A better tuna melt, with a kick

I have this diner meal that calls to me every few months, and when it does, I essentially stop functioning like a normal adult until I’ve tracked down some facsimile of the thing: a tuna melt on rye, a pickle spear with that briny snap, a heap of home fries glossed with diner grease, and the holy trinity of beverages — bad coffee, orange juice and a glass of ice water sweating through its beaded plastic cup.

It’s also a meal I’d never dream of ordering in front of someone I don’t know particularly well. People have opinions: about the supposed blasphemy of mixing dairy and fish; about the moral character of diner coffee; about how many drinks a person can reasonably justify at a single sitting (for me, it is three, and I’ve stopped explaining myself).

What’s funny is that if you tell som