One trusted clue for 'a great place to eat' A STORY WORTH TELLING
“A fine-dining restaurant impresses your date, but a truck stop counter saves your soul.” — Overheard at a truck stop cafe
There was a time in America when veteran travelers agreed that one trusted clue clearly signaled “a great place to eat.”
That was any place where constantly rattling diesel engines and sporadic spewing of air brakes oddly harmonized amid a profusion of pumps on acres of asphalt, all under a sign declaring, “Truck Stop.”
On a cool fall morning some 40 years ago, when I was headed home to the East Texas pines in my 1956 Ford Thunderbird after a trip to Daytona Beach, Florida, I spotted a sign that said, “Truck stop and cafe ahead.”
That was my clue to stop for breakfast.
I pulled in, roosted my ‘Little ‘Bird’ with the cars and smiled at the glowing neon sign that shouted, “Open 24 Hours.” As if any truck stop cafe ever closed.
Inside, George Jones on the jukebox blended with the chatter of truckers. I knew I was in the right place.
Claiming the last open barstool at the counter, I was still eyeing the split in the plastic seat cushion when a white china mug landed just shy of my chin. I saw a name tag. “Bettie Lou” was pouring coffee without asking, dispensing it like a pro.
Hot joe was still rippling in the mug when a menu landed in front of me. Bettie Lou flashed a smile and offered, “Good morning, honey.” Then she strode away, turning every man’s head like a synchronized chorus line.
Blinking away the distraction, I lifted my mug. One gulp delivered that “good morning, inspiration,” waking me up faster than a country preacher’s altar call. Gotta love coffee with a little muscle — especially when it’s strong enough to hold up a spoon.
In a flash, Bettie Lou was back, packing an order pad and pulling a pencil from behind her ear.
“What’cha havin’ this morning, sweetie?” she asked.
“What do you think about the sausage and cheese omelet?” I asked.
“My favorite,” she said with a smile. It was the same smiling response I overheard her give the guy at the end of the counter when he asked about the pancakes.
Bettie Lou was back in a heartbeat, balancing an omelet as big as Big Tex’s hat, two biscuits the size of Cadillac hubcaps drowning in cream gravy and all of it accompanied by hash browns hanging over the edge.
I was still eating and debating whether I could finish more than half the plate when I caught a glimpse of an older couple coming through the door. I sized them up as having arrived in the big Coupe DeVille I just watched pull in beside my Thunderbird.
The silver-haired, sophisticated lady stepped inside with her well-dressed husband following. She looked around the room, heard the music, took one look at the gimmecap crowd and caught Bettie Lou’s “honey” and “sweetie” greetings.
Then, with a look of disgust, she whirled her hubby around in his shiny Florsheims, grabbed him by the arm and escorted him out the door.
I thought to myself, “How sad. They just missed the best omelet east of the Mississippi, the chance to collect a firsthand story about a truck-stop meal and a friendly waitress named Bettie Lou … sporting one of the tightest-fitting waitress uniforms south of the Mason-Dixon line.”
It just doesn’t get much better for breakfast than an old-fashioned truck stop cafe.
Contact Aldridge at leonaldridge@gmail. com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge.com.
