As we drove through this city of more than 10,000 people, there were few places to eat breakfast. Denny’s, the American Institution, and two Billly Horton’s, along with a couple of Subways and a bakery, was the entire array of choices. Beginning our exit from this town of seven mills, we found an old fashioned diner across the street from a couple of sawmills and decided to stop.
As we pulled into the empty parking lot in front of the Quesnel Drive-Inn Restaurant, the waitress was wearing a worried look. After seating ourselves, she made her way to our table and offered coffee. After we discussed tea options, she asked if we needed menus. Just then an elderly man slipped in and before sitting at the head of a long table he said, “Do you mind if I sit here in my pajamas?” “No, it’s fine with us,” I replied. Another man came in, wearing jeans and a lined-jeans jacket; grabbed a cup of Joe; and disappeared.
While breakfast was cooked by the waitress’s mother, I noticed a large Thanksgiving cactus in full bloom. Complimenting our dark-haired waitress on the plant, a little giggle escaped her mouth. Then she explained that plants grew well for her mother but not her. The décor of this seventy’s diner was a large wristwatch-styled wall clock, more plants, a a battery-operated Billy Bass mounted on a plastic placque, and the Cookie Cop. Upon opening its hat, this diet-conducive cookie jar rang out “Step Away from the cookie jar.” The thirty-something waitress giggled. “My grandmother should have had one of these for when I went to visit her,” I responded.
The man in the p.j.s was served his usual hashbrowns with onions as he continued to talk about his younger days working in Fort St. John in a lumber camp. Not had much but a change of clothes, he said, not even a bed before arriving there in the 1970s. “That’s about eight hours from her,” he informed us of the time we had left for today’s destination.
Such items as homemade cranberry rhubarb jam, maple syrup heated in an empty juice jar, and pepper sauce for the hashbrowns began appearing on our table before this woman in her thirties delivered our traditional breakfast meals. Large plates held sausage split in half and fried on both sides, thick pancakes, meaty bacon, hashbrowns with onions, sourdough toast, eggs cooked perfectly. The food was reminiscent of traveling in rural areas of California, Nevada, Colorado and Oregon.
When we had our fill, Rick paid the giggling waitress in Canadian currency and she reminded us to sign the guest book. “Done already,” I chimed, “Kotzebue, Alaska. Got a long way to go.” “Have a good, safe drive,” she responded. With smiles all around, we opened the door to leave as it jingled in response. Back onto the Caribou Highway we went. The next big stop will be Prince George, a city of more than 80,000 persons.
No comments:
Post a Comment