In 1973, I was a linebacker on my high school's freshman team. Dinky town, A ball, only a couple of years removed from glory years as a B power. Now, facing larger schools, our JV was playing some team that doubled our enrollment and we freshmen got to combine with the JV and travel for a game. I even got to play half of the contest, which was pretty cool.
On the bus back word spread that we were actually going to stop and eat somewhere. Paid for. This was unheard of. I'd moved to that town the year before and in eighth grade we used hand-me-down uniforms and equipment that was 10-15 years old. I had shoulder pads with leather underneath the outer pads. Everything was small and old and worn in this tiny school and the sports equipment was no exception. We practiced on a half-acre field behind the school that was next to the parking lot. There was only dirt, the grass had been destroyed long ago by cleats and wear. The dirt was sculpted into sharp ruts from drying after rains, so every practice you knew if you hit the ground you were going to get cut up. Survival was putting the other guy on the ground first.
The following year was a different story. Brand new high school, the bond secured by a philanthropic farmer. We had brand new uniforms, new pads, a practice field, a new football field with concrete stands built into berms. It was a new world of respectability for us and apparently, dinner was part of this as well. Cool.
We pulled into the parking lot of the only restaurant in town. The owner stayed open late just for us, and we all piled in to find that they'd set up tables in rows for us to sit. We had a choice of chicken-fried steak with gravy, or chicken-fried steak without gravy. I'd only had CFS at home, never in a restaurant and it was very different from my mom's.
I learned to love that little restaurant. It probably seats fifty if you count standing at the bar and wedging people in with a shoehorn. Other than the night my team was there, I never saw it full to capacity but it has stayed open for almost forty years.
They make the best chicken-fried steak I've ever had. It's different from others in that it's hand-breaded, light and crisp and not some frozen patty mired in a thick envelope of bread. The gravy is always perfect, creamy white and peppery but never mealy or runny or bland. Until just a couple of years ago most of the waitresses had been there since the 70s. Eating there was like dining with friends.
It's run now by two guys who were two years behind me in high school, one a son of the owner and the other the son of the original cook. They provide a continuity to my past and the past of this little town that is special. A continuity that is hard to come by as it disappears all over.
Over the last few years business has fallen off dramatically. A year ago they put the place up for sale but there have been no takers.
Last week I found out that they're closing at the end of the month. A victim of the sour economy just short of celebrating their 40th anniversary. As word spread, more customers are coming back to say goodbye and to have one last meal with friends at this local icon. I've been going back as often as I can.
Last night I stopped by for dinner and I've never seen it completely jammed full of people. Both dining areas were full, people were standing around waiting for tables to open up, more were outside waiting to get in to wait some more, and still they kept coming. Almost all of them were old-time customers who had been there many times before, all wishing the staff well and saying goodbye.
They were completely balls to the wall busy with no letup. Despite their nervous focus on the rush I was grinning ear to ear with the display of affection from their neighbors. I know they couldn't take time to reflect on this display, but I hope it registers on them how much they meant to so many people and how many lives they've touched just by making food for people in a small town.
I was parked by the register waiting for my food when one older man walked up and asked the owner, "Where were all these people before? If they'd come in twice a week you'd still be in business."
"Hell, if they'd come in once a week we'd still be in business."
I'm very sad that they're shutting down. I don't know what will open up in its place, maybe nothing at all. The void they'll leave will close with the passing of the regular customers and the memory will fade into the sameness of suburbia that my little town is dissolving into. Another piece of what makes small towns unique will be gone forever.
Buy local. Buy local every time you can. You just might be keeping memories alive for more people than you can imagine.
