I'm a bit behind in making this a daily
blog because we got in to the Marriott at Little Rock, AR a little
later than I thought we would yesterday evening and I was so tired
after a long day driving from Louisville, KY to Little Rock that I
skipped writing and posting our days events. So, allow me to catch
you up. Here's the adventure for 10/27/13.
Knowing we would be arriving late into
Little Rock, we took the hint from a roadside sign and decided to
have an early dinner at Patti's 1880 Village Restaurant. The faux
'Village' was the main draw for the small town in the Land Between
the Lakes in Kentucky. We wandered, always turning left following
quaint tiny signs from the parking lot, through the 'Village,' past
the log-buildings where kids toys, sweet treats and a variety of
touristy stuff nobody needed and few surely wanted, until finally we
arrived at the door to 'Patti's Restaurant.' That door would have
been to our immediate right had we not followed the signs.
If you can imagine a Cracker Barrel
restaurant as it might have been conceived in 1975 by Bill and Patti
Tullar, but instead of a place with a large open area of seating,
envision a rabbit warren of small rooms each with the gaudiest of
plastic Christmas décor and a plethora of red and green lights (in
place since Labor Day we were informed), you've got the picture. As
we were seated, the hostess (and her trainee, both costumed as though
they had just stepped away from their 1880s cheffarobe) welcomed us
on behalf of the Tullar family and then, since we were not frequent
diners, described for us their 'specials' and the loaves of 'flower
pot bread' and the honey or strawberry butter that would soon be
delivered to our table by Jonathon, our server.
The menu informed us that Bill and Patti had 'passed' and that the family was continuing the more than 35 year old tradition. We both passed on the 'one full pound
pork chop.' Jane looked in vain for a salad that did not appear to
have been concocted by a Paula Dean look-alike with Paula's caloric
burden. She picked the strawberry/spinach/grilled-chicken with
roasted almonds and said it was not bad. I settled for the Special of
the Day: meat loaf, mashed potatoes and green beans. The piece of
meat loaf tasted like my grandma was in the kitchen, ie, savory, but
the piece they put in front of me would have served grandma's whole
family. The mashed potatoes were genuine, complete with tasty lumps.
I'd never tasted green beans flavored quite like my serving though,
and decided that that unusual sweetness came from the large chunk of
honey cured ham that garnished the small bowl. I had forgotten to
tell the good ole boy, Jonathon, that I wanted “Yankee Iced Tea,”
so I swilled down my meal with more sweet stuff.
Having gone through one and a half
flower pots of hot bread and the accompanying honey or strawberry
butter, we excused ourselves from the decadent display of cream and
fruit pies with triple layers of whipped cream, chocolate or caramel
sauces. Jonathon assured us that we could take some with us but we
declined.
Before our drinks had been served, Jane
had left the table to attend the restroom. A door leading from our
dining area read “Restroom” and she had opened it but closed it
immediately and left our area through an open door frame. On her
return, she said that she wished she had taken the napkin with her so
that she could have scattered torn bits of it along the way to allow
her to find her way back to our table without having to ask
directions. She said also that I should peek inside the 'Restroom'
door.
As we left, I took her up on that
challenge and on opening the door was confronted by a small
closet-sized room dominated by a claw-footed bathtub. In the tub was
a clothed effigy, complete with black braids to confirm his identity,
of a drunken Indian, with two empty whiskey bottles to confirm his
condition.
As we took our leave from Patti's 1880s
Village Restaurant, I stopped at the counter where the Seating
Hostess had greeted us with a syrupy smile and drawl and said to her,
“The drunken Indian,” she interrupted with the same smile, as I
continued, “was not at all funny; it was offensive.” I assume that she
was one of the Tullar children, continuing the family tradition, as
the smile was drained from her face by a frown that told me she had
encountered very few patrons disgruntled for the reason I offered. I
can only hope that my tribe increases. Tasty food amidst tasteless
surroundings is never far off the main highway.
