"If It Ain't Broke..."

This morning began in disappointment. I woke up thinking that I had a job as a substitute at Teays Valley High School. In my rush to get to arrive at my assignment on time, I neglected to pay attention to the date and time of my assignment. I found that I had actually made it to the school early--an entire day early. "There goes a good 70 dollars down the drain," I thought to myself. To make matters worse, I had turned down two other teaching assignments for today thinking that I already had an assignment.

Frustrated and disappointed, I headed home. As I made my way down State route 23, I was inspired by a simple sign. It read, "Diner" and featured a crude arrow pointing to the rear annex of a highway gas station. Before even considering to stop, my decision was made. I turned the car around and arrived at "the Fork and Spoon Diner" for Breakfast.

I’ve learned that diners, much like barber shops and hardware stores, are epicenters of rural culture. They are indigenous hubs for the exchange of the stories, thoughts, and ideas of whatever local community that they are a part. If there is anything that you want (or don't want) to know about a certain place, you'll most likely hear it over bacon and eggs at a place like this--and I do mean anything. Not to mention, their waitresses are priceless!

The other day I visited "The Fork and Spoon" cafe, and it was certainly no disappointment. I mean, how could it be a disappointment? It was very clearly printed on the restaurant’s doors and menus that, this place--- was the "best forking place in town." A true place of class, I'd say. I mean, who could argue with a statement like that?

I walked right in, entering into an empty diner.  For a moment, I wondered if the place was even open. The walls were boldly painted and decorated with a vague mexican theme. Across the room hung a giant fork and spoon which bordered a large plate-shaped chalkboard announcing that on Fridays, $8.99 would get you all the fried fish you can eat with fries and cole slaw. Beside that was the "Wall of Flame"--two shelves loaded with a enough hot sauce to euthanize a hippo.

I walked up to the counter and immediately a hearty-looking, woman of middle age, burst through the pivoting kitchen doors calling, "You jus go 'head and have a seat, honey."  She was a brawny woman, wearing an open flannel shirt and a baseball cap. She had a tough, straight-forward personality, and looked like she could hold her ground in a fist-fight. She was a hoot and a half, plus two thirds of another hoot.  She came to take my order and spoke with each other in short clips:

"Start with coffee?"

"Sure."

"Cream?"

"No thanks."

"Getcha some water?"

"Sounds good"

"what'll ya have, hun?"

"A la carte: eggs, bacon, and home fries.

"Right back, hun."

She had that characteristic truck-stop waitress finesse: tough, quick, with a rough and tumble, tell-it-like-it-is attitude. She seemed to know the life stories of nearly all of "the regulars" who come in to eat there. She prides herself in givin' the boys big, hearty portions of home-cooked food. She knows just what they like. That's why she's had to teach the new managers a thing or two about the gravy. "I told her there just wasn't enough flour in the roux; wasn't anything like what we had before." she explained. "You know they tried to put hot sauce in the gravy--no one around here's gonna eat that." Before long, I knew the entire history of "The Fork and Spoon Diner", formerly known as "The Hot Spot", formerly known as "The Iron Horse Cafe," but unanimously known to the locals as the "Whompler truck stop".

Apparently the new management had come in to the place with the idea of "cleaning it up" and giving it a few modern twists. They added a couple LCD TV Screens, brought in the new "Texican" (my word for it) theme, changed the menu, and even put the place on Facebook. What they didn't realize is that they had introduced two things that most of their local clientele were not comfortable with: change and "foreign stuff".

"This place used to be packed," she explained. "I'd spend 8 hours back there just trying to keep up with the dishes." But this morning it was just her. She was the cook, dishwasher, cashier, waitress and entertainer. We talked for some time, she behind her counter, and I on the other side of the dining room. She gave me a real ear-full how NOT to improve a Truck Stop Diner. "A lot of these guys that come in here they say that I'm the only reason they come in... and I do my best to give 'em a generous helping of good food," she said. I realized something very important this morning. Diners are not restaurants. They are deeply interwoven into the fabric of their surrounding culture, and the facilities and food are really so important. Diners seem to be a kind of outgrowth of the people of a community. Like I said, if you want to know anything about a place, find it's local diner.

Earning a special place in my heart, "The Fork and Spoon Cafe" delivered a "forking good time," just at they had promised.

What is the moral of the story, you ask?

"When it comes to small town america (especially Circleville), the old saying, 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it,' always rings true."

A Little Slice of Americana

Today I was a substitute Spanish teacher at Teays Valley High School in Ashville, Ohio. On my lunch break, I stopped by the “Cherry Street Diner” in Downtown Ashville. It’s a quaint little diner which still bears all the furnishings and style of the 70’s and 80’s. The walls are decked with all sorts of random americana. Everything from a Betty Boop imitating marilyn monroe, to a clock featuring Elvis Presley with swaying hips. A sign hangs above the front counter reading, “Prices subject to change according to customer’s attitude.” Beside it, is a notice from the complaint department featuring a hand grenade with a small number attached to it’s pin. Just below it it reads, “Take a number”

I seated myself at a small table just down from Elvis and directly below an old tin sign for Vernor’s Ginger Ale. The simple upholstered metal chairs and wood-patterned laminate tabletop immediately brought back memories of my great-grandmother. The steady twangy beat of the FM Country station playing in the background seemed to blend so much into the decor that I almost didn’t notice it until sometime after I had been seated.

The diner’s one waitress was named “Kimy”; spelled K-I-M-Y, “KI..MY”--NOT Kimberly, NOT Kim, but Kimy. She was very clear on that point. Kimy was as classic as they come, it was as if she was one and the same with the whole downtown diner package. She always seemed to have a coffee carafe in her hand, which she carried with her as she sped about from table to table, awing her customers with her extraordinary wit, blunt quips, and take-it-or-leave it attitude. She’s was a real gem. As she sped around to my table, I quickly placed an order for a real “greasy spoon” classic: Two fried eggs--over-medium, bacon, home fries, and a cup of that magically mediocre coffee sloshing around in Kimy’s pot. The order was done and on the table in no more than two and a half shakes (give or take a quarter of a shake). It was everything I had hoped: a salty and greasy goodness that slid straight down, fulfilling a deep longing for a classic kind of Americana that I had nearly forgotten.

I have never been here before, but somehow, I feel like I know everyone. This is truly one of those places that knows no strangers--or maybe its just Flo. I just watched her fish through a big bowl of candy Valentine hearts sitting on the front counter for Valentine’s day. As she dug through, she would read allowed each heart in an attempt to award her customer with a heart that is most like him. She claims to be an excellent judge of character and she didn’t even hesitate to tell this man exactly who she perceived him to be. “He likes the ladies” she announced to the woman sitting beside him--a comment which I am certain was given plenty of attention on the couple’s ride home.

As a went up to pay and I handed my card to an obvious “new hire”. At the mere scent of unconfidence, Kimy burst through the pivoting cafe door and seized her golden opportunity to take the young fledgeling under her wing. The three of us walked through the painstaking process of processing a credit card--the right way. This, of course, lead to several fiery stories of countless run-ins that she has had with customers who have had their cards handled the wrong way. Slightly ruffled, and with eyes that looked as if they had just witnessed a furious hurricane, the new hire delicately handed me back the card as Kimy continued the force of her story. After batting back and forth a few playful quips with the seasoned waitress. I sat back down and finish off that mediocre cup of downtown diner goodness, reflecting on the rich slice of americana that lay before me.