Grandma's Cafe

1. Waiting

Grandma's Cafe is on Bathhouse Row, across from the row of refurbished spas. It's just the kind of restaurant you'd expect to see in some town pulled out of 1950s mid-America — a narrow room filled with tables, hustling waiters and waitresses, a busy cash register.

Grits. They had grits. Cheese grits. And they had hashbrowns. So after looking at the menu, we smiled.

We were seated quickly, but it took forever for a waitress to appear. Someone did get us coffee, but our cups were dry immediately, and she never returned. We sat there with drained coffee cups waiting to order.

We sat there, and we sat there. And as we sat, we looked around and noticed that we were not the only ones waiting. The place was full, and the staff seemed to be hustling (in some cases, literally running), but half of the people in the room had no food.

2. The Scowling Couple

A couple nearby sat in silence. She was scowling. He was also scowling and staring blankly out the windows at the front. At first, I thought this was a marriage on the rocks. Then we thought it was one of those couples who go out but never seem to speak. Then we realized that it was simply that they were waiting, too.

When their food finally did arrive, there was something wrong with her dish, and it had to be sent back. Her scowl did not go away.

3. The First Large Family

A large family, three or four women and many kids of various ages, sat at the table next to us. They had been waiting when we sat down, and they were still waiting when we ordered.

All the kids were restless, and the youngest were getting hard to control. When their food did arrive, not a single order was correct. Where was her toast? I ordered scrambled eggs. The grits are coming — they had to make some more. Where's our bacon? Here's a plateful of bacon for all of you.

4. Our Order

Our spirits were raised by visions of hashbrowns and cheese grits, but after watching the large family, I turned to Trudy and said, There's no way our order will come out right. Sure enough it didn't.

The toast didn't show up until our eggs were eaten. We got no hashbrowns. We got no cheese grits. And we still couldn't get any more coffee!

Are you ready to pay? our waitress innocently asked.

Um ... we never got our hashbrowns or grits, I said.

She was horrified and ran to the kitchen and soon returned with huge, hot helpings of hashbrowns and grits.

(It must be said, however, that all the food was wonderful. In spite of the waits, in spite of the food and coffee fiascoes, in spite of the messed up orders, the food in Grandma's Cafe has no peer.)

5. The Other Large Family

In the meantime, the large family next to us had been replaced by another large family (again, women and many kids). We had noticed them waiting inside the door, where they stood for a very long time. When they were finally seated, something remarkable happened.

The kids ordered eggs and pancakes. The ladies ordered eggs. All of them were relieved to be seated, and were clearly looking forward to finally eating.

At this point, the waitress said, I'm sorry, breakfast is closed.

Imagine the kids' faces. Imagine the womens' thoughts. Imagine the utter disbelief. After having waited for more than a half-hour to be seated. After having waited again for menus and a waitress. Imagine all that and then being told that the kitchen has closed.

The woman closest to us thought it was a joke. Then she thought it was a mistake. Then she asked for the manager.

6. At The Cash Register

The manager had arrived late and was now running the cash register. We happened to be next in line (and indeed had never been given our check, so he was busy searching for it) when that woman came up to explain how they had waited and waited and were now being told that the kitchen was closed.

He said there was no mistake. She was speechless. And frankly, I don't know what she did next, and I can't tell you what that family did (whether they got up and left, or whether they ordered hamburgers), because the spotlight now turned to the counter in front of us.

One of the staff was standing next to the manager.

I've had enough, she muttered. I'm going home. She was nervously stacking and restacking a pile of menus.

I looked up at her, thinking that she was joking, but there was no hint of humor on her face, far from it. The manager had tracked down our ticket (I think he found it in the kitchen), and he was punching at the register. He didn't seem to notice the woman's comments.

She tapped the counter percussively and repeated (in a louder tone), I'm going home.

This time, he heard her.

Don't do this to me, girl!

Trudy paid our bill, and we turned around and walked back out into the heat.

It was almost lunchtime!

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Grandma's Cafe
Hot Springs, Arkansas USA

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