and keep water topped, which matters when portions climb. Ask for extra onions on pierogi and plan to split the chop.
Prices stay gentle, and the room feels like a second living room on a snow threat. Dessert slices are broad-shouldered; share or surrender.
Pro tip: arrive early on weekends, as parking tightens. When you box leftovers, tuck in a roll to make a sandwich tomorrow.
You will thank yourself at noon.
13. Trolleys Bistro
Trolleys Bistro leans into its name with trolley photos and a menu that rumbles like a full car. Chicken pot pie arrives with a crust that domes, then collapses in buttery flakes, releasing steam like a train brake.
Pasta bowls are not bowls so much as basins, sauce clinging in generous coats. The room runs soft-lit and neighborly, with staff that suggests you box early.
Order the pot pie if you like leftovers that reheat beautifully. Ask for extra gravy on the side to keep things lush day two.
Wine pours friendly, cocktails straightforward. If you crave green, the house salad portion could front as an entree.
Sit near the wall for quieter conversation. The check lands gentle for the volume of food.
You will count plates, then count meals, and realize the math favors tomorrow.
