An Indignant Diner

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.