Lunch in Brenham

After a dreary winter, my sweetie and I mounted our Gold Wing trike this weekend and joined the other bikers on the farm-to-market (FM) roads in this part of Texas. There were quite a few on the road between here and Brenham, which was our destination.

We traveled Hwy105 west, enjoying the cool undercurrent in the warm air. We're still under a burn ban, but I smelled timber smoke about 8 miles out of town. Whoever was snubbing his nose at the law must have incinerated his pile of tree stumps, trunks, and limbs late last night because no smoke colored the horizon. The smell, however, was distinct.

We had lunch at the Must Be Heaven Sandwich Shoppe, a destination eatery in historic downtown. With Mitch's Filling Station Café and Diner closed, it's been hard to find a place in Navasota for lunch. Yes, there's the Dairy Queen, Cow Town out by the livestock auction barn, a barbecue place by the Roadway Inn, and Eric's Mexican restaurant, but none of them has the mouth watering food that Mitch served (even if FourSquare touts Cow Town's burgers as "the best in town."). So yesterday, we headed west. It's only 30 miles to Brenham, the county seat of Washington County and home to Blue Bell Creameries.

We feasted on fat Reuben sandwiches, made with butter-toasted wheat bread instead of rye. The mouthwatering sauerkraut would make your German grandmother jealous. We each ordered a side of broccoli salad, created from a closely held secret recipe, blending cheese, bacon, mayo, and amazing herbs together in a way I haven't figured out how to replicate.

The restaurant is decorated in country chintzy; the music is vintage American rock 'n roll.  The syrupy lyrics of "To Know Him is to Love Him" brought back memories of slow dancing on prom night in the high school gymnasium. Perfect music for belly rubbing, until, of course, one of the old biddy chaperones marched out on the basketball court and pulled you apart from your pimply faced boyfriend.

Ronnie and I took our time, enjoying our lunch and each other's company. Only one item could have made the meal perfect, and yes, we did try to order a dish. But, alas, we were told Texas's favorite dessert will not return until Monday. I bet folks line up around the block tomorrow at lunch for a taste of Blue Bell. It's been a looooong time without.

 

 

 

Filling Station Cafe and Diner

The Filling Station Café and Diner is closed, and I am heartbroken. This Navasota eating establishment has been a central meeting place in our new hometown. Ronnie and I first stopped here when we came to Navasota to see the house we now live in. Mitch, who was the proprietor, greeted us, and waitress Kristi served us homemade cherry pie topped with vanilla Blue Bell. Their friendliness and menu hooked us from the get-go, and we stopped there for breakfast or lunch on a weekly basis for 18 months.

Mitch was our guide in setting up house and settling in. We asked him for recommendations regarding a family physician, the best place to buy meat, how to find nightlife without driving all the way to College Station, and where to find a reliable plumber, housekeeper or lawn service. He always pointed us in the right direction.

Last Sunday Mitch’s daughter headed off to Texas State University, and Mitch is moving on as well. He and some buddies formed a band a while back—Brickyard Kane—and they’re really good. Old school rock music and a flair for fun on the bandstand, they always attract a crowd. A Mississippi record producer approached them a few weeks ago, so maybe the band is going to be more than a serious sideline for him. With Rebecca in college, Mitch can focus on his other aspirations.

I wish him well, of course. But I wish he had given me his recipe for chicken ‘n dumplings.

Breakfast at Mitch's

Sundays always include breakfast at the Filling Station Café and Diner in Navasota. When Ronnie and I came here a year ago to buy our house on Church Street, we stopped at the café to have coffee and pie. Mitch, the owner, gave us an overview of the town while we enjoyed the best cherry pie I've had in years. (And yes, the a la mode was a scoop of Blue Bell vanilla ice cream from the creamery in Brenham, a mere 30 miles away.) Mitch was our first acquaintance and is now a good friend. We eat at his place a couple of times a week, and one of those times is on Sundays.

In good weather the place is packed with weekend bikers, antique-hunters,  and Aggie tailgaters. The FM (farm-to-market) roads are ideal for motorcycles, the antique stores in Navasota and surrounding towns are stocked with second-hand trash and hidden treasures, and Texas A&M University is only 18 miles north of the Navasota city limits.  Football is a religion in Texas and our fighting Aggies have a congregation that comes from near and far to stand as one... as the team's symbolic 12th man. (If I have to explain the 12th man to you, I won't because you don't know enough about Texas traditions to understand anyway.) Navasota has a slew of B&B's that fill up on the weekends of home games.

Today is not a good weather day. In fact, it' cold and wet outside, and most people are snuggled in their homes with the thermostat on 78 and a fire blazing in the den. We hadn't been out all weekend, and we were starving for good food and interesting conversation, so we bundled up and headed for the café about the time the church crowd let out. The church-goers who wanted to skip home cooking drove through the Dairy Queen across from the school administration building to pick up burgers or through Church's out by Wal-Mart to get a bucket of fried chicken. The rest of them drove straight home where, I'm guessing, based on my own memories of Sunday family mid-day meals, roast beef or baked ham and garden vegetables awaited. They'll spend this afternoon watching the Dallas Cowboys play the Greenbay Packers. Like I said, football reigns in Texas.

When we got to the café, the parking lot was less than half full. Veteran waitress Chrissy greeted us and brought us steaming mugs of coffee. I washed down my prescription pills and ordered the egg and vegetable flour burrito. I hadn't had it before, and my eyes got big as the moon when she brought out an order that would easily feed a family of four.  I ate what I could and boxed the remainder for Ronnie to have in the morning. He had the "4X4," which consists of  4 eggs, 4 meats, hash browns or grits, biscuit or toast, and 2 pancakes.

Mitch came over to say hello and we got into a lively conversation about the price of gas and the significant layoffs in the oil industry that are being predicted. It will be the 1980s all over again. Texas has been golden while the rest of the nation has struggled with city governments in other states going bankrupt, but now it's our turn, and it won't be pretty. We also discussed Ronnie's and my plans to go to Cuba in May, the politics around the proposed bullet train from Houston to Dallas, and the idea of balancing the federal budget with a valued added tax (VAT) on merchandise rather than an income tax.

Good food and interesting conversation are the staples of small towns, and our friend Mitch offers both at his Filling Station Café and Diner.

Father's Day Thoughts

One-half gallon of pistachio ice cream has always been a staple in my freezer for the three months that Blue Bell makes it. Pistachio was my father's favorite. He introduced it to me at Howard Johnson's on a family trip to Houston. I was a child--probably 10 years old and in the third grade--but I remember clearly how grown up it tasted. Crunchy, exotic.

For the 19 years since his death, I reached for the green carton of Blue Bell when pistachio came in season. I would spoon the ice cream in my mouth and savor the sweet, sweet memory of my daddy. Most times I could delight in 1/2 cup, but occasionally I was so lonely for him that I'd gorge in the entire carton till I was sugar drunk and had to sleep it off.

I miss my daddy, especially today; it's Father's Day. But ice cream is not on the menu. Instead, I let my heart ache as his memory washes over me. No need to anesthetize my feelings and let them get stuck and cripple me. Instead, I focus on my son and how much of my father's best qualities he carries. Matthew is creative and kind and loving and intelligent and compassionate and adventuresome. Irish-American blood runs deep currents of steadfastness in the souls of its ancestry. My father has left this world and yet the best parts of him still live within and through his grandson.

I am blessed.