April 12, 2016--Rhonda's Biscuits Concluded

It took awhile for our breakfasts to arrive.

We were sitting diagonally across from Rhonda and had a clear line of site and so could watch her carefully and deliberately cook one order at a time. Unlike other short-order cooks, she took her time.  First, she scrupulously scraped and wiped the grill, then in a mixing bowl, she cracked and beat with a fork two eggs. Two at a time even if she was making eggs for a party of two (like us) or four (like the folks at the table all with biscuits) where more commonly the chef would scramble on the grill all four or even all eight eggs, and then divide them into portions when they were done.

"I can see why this place is so crowded," I whispered to Rona, "Even now, close to 11:00, it's still full. Probably people have been here since 8:30 waiting for their orders to be completed."

Rona punched my arm to shush me. "Keep your voice down," she said, "We're strangers here."

"I'm just finding this fascinating," I said and took to just observing what would happen next.

When Rhonda had four plates with eggs and bacon and grits ready to turn over to the waitress who was hovering patiently, two at a time she brought them to where we were perched on our stools, sipping at our coffee, and slid open a large stainless steel drawer, looked around--it felt like mainly at us--and extracted carefully, one biscuit at a time which she in turn gently placed on each of the plates. Blocking us so we couldn't see what else might be in that draw she slid it shut and only then was she ready to turn the steaming dishes over to Ellie, the waitress, who caught our eye and shrugged, as if to say, "What can you do. It's a living."

Mr, Harris, next to us at the counter said, "Next time you're round these parts I recommend the catfish. Uh, uh," he said and slowly patted his mouth with his perfectly-folded napkin. "If I hada thought, I woulda offered you a taste. I'm 92--don't say I don't look that old 'cause I know I do." He smiled.

"You don't look . . . ," I said but he cut me off before I could finish. At most he looked 75.

"Been coming here for years. Every Saturday morning. Like clockwork. I have to be patient too. Don't take it personal. We're off the interstate here and don't get that many strangers passing though who are in a hurry. I don't mean you're strangers or anything like that," he added quickly. "Old Rhonda takes her good time and treats us all like equals."

He made a point of that as he was the only black person in the teeming restaurant.

A middle-age woman interrupted him as she was heading toward the cash register and said, with what looked like a small bow, "How nice to see you, Mr. Harris. It must be Saturday again," she chuckled. "And how is Mrs. Harris?" She din't pause to hear the answer, "And I trust your granddaughter is doing well at school."

"Yes, thank you, everyone is well."

"What courses is she taking again? I'm losing my memory, wouldn't you know." She sighed.

"She's in her final year and then it will be time for her to do her internship. Still says she wants to be a surgeon. I keep telling her that's not an easy thing for a girl. I mean, a woman. But she's determined. Stubborn too. Just like her mother."

"Well, next time you talk to her, please tell her I was asking about her." Then she turned to us and said, "A lovely family. The best people in town."

"Don't forget your umbrella," Mr. Harris said.

"See what I mean about my memory," she said to Rona.

"What medical school is she at?" I asked.

"Up in Baltimore. I can never remember its exact name. We just call it Hopkins. I know . . ."

"Johns Hopkins," I said. "Half the time I call it John Hopkins. I forget the Johns part. But it's a wonderful place. Good for her."

Another diner who had finished his breakfast was waiting for the women who claimed to be losing her memory to move along so he could say a few words to Mr. Harris.

"My Sally knew you'd be here," he said, pulling on the peak of his Redskins cap. "She said you'd be here like clockwork and there you be."

"Lovely woman, that Sally," Mr. Harris said half-turned toward us. "I trust her treatments are going well."

Sally's husband sighed, "Good as can be expected, I s'pose. It's all in His hands." He looked up toward the ceiling.

"And the doctors, too," Mr. Harris said, reaching out to touch him on the arm.

"She and I too really 'preciate all your concern and how every Sunday you and yours remember to send over a big basket of fruit. You know how she loves fruit. It's 'bout the only thing she enjoys these days. Poor thing." He wiped at his eyes.

Mr. Harris struggled up from his stool and embraced him. "You'll be fine," he whispered, still hugging him and patting his back. "Now, you've go to be strong for her."

"I will do my best," he said, "And thank you again for everything. I'll see you next Saturday. Same time, same place." And with that he headed for the front door

After Sally's husband left, Mr. Harris turned fully to Rona and softly said, "She is a lovely woman. Been good all these years to our family. She was a teacher in the high school where my granddaughter went. She was the one who encouraged her to take all those science courses while many of the others there suggested she be realistic and forget about being a doctor and train instead to be a nurse and stay in town and work in the hospital. And now she's . . . she's struggling against the odds. But if being a good person means anything, there's a better place waiting for her."

By then we were ready to leave, said goodbye to Mr. Harris, and with the check began to make our way to the cash register where Ellie was waiting.

"Hope you enjoyed your breakfast," she said.

"I loved everything," I said, "The food and everything else," I gestured back to where we had been sitting and toward Mr. Harris."

"Isn't he somethin' special? You'd never know how old he is."

"He is remarkable," Rona siad. "How everyone stopped to talk with him."

"Every Saturday he's always here. If you forget, his sittin' over there havin' his fried fish reminds you of that."

Rona was busy extracting cash from her wallet, "Maybe next year on our way south, we'll drive down route 310 and . . ."

"Be sure to do that, honey. We'd love to see you. We'll all be here. And if it's a Saturday . . ."

". . . Mr. Harris'll be having his catfish."

"Sure as the day is long. So be sure to stop by to see us, yuh hear."

We both nodded. And then, as we were about to say something, over her shoulder, Rhonda, still at the grill, working on a couple of sunny side eggs, called to us, "Make sure you do that. Next time you all can have all the biscuits you want."

April 11, 2016--From the Road: Rhonda's Biscuits

In Rocky Mount, NC, where we overnighted on our drive north, the weather forecast for the next driving day--to get us to Reston, VA, called for pockets of heavy rain and winds gusting to 35 miles per hour.

We needed to cover 250 miles and the thought of driving for hours along traffic-clogged I-95 in such a storm, with crosswinds buffeting tractor trailers from lane to lane, sounded scary. To the point where we thought that maybe we should stay put for the day and hope for better driving weather.

But the longer on-route forecast wasn't much better. In fact, Saturday night-Sunday all day sounded even stormier and more dangerous. Perhaps enough so that roads along the way might be blocked by fallen trees or precautiously closed to all but emergency traffic.

None of this sounded attractive.

Rona said, feeling more intrepid than I, "Why don't we get going and see how we do. We can always bail out and find a place to hole up."

"I'm game for that," I said, "In truth driving in this kind of weather is not my favorite thing but I'm eager to make progress and hit the City no later than Sunday afternoon when traffic at the Holland Tunnel and in the City itself is manageable. After three months in more laid-back South Florida, arriving near the City on a busy work day is a bit much for me."

"Why don't we look for a road north that parallels I-95? I'm sure there is one that might be less trafficked."

"Sounds like a plan. In fact, there is such a road. Route 301 that was the principal north-south route before I-95 was built. We did some driving along it yesterday for a blue-highway change of pace and it was fine."

As so we packed up, turned on the GPS and headed out.

"I'm not that hungry," Rona said, "Why not drive for awhile and see what we find. Off the interstates we always seem to stumble on interesting places."

"No Dunkin for me today," I said, "And no Cracker Barrel."

"They're OK in a pinch, I suppose. But I think we can do better."

And we did, two hours later, at Logan's Diner in Emporia, Virginia.

It didn't have the traditional look of a road-food place. A bit glitzy for us. Too newly renovated looking, but by then we were hungry enough to, if necessary, settle for coffee and a couple of eggs and toast at Cracker Barrel.

But the first hint that Logan's might turn out to be special was the fact that at 10:30--late for our favorite kinds of morning places--every seat in all the booths were full of what appeared to be local folks and there were just two stools left at the end long counter, which we quickly took possession of.

"I'll bet they have good country ham," Rona whispered. "We are after all just above the state line in southern Virginia."

"And biscuits," I said, "I'd be happy with just a couple and a cup of coffee."

"I think we can do better than that," she said, nodding toward the very elderly man next to whom we were now sitting. He was meticulously working on what appeared to be two perfectly fried catfish.

"I'll have coffee," Rona said to the cheery waitress, Ellie her name tag read, who had approached us with a steaming pot even before we could get fully settled. "And I think we're ready to order. It's raw out there and we are starving."

"You've come to the right place, dear" she said, smiling broadly. "Take your time. We've got nothing but time here. You look as if you've been battling the rain and wind all morning."

"True," Rona said, "More that two hours, "It's been . . ."

"This here coffee'll fix you right up," she said. "And," sliding two menus across the counter, said, "If you take a look you'll see you've come to the right place." She reached over to refill our neighbor's cup. "I'm sure Mr. Harris here will vouch for Rhonda's cooking." She winked and nodded toward to the sturdy woman working the grill.

The coffee was just what we needed and by the time the waitress returned to take our order, Rona said, "We'll both have a couple of soft scrambled eggs. My husband will have a side of country ham, which I'm sure he'll be willing to share."

"It is quite generous," Ellie said, nodding again in Rhonda's direction.

"And if you have 'em, I'd like some grits with butter and my husband will have a couple of biscuits. They look wonderful." Rona looked over toward a table packed with four townspeople, all with eggs and biscuits.

"Grits we can do," she said now leaning toward us and in a conspiratorial whisper adding,"but I don't know about them biscuits." Then, almost inaudibly, said, "I mean two."

"I realize it's late for breakfast," I said, "Do you have whole grain toast? I'm fine with that."

"Honey, that's not the problem." I looked at her quizzically. She was almost head to head with me and shrugged, again in Rhonda's direction, who was carefully lowering a couple of breaded catfish into the deep-fat frier.

"I don't want . . . ," I stammered.

"Here's what I'm thinkin'," she said so softy that only Rona and I could hear. "You both have her eggs, you have the ham, you honey have the grits, and then each of you have a biscuit. One," she said for emphasis.

Not really understanding but even hungrier by them as the smell of Rhonda's cooking permeated Logan's, I said, "I'm good with anything. Even one of Mr. Harris' catfish." He heard me and nodded, carefully wiping his fingers with a perfectly folded napkin.

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

March 19, 2015--Snowbirding: Betty Carol's for Breakfast

I whispered, "I don't think anyone here has teeth."

Rona shushed me. We had made a long detour off I-95 shortly after crossing the North Carolina boarder to seek out Betty Carol's, a breakfast place in Lumberton that our GPS listed.

"It's almost ten o'clock and I'm starving. And you need to get some coffee into you before we get back on the interstate. The traffic is already building up and you'll need to concentrate."

We finally found it, seemingly an enterprise of Breath of Life Ministries, Inc. with which it shares a building.

"That must be why there are so many cars here," I said. "For the Ministries. At nearly ten, we'll be lucky if the place is even still open. In small towns like this everyone is finished with breakfast by eight. On the other hand, Betty Carol's must be where the Ministries gives homeless people coffee and something hot to eat in the morning."

"It does look as if all the lights are out. But," Rona said, squinting into the sun. "I think I see someone at a table by the window. Let's hurry. Maybe we'll at least be able to get a quick cup of coffee."

"Though maybe we'll have to pretend to be homeless." Gently, Rona slapped me.

Nearly two hours later we reluctantly left. "If we didn't have to get back to the city, I'd suggest we look for a place to stay for a couple of days so we could come back here for a couple of more mornings."

It was that good. In fact, anyone who follows these blogs knows we are devotees of breakfast places, ranging from the cool chic of Cafe Beaujolais in Mendocino, California to the very modest but cozy Bristol Diner in Bristol, Maine.

But for food, way off-the-road setting, the crowd, schmooziness, down-home-feeling, exterior and interior ambience, friendliness, and diversity it doesn't get any better than Betty Carol's.

"You know how we always say," Rona said, "Places with names made up of two first names often turn out to be terrific. 'Betty Carol's'--this place tops them all."

To be concluded tomorrow . . .