The outside of the building looked like a shack that might house a hermit or perhaps an elderly couple that had allowed it to dilapidate over time. It was large, but run down, giving it a misleading appearance. The inside was rustic but clean and well decorated with what she would describe as country chic. Old wagon wheels and barrels sat around, illuminated by flickering gaslights in brass sconces fixed to the walls above each table. It was what people usually thought of when they said a place was “quaint.”
“Two?” a young lady said as they came in.
“Yes,” Tucker replied, seeming proud of himself.
Leslie wasn’t quite sure why. The place was generic for this area, from the look of it, but he seemed to think it was the best place on Earth. Hopefully, the food was at least edible. The waitress handed them two small clipboards containing paper menus clipped into place. They appeared to be handwritten and xeroxed. She found herself hoping the food wasn’t as low-budget as everything else, though the selection looked pretty good. It was early, but as they sat there, the place quickly began to fill up.
“Yes. It always has been. The locals love it because it’s as close to a home cooked meal as you can find, and travelers who luck upon it usually come back when they are in the area. It does pretty well to be out on the side of a highway.”
The waitress returned with their drinks and took their order, disappearing to the kitchen and then returning to the dining room again to wait on other tables. Several others in the same uniform of jeans and powder blue button-down shirts joined her now that the place was filling up. Leslie noticed one of them that seemed to be eying Tucker up and found she felt a bit jealous. After a moment, the woman noticed her looking back and quickly returned her gaze to the customers at her table.
“My parents and I used to come here all the time when I was a boy,” Tucker said.
“Has it changed much since then?”
“No. It hasn’t changed at all. Mostly different people, but the cook is the same. He was only about twenty or so back then, must be in his sixties now. They call him Spuds.”
“And he still cooks here? All this time?”
“Yeah. I think it’s all he’s ever known. He was a cook in the Army and got wounded by a stray bullet while making dinner for the troops or, as he put it, “got shot in the ass while peeling potatoes.” I cleaned that up a little. He has a pretty foul mouth.”
“Million-dollar wound.”
“That’s what they call it. Enough to get sent home, but not enough to cause too much discomfort. An inch or so higher, it might have been another matter for him.”
“Sad to think about.”
“It is. Anyway, he didn’t have much in the way of education and was not inclined to get one, so he wound up here, doing the same thing he’d been doing since he ditched his last year of high school to join the Army.”
“Sounds like an interesting character. I take it you know him fairly well.”
“I do, and he is,” he replied, looking up as the waitress brought their food.
Leslie looked down at her plate, a generous portion of baked tilapia with roasted potatoes and steamed broccoli. It did look delicious. She glanced over at Tucker’s plate, filled with strips of white chicken and fat dumplings in a lovely white sauce. It was accompanied by a side of peas and corn. Between them was a basket of golden-brown sections of bread.
“This looks amazing,” she said.
“Just wait until you taste it,” he replied.
“Oh, my God,” she muttered between bites, already in the process of doing just that.
“Right?”
“Mmmm,” she managed as she finished the first bite.
It was the most amazing food she’d tasted in a long time. Their conversation trailed off as they each focused on their plates. The waitress stopped by to refill their drinks and drop off the check. Leslie was a bit surprised when he dropped his credit card in the carrier rather than paying cash. This didn’t seem like the sort of place that would accept cards, though she knew even the most remote mom and pop type places did these days.
The waitress slipped by and retrieved the carrier, taking it with her to process the payment. Leslie was puzzled as she saw an older woman at the cash register saying something to her and the girl looking anxiously toward them. She doubted that someone like Tucker would have a declined card, but something seemed to certainly be amiss. The waitress returned to their table with only the card. There must be a problem, after all, if she hadn’t brought back a slip to sign.