•July 4, 2018•

By Jim Nowlan
NP Guest Columnist

I was motoring down Illinois one recent Sunday and decided to stop at a Denny’s for an early lunch. You know Denny’s, the chain that “slings lots of hash,” good hash[, big plates heaping with eggs, French toast, pancakes, bacon, and tall milkshakes in cream, pink and lime green hues, all topped with curly-cue mounds of whipped cream].
The joint was jumpin’, it being Father’s Day. All the tables were jammed with Dads, Moms and loud little kids. The cashier tried to comfort the impatient, yet polite families waiting for a table. “Won’t be long now.”
Alone, I motioned to the empty, eight-stool counter. “Sure,” the harried cashier nodded. I plopped down right in front of the open kitchen, separated from the four waitresses by a high warming ledge. Heavy plates came sliding precariously from the grill toward the young ladies, waiting with their four-foot wide, I swear, brown trays, each holding enough to feed the Royal Air Force.
A trio operated behind the warming ledge: On the left wing of the kitchen was an older black lady of weathered, inscrutable age. She didn’t move slowly, but rather deliberately—every motion expended had a purpose!     Login or Subscribe to read the rest of this story.