Breakfast at the Blue and White

Breakfast at the Blue and White

We come rolling into Tunica, Mississippi on Highway 61 and pull off the side of the road in town to slide into a space in the lot of the Blue and White Restaurant.

As we get out, my wife notices at once that folks are entering the place from different doors. There's a front, a middle and side door-customers streaming in from all angles.

“Should we go to the front door?” she asks me.

“I don't know. I'm not a regular.”

We opt for the middle one, being the wild 'out-there' trendsetters that we are, on the heels of three nearlyclad young teenage girls, who between spasmodic giggling and manic chattering episodes, managed to squeeze in the entrance just ahead of us.

And, being the myopic youths that they were, they did not bother to hold the door open for the two grayheads just behind them, but allowed the closing door to nearly take my nose off instead.

Ah, young people today!

Can't shoot 'em, can't shove them down the stairs. But, I can still think anything I want. Once inside, we see a large counter on the far wall, people seated on stools, eating and getting coffee refills. Others are to our right, clustered around the cases holding souvenir teeshirts and coffee cups-all with the signature Blue and White logo emboldened upon them.

When, suddenly, an angel appears.

This particular angel was a young lady in shorts and a long blue tee-shirt, flying the colors of the place. Her hair was in curls and in her hand, an order-pad.

I assumed the best, and was not disappointed.

“Let me seat you,” she said.

We followed her to an 'L' corner in the center of the cafe, from which vantage point we could see into all the crevices of the place, front and back.

My wife, for some reason then unknown to me, asked to be seated so our backs were not to the front of the place. I assumed it was a personal peccadillo, as I had not spotted anyone resembling Muslim extremists or Bernie Sanders supporters about the area; you know, folks you REALLY need to keep an eye on at all times. Wink-wink. Let him who has ears, hear… (as they say.) So, our angel starts to speak.

“Can I get ya’ll anything to drink?” drawls out of her mouth.

And you could tell this girl was as country as sorghum and cat-head biscuits.

And she was smiling.

We ordered two coffees and lifted the menus to view our potential fare.

When our angel returned, it was with two coffee cups just like the one I already have at home — a Blue and White mug which is my pride and joy. We sip coffee as we debate our choices with our angel, and the brew is not strong, not weak, but just right… as it should be. We both order the regular breakfast, and the bacon is top-shelf, the sausage not too greasy, but with the taste still there.

The biscuits — light, probably buttermilk biscuits.

My taste buds started to go all gooey on me. My wife said not two words for the first few minutes as we ate — a true testimony to this great feat of culinary excellence.

As I ate, I looked out at our fellow diners. There was a family of four, eating. And the kids… they weren't screaming, or throwing their knives or forks at passersby like darts. The man and woman… actually resembled parents in a relaxed state of being.

I thought we had all slipped off the edge of the world into a fifth-dimensional plain or something. I mean, you just don't see that anymore.

Next to us, a couple of ladies were eating and sharing news. They looked like locals and they weren't staring at us.

Hey, I've eaten at places where outsiders were not exactly made to feel welcome. I recall this one joint in a small town that reminded me of the movie, “Children of the Corn.” You know… the Stephen King movie where they were sizing up the newcomers for human sacrifice. A motorcycle pulls up at the rear door, the motor is killed. A bear with a human face wanders through the door and sits right behind us. Our angel takes his order as well, without a misstep.

And all of it… the iconic Blue and White; one realizes that it is not what it represents physically to the world. It is what it represents spiritually. It is a throwback to the time from which it came. It was a gas station converted into a simple eating establishment. A pit-stop, a wayfarer's inn. A shelter in the storm. It is the equivalent of the English pub.

What it is not.

It is not blaring music or offensive videos in the background, grinding out subliminal (and some, more blatant) materialistic messages, which do not allow the patron rest or solace enough to enjoy their meal. What it is.

A warp in time, a tear in the universe, from which an earlier, more welcoming and gentler period can be experienced first-hand. A soothing ambiance, fine food in simple surroundings- like a family meal at home, shared with loved ones.

Another coffee refill, please, angel.

I mean… waitress.

By Robert L. Hall