Insights from the Interstate

OK, Siestas, Keith and I are on Interstate 10 in his blue Ford Super Duty (that always sounds like a diaper blow-out to me. I guess you can tell I’m shoulder-deep into grandkids these days) heading east on Interstate 10 back to Houston. Star and Geli are sacked out in the back seat, worn to a frazzle. We’ve been at our cactus ranch-land for four days while Keith “did miscellaneous heavy ranch stuff” (his words, not mine. I asked him how I should describe what he’d been doing) and I worked hard and blissfully from our porch on a writing project. Normally I would have waited till I got home to blog but, seriously, some pieces of information are simply too important to wait. Thank goodness for my trusty internet card t-boning my tiny little HP.

I have just had the onion rings of my life. OF MY LIFE. Actually, they came with Keith’s order (a side of beef, ground and shaped into something resembling a Goliath-burger). I wouldn’t have dared order onion rings for myself but what you eat off somebody else’s plate is cancelled out calorically by the exertion you use to reach across the table. No brainer.

Actually I didn’t want to stop and eat. I was anxious to get on home to AJ and the babies and just wanted to get something to-go and eat it in the truck. Keith said, “Lizabeth, there’s some kind of award-winning little cafe in Junction that I been dying to try ever since we got some land this direction. Whataya say we get a bite there?” I pouted half a second then felt my stomach growl. “Are you sure you're not talking about a barbeque joint? Junction can do some barbeque. For the life of me, Honey, I'm trying to picture an award-winning cafe there.” He swore (not the bad-language kind) and declared. Even knew what side of the road it was on.

Lo and behold. We pulled up in a diagonal parking space outside a restaurant called “Isaacks” (hear that really loud. It was a Texas-size sign. One of our Siestas, Holly, just reminded me of the best part of the signage: underneath the name in bold letters is "Air-conditioned." A make-or-breaker in Texas.) Clearly the restaurant has been there since Abraham courted Sarai and probably wooed her right there at the soda bar. That was before the Law when Abraham didn’t have to worry about kosher. Because I don’t think it’s kosher. I don’t know for sure. You can bet your last dollar it still has its original charm though. I didn’t see a single sign of a remodel in at least 50 years. Why fix somethin’ that ain’t broke? That’s what my Papaw used to ask.

Sho –nuff. (Also my Papaw) Right there at the check-out counter hanging just above the jumbo jar of super bubble was the plaque: “Texas Monthly: The 40 Best Small-town Cafes 2008.” I was beside myself. I do love me some culture about better than anybody you know. I knew we were in for a treat.

“Help yourself,” chirped Miss Helen, waving us to any spot we liked. She’s been waiting tables there since 1967. Yes, of course, I asked. Are you kidding me? You know how much I love all manner of women. And I’ve just got to say, the woman could still wear a mean pair of blue jeans. I told her so. Even tucked in her shirt. She was sassy. It was one of those kinds of restaurants with a lot of taxidermy on the wall. I wouldn’t have been a big surprised if Miss Helen shot ‘em and stuffed ‘em herself.

She handed us a couple of large, tri-fold menus with the heavy clear plastic covers so the proprietor can change out the menu when he has a special. Only I don’t think they’ve done much changing-out in a while. But let me be clear: some things don’t need changing.

Like Isaacks.

I got the Mexican dinner. Miss Helen said they made their chili gravy from scratch. That did it. I slapped the thing shut and handed it back like a woman who knew what she wanted. Keith first had a mind to get chicken fried chicken since Miss Helen told us it was one of the local favorites. I couldn’t have been happier. Knew I’d get to share. Then at the very last split-second, he threw a curve ball. “The hamburger and the onion rings.” Miss Helen jotted it down, nodded, and scurried into the kitchen for a refill of tea.

I was baffled. “You got a hamburger?”

“Yep.”

“Instead of their famous chicken fried chicken?”

“Yep.”

“Are you out of your mind? Or watching your figure?”

“They batter their own onion rings here. Homemade it says.”

And I am telling you as I live and breathe that, fifteen minutes later when Miss Helen emerged from the kitchen, it was like a beam of light from Heaven shone all around that 9-inch-high plate of golden battered, deep-fried onion rings. It was a sight to behold. I nearly put my hand over my heart. I think my eyes watered. Never, I said N-E-V-E-R, IN ALL MY LIFE have I ever tasted an onion ring that good.

The onion rings of my life.

I’ll be dadgum.

Surely you don’t think that could wait till I get home.

Come on and tell me the best kept little café-secret in your neck of the woods. Keith and I are road warriors, remember? We go WAY out of our way for a darn good meal.