I hate to drive. This has influenced my wife’s perception of my ability to drive. She believes wrongly that my dislike of driving affects my ability. I am an expert driver and very safe and in order to prove my abilities, I volunteered to drive roundtrip to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Her concern boils around my habit of loudly expressing my views to the other drivers who do the stupidest things. These educational monologues concern her. I promised myself that I would hold my tongue.
This highway is high-speed boredom punctuated by random neon stops. Each entrance is packed with cheap motels, truck stops and garish gas stations. Leaving Santa Fe, we arrived tired and hungry in Clinton OK. We sought a restaurant that was higher on the scale above Denny’s. When your only entertainment is the stop, marketers have homogenized and systematized the offerings to the weary traveler. Almost everything is fried or coated in sugar. There are, of course, regional specialties, in Oklahoma, Texas, the only meal is steak, preferably fried and vegetables are an option, unless they are fried. We chose a chain restaurant and bar attached to another low cost motel, near our even lower cost motel. We were the first customers for the evening rush at 4PM.
The hostess greeted us by saying. "oudyadoomechaeaseakaseatlllBitcha,"broadcast through a radiant smile. With sign language and patient loud careful enunciation, we got to our booth and placed our order. We ordered two Tanqueray martinis dry and up with olives, the salad bar and a baked potato. Our hostess and waitress beamed her thousand-watt smile at us, wrote everything down in careful bubble letters with hearts above each I and instead of going into the kitchen left the dining room. She was gone for long enough that after we went to the salad bar we returned concerned.
A stately woman entered carrying a tray with two drinks in old-fashioned glasses walked to our table. She gingerly placed both drinks in front of us, stood back looking expectantly at us as we sipped the concoction. Rather than complain about the drink, we thanked her for the drinks and sipped warm gin with a dejected olive floating in it.
During the interlude, other patrons came to dinner. The room was equally filled with travelers who stayed in this motel and locals who came here for the special. Tonight’s special was chicken fried steak. Chicken fried steak is a delicacy in this area. It is usually flank steak pounded flat, to about one quarter of an inch thick, breaded and deep fat fried. This restaurant proudly proclaimed that their steak was sirloin served with mashed potatoes, coated with heavy brown gravy and fried okra with a trip to the salad bar for only $9.95.
As we were concluding our meal, two regulars received their specials. The steak covered the entire plate and appeared to be the color and consistency of a pine plank. With mashed potatoes piled on the plate, fried Okra in the side dish, iceberg lettuce inundated with Ranch dressing and a long neck beer; it was the Tuesday night feast.
This was the kind of place where you pay up front, or in her words "supere." We went to the cashier to pay, was greeted radiantly with, "What part of Canada are you folks from?"
I held back my response, “Oh the southern part, Chicago.”
Canadian translations
“oudyadoomechaeaseakaseatlllBitcha,” means Howdy how are you doing? Why don’t you take a seat and I will be with you (shortly).
“supere,” means up here.
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