This morning I went into the doctor at 8:00 am for my yearly Medicare physical. I had to stop eating 12 hours before, so by the time I got up at 6:30 this morning my stomach was already complaining. So I got Sam-cat squared away, looked longingly at the coffee pot, took a shower, and got on my way to the clinic. It was pretty chilly this morning. I really didn't want to get out so early. I don't know what it is, but right now at this time of year here in the Texas Hill Country, the sunlight is absolutely blinding. I drove all the way there with my hand up blocking the brightness, because the sun was too low for my car visor to keep it out of my face.
They got me right in. Asked all those questions about cognitive stuff—like Trump's "Person, Woman, Man, Camera, TV" bit, except mine was "Sylvia Lopez, 22 Wolf Cave Road, Hunt, Texas." Weird. I don't even know if such a woman exists, but I aced it. Ha ha! Make me a bumper sticker!
So by 9:00 I am let loose from the probing and pricking, and I decide since I'm close to downtown Kerrville, I will have breakfast at the Hill Country Cafe. Now, this is kind of a Kerrville landmark, having been the location of the very first HEB grocery store. So small, you can't even imagine it. I suppose it was one of those groceries like you see on Gunsmoke where the customer comes in, asks for a dime's worth of flour, and the grocer goes to some canisters behind the counter and measures out the amount. It could not have been much more than that because this place is TINY for a grocery store.
I park beside the Kerr County Courthouse and walk the half block, expecting from the look of all the cars parked in front of the cafe, to have a wait. But lo and behold there is one, small open table with two chairs in the middle of the cafe and I take it. Immediately my waitress sees me and brings a menu. She asks if I want coffee. Oh, yes, I sure do, please, more than anything in this world. And I ask could she make it half caf/half reg. Apparently that is not an unusual ask. She takes it in stride.
She is friendly, completely bald like she has just recently undergone chemo. She's wearing cowboy boots, blue jeans, a baggy black T-shirt that reads, "Gosh, being a princess is exhausting." She has on big round acrylic glasses, a chunky man's watch on her arm, long silver dangle earrings with crosses swinging back and forth. She also has a big open smile. We chat a bit.
There's another waitress bustling around the place. She's wearing combat boots, skin-tight blue jeans, a gray bling blouse, and a ballcap that says "Jesus." I think I know the way the message on the cap is intended but my mind goes to the word as an exclamation of exasperation. Jesus! She hollers out a welcome at every person that comes in, often by their first name, and says, "Have a great day!" to everyone who exits. This would have been Wayne's kind of place. He loved a homey old diner-style cafe with saucy waitresses and plain old comfort food. And the coffee is absolutely outstanding!
While I'm waiting for my food, the cook or owner or who knows, catches my eye over the saloon style door separating the eating part of the cafe from the kitchen. He mouths the words "Good morning" at me, and smiles. I feel like a regular, like I have been welcomed into the fold of this "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore" cafe. It makes me want to get up early every morning and drive downtown to eat here. On a wall to my left is a little sign that says: "Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway." Reading that, tears spring to my eyes. I have to blink a lot to force them to retreat. That is just the sort of sign that Wayne would have hanging by his side of the bed, or in the bathroom, or out in his "man cave." Maybe that's why it touches me so much, or maybe it's just the message. It amplifies everything I have been feeling for the past three months.
I can't even begin to describe how delicious my breakfast is: two eggs over medium, fried to perfection. Crispy around the edges. Deep dark yellow yolks. No runny white. The bacon (my god there are four slices!) are well-browned but with still just a little chewy along with the crisp, good pork flavor; smoky. The grits are creamy and full of butter. The toast is white bread done just right, with strawberry jam on the side. The tomato juice seems like it's fresh, too. I eat like I've been on a starvation diet. I leave maybe a tablespoon of grits, maybe a corner of a half-slice of toast. I drink down four cups of the medium-strong, well-roasted coffee. I am as full as a tick when I get up to pay my bill, which my waitress has silently left on the opposite corner of my table on one of her many pass-bys. Both waitresses are bustling around the place, busy busy. It's no wonder they are both willowy thin.
I go up to the front to pay and eye two sky-high meringue pies in a cupboard behind the counter: one coconut, one chocolate. They must be 8 inches tall and look delicious. There are also huge cinnamon rolls back there, slathered in buttery glaze pooling onto their individual saucers. The cashier gives me my change, says, "You come back, hon." And I walk out, feeling like I have just emerged from the 1960s, days of my youth when places like this were on every corner. It gives me a glow that lasts the entire day.
This blog-post was not meant as some kind of advertisement for this cafe, or a promo or anything like that, although I would recommend it for breakfast without hesitation. It just felt like a memory to me, and it felt like I had Wayne across the table, enjoying the quaintness of this kind of old-time, small town cafe that is disappearing as fast as a cloud.
I remember thinking when I was a younger person that my generation would not experience the enormous changes that our parents or grandparents had experienced in their lifetimes. My opinion on that has changed. Eating at this little cafe today, brought that fact back to me in full force.
Onward....
