This week, on our way to a family Christmas celebration in northern Michigan, Rick and I stopped at a diner we had chanced upon four years ago, trying to remember why we had liked it so much at the time.
The exterior could have used a good paint job. The interior was furnished with standard-issue, chrome-rimmed tables and chairs. And the air smelled vaguely like places do when anti-smoking regulations have not been in place very long.
But this was pure small-town America.
The clientele included two or three bikers boasting ZZ Top-like beards and leather vests, a few WWII vets and their wives, families with loud children and a quiet gentleman who quietly surveyed the scene as he ate his farmer's omelet.
The menu included half American farmland fare and half Chinese cuisine and the wall boasted a photo of the Asian-American founders of the establishment. No beer or wine.
How many placesd like this are there in our country -- frequented by locals but welcoming of strangers, unique but oddly familair, reminders of how connected we all really are when it comes to such basics as good food, warmth and civility?
We had two excellent veggie omelets, tomao juice and decaf, but feasted our eyes as much as our stomachs while we were there.
We left after purchasing four mugs imprinted with local ads and the diner's name, Kawkawlin Restaurant.
We'll be back.
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