This shoebox-sized kosher dairy restaurant is one of many that once peppered Manhattan. Today, more than 60 years since it opened, a largely Hispanic staff continue to turn out Yiddish comfort staples: crisp latkes, knishes the size of pillbox hats, and plump pierogis your bubby might serve. Bowls of vegetarian borscht and lima bean and two of the half-dozen daily soups add spots of color. A rotating cast fills the dozen stools and the six small tables that hug the opposite wall. Weekend nights and brunch hours draw scruffy, pre- or post-bar-hopping sorts hunched over eggs and home fries, challah French toast, blintzes, or matzoh brei. Midweek is more Hopperesque, the profiles of solo diners washed in the sallow glow of the diner’s hanging milk-colored lights. No matter when you step up to the counter, a double stack of sweet-soft challah, schmeared with butter and served on a small Dixie plate, accompanies every order. The motto “Better Health” could be taken ironically if not for the juice bar — which provides wheatgrass shots and fresh juices to a steady stream of to-go customers — and that zingy borscht, light on the sour cream, thank you.