SIDE JOB: Neil Diamond Once Waited Tables at a Jewish Diner in Brooklyn — and Got Scolded for Singing Along to the Radio

A former coworker from a small Jewish diner in Brooklyn has shared a lighthearted story about Neil Diamond’s early side job — a memory that captures both his earnestness and the musical impulse he simply couldn’t suppress. According to the coworker, Diamond worked there briefly as a waiter, and while he was reliable with orders and polite with customers, he repeatedly got himself into trouble for singing along to the radio during shifts.

The diner was a narrow, bustling place with checkerboard floors and laminated menus, the kind of spot where regulars walked in before sunrise and claimed the same seats every day. The coworker remembered that the radio behind the counter was always tuned to the same station, playing a mix of pop songs, classics, and neighborhood announcements.

“Most of us ignored the music,” the coworker said. “Neil didn’t.”

His habit began subtly. While clearing tables or pouring coffee, he’d hum along under his breath — just a soft thread of melody that most customers didn’t even notice. But as he grew more comfortable, the humming grew into quiet singing, and then into full lines carried with surprising richness for someone working the morning shift.

The coworker said Diamond often caught himself mid-song, grinned, and toned it down — but not for long.

One slow afternoon, with only a few customers lingering over late lunches, a well-known oldies tune came on the radio. Diamond, carrying a tray of plates, began singing along with full emotion, forgetting entirely where he was. The coworker recalled him turning toward the counter as though it were a stage, leaning in slightly as he hit the chorus.

“He wasn’t trying to show off,” the coworker said. “It was instinct. The music played, and he just… responded.”

But the owner, a brisk, practical man who prized efficiency above atmosphere, was not impressed. He emerged from the kitchen at the exact moment Diamond sang a louder-than-usual line. The owner shouted his name across the room — startling both the customers and Diamond, who nearly dropped the plates.

The reprimand was immediate and delivered in front of everyone: “This is a diner, not a nightclub. Less singing, more working.”

According to the coworker, Diamond apologized with a sheepish smile, nodding as he hurried back to the tables. But the moment had amused the customers more than it had annoyed them. A few of the regulars even offered small encouragements afterward, telling him he “had a good voice” or that the singing “brightened the place up.”

The coworker remembered one regular — an elderly man who ordered the same soup every day — leaning over and whispering, “Kid, don’t listen to him. Keep singing. Just maybe a little quieter.”

Despite the warning, Diamond’s habit didn’t disappear. He still hummed when he thought no one was paying attention. He still half-sang certain lines under his breath. And whenever the owner stepped into the back room, the coworker noticed Diamond’s voice grow a little stronger again, carried along by whatever song drifted in from the radio.

“It wasn’t rebellion,” the coworker said. “It was joy. The kind you can’t keep in.”

The stint at the diner didn’t last long, but the memory of it stayed vivid among those who worked alongside him — a reminder of a young man whose instinct to sing followed him everywhere, even between tables in a tiny Brooklyn diner.