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Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

I made the mistake of ordering two pancakes from a delightful cafe.

I ordered nothing more than the two pancakes. The problem wasn’t that they weren’t good. The pancakes were spectacularly toothsome. The problem was that each one was the size of a manhole cover. They flopped all around the edge of a large plate. If I were the kind to take photos of my food, I’d have taken a photo of those hotcakes. I cut a hole in the middle of the slapjacks to contain the syrup, but some escaped to the table. It required a cleanup crew. Not to brag, but I couldn’t have eaten two of those flapjacks if I’d worked three shifts. I’d fallen prey to the treachery of an ambitious appetite.

Those pancakes were so indescribably delicious, they caused me to think of the cafes from those thrilling days of yesteryear in my humble hometown.

They were social hubs that never made you feel as if you were being shoved aside. One of several charming waitresses scribbled your order on a notepad, and it magically appeared in front of you.

They were places that made people feel included.

When I contracted a first-class case of hunger, the cafes were the perfect yum factories to satisfy my hunger.

I’m blessed by having fine eateries not far away, but none as close as those local ones had been.

I’m grateful for servers, but have little experience in serving food other than at church, at a fair, fundraising events, once when no servers showed up to a banquet as a protest over their pay, and at many softball tournaments where I clutched my pearls while selling sloppy joes that came with free wings provided by uninvited flies.

Before my bubblegum had lost its snap. I loved listening to the friendly waitresses argue about who would have to serve me. Someone recommended that I come for the food, but stay for the waitresses.

The cafe was a place to visit or read a newspaper, but a difficult place to mind your own business. People inquired about things. They were both concerned and nosy. There were convivial welfare checks, and shared miseries and joys. A friend living in the Twin Cities told me he had an odd bucket list. One item was his desire to attend the funeral of a stranger and partake of the meal afterwards. He did this at a large church in the metropolitan area. It went without a hitch. I told him he should have tried it in a small-town church. Someone would have asked him if he was the cousin Jerry that the deceased often mentioned.

The librarian ordered her favorite veggie, quiet peas, at the hometown cafe. Those who had fled to other parts triumphantly returned to the cafe, receiving a welcome like that given to a retired sailor — “Long time, no sea.”

The waitresses didn’t roll out the red carpet for diners. They didn’t need to. The napkins were always fresh.

The cafes weren’t citified. There was no TV. Home cooking, hotdishes and unfussy homemade pies entertained us. The early bird special was always eggs, and the food was always mouthwatering. Bad things never happened to good food. I don’t recall any complaints. The closest was the grumbling of a guy who said regularly, “I like one egg scrambled and one sunny-side up, but they always scramble the wrong one.”

The only thing that could have made the dining experience better would be if they had allowed us to take naps after eating.

I had bran flakes for breakfast this morning — not something that created a warm memory. Those cafes did that. I should have trapped some of the cafe air in a canning jar and saved that smell for when I needed it. Scents bring memories.

My hometown has places to get food — a bar and a gas station. But it’s without a cafe.

When the last restaurant closed, I hoped another would open. I thought it was just a breather. You know, when one cafe door closes, another cafe door opens.

Endings become beginnings. That was my hope.

Until that happens, I’ll add a notch to my belt and eat one more scrumptious pancake the size of the sun.

Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday.