There are few things I find more charming than a small-town lunch spot. Maybe it’s just because I’m from a small town, and I know these local eateries are really indoor-outdoor family rooms—places where the community gathers to swap hugs and gossip as much as to grab a bite.
Today, I’m settled at a shady patio picnic table at one such café, and I’m overcome by a wave of comfort. It dawns on me how sweetly familiar this spot feels—not just like the one in my hometown, but like so many other whistle-stop lunch joints I’ve visited across the States. Whimsical, Americana cafés with names like The Fickle Pickle, Maple & Main, Mama Lou’s Lunch Counter, The Secret Garden, or Junebug Diner.
Delight is in the name. Surely it could only be a treat to snag a home-cooked meal at Mama Lou’s. I imagine myself writing a fickle review for The Fickle Pickle and chortle. Never.
My thoughts are interrupted by the fried green tomato sandwich landing on my table.
“Need anything else, darlin’?” asks an older woman in a branded T-shirt and apron.
I shake my head. “Thank you.”
“You bet.” She flashes a smile and grabs the number 4 off my table.
The sandwich is bigger than my hands and dripping with tomato jam. I take a bite.
Mmmmm. I melt into my seat and reach for a sip of sweet peach tea (mixed with unsweet—you really can’t take the girl out of the Midwest). Savoring the bite, I drink in my surroundings.
Two women sit at the metal patio table beside me, sharing a basket of fried pickles.
“Oh honey, didn’t you hear? Her daughter just graduated from Spelman and took some big job in D.C. Lauren must be heartsick about her leavin’.”
A mother in a baseball cap calls from the gravel parking lot.
“Let’s go! My kids! Let’s go!”
Two boys and a girl, all under ten, run in her direction. The little girl shouts to a friend, “See you tomorrow, Connor!”
Two men and a teenage girl sit under an umbrellaed table across from me.
“Now, I’ve been to the Red’s Stadium,” says the older man with salt-and-pepper hair, “but have you all seen a Braves game yet? If you all could stay until Monday—I mean, Jean and I were thinking you all would stay until Monday.”
The girl yawns and looks down at her phone.
A well-dressed man paces on the front steps of the restaurant, waiting. His college-aged daughter appears down the sidewalk and breaks into a run toward him. He scoops her into his arms and spins her around.
“Dad,” she croons.
I look at my glass. Sure this is tea? I feel intoxicated by the life buzzing around me. Mundane, but full. Empathy. Exhaustion. Lonesomeness. Love. Pimento cheese. Charm.
A waitress hurries by with two tall stacks of used plastic cups in her arms and nearly trips over a dog sprawled beneath a table.
“Shit!” she blurts, her face twisting into an anxious grimace.
A young girl by the door giggles.
“Sorry,” the waitress mutters, catching her breath and continuing toward the kitchen. The girl jumps up from her seat and pushes the door open for her without being asked.
Kindness.
Grinning, I bite into my pickle spear. Junebug, there’s truly nothing fickle about this pickle.
I too have an infinity for such small town quaint cafes. The names are as much to savor as the food. Why is it when you sit in such a place it gives you such a wonderful feeling… and all is right with the world.😊
“ Mundane, but full. Empathy. Exhaustion. Lonesomeness. Love. Pimento cheese. Charm.” my favorite line. Love this