Elmer's Cafe, Hwy 99
Tommy casually admires the tattoo of a snake that is slithering out of the low-slung waistband of her jeans. - A 3-minute adventure in Bakersfield
This little adventure now substantially revised, was first posted two years ago. If you’ve already read it, thank you!
If not, well…you have nothing to lose.
We bounce across the gravel parking lot of Elmer’s Cafe and the old Microbus skids to a bumpy stop under the blinking neon sign.
Seventeen long days of making music on the road, and we are officially wiped out. Today we’ve driven seven hours down California’s Central Valley, Hwy 99, from Weed through Sacramento, Merced, Visalia and finally we pull off in search of something to eat. Bakersfield. B-Town. Sometimes called the Armpit of California. Don’t ask.
Inside it’s a little dark, but nice enough for the likes of us. Elmer’s is a little funky, but apparently it has a full bar and specializes in both Italian and Mexican food. Our waitress identifies herself as “Cherrie, like the fruit”. I notice she has dotted the “i” on her name tag with a flirty little heart. Cherrie has playful purple hair, a tiny nose ring, and an adorable sparkle in her eyes. Her cropped T-shirt displays a bare belly-button at just about the eye-level of the seated men. Tommy casually admires the tattoo of a snake that is slithering out of the low-slung waistband of Cherrie’s jeans. She is not unaware of the distraction. She’s snapping her chewing gum and is as cute as a kitten.
“How y’all, doing today?” she chirps.
“We’re just great, Cherrie,” says Tommy, trying to tear his eyes away from that tattoo. “We’ve come a long way today and just thought we’d better stop for something to eat before we drive off into a ditch.”
She hands out menus. “Can I bring y’all anything to drink first off?”
Frandsen says, “How about bringing me an O’Douls.
“And a liter of red wine, please,” says Tommy, “for the lady and me. The house wine will be fine.”
“Y’all want the big liter or the little liter?” she asks.
Tommy, amused, looks at me straight-faced and shrugs. “Ah... well… how about we just start with the little liter.”
“Got it.” She pencils it on her pad.
Y’all want ahsenet? she asks, looking at me.
“Excuse me?”
“Y’all want ahsenet?”
I look at Tommy for help. He raises his eyebrows and grins at me, “It’s up to you, babe.”
“I’m sorry, Cherrie ... I don’t know what ahsenet is.”
She looks at me blankly and then, with a sweet, sympathetic smile, speaks to me very slowly, as one might speak to a spaniel. “Do. Y’all. Want. Ahss. En. Et?” she asks again.
“Ahss? … Oh! Ice! Sorry.” Tommy and Frandsen give me The Look. “Um... no, thank you, Cherrie. We’ll take it just as it comes.”
She advises us that there are three different pass-dah specials on the menu tonight. I’m just about to ask what pass-dah is, when she says “We got spaghetti and meatballs, ravioli with mushrooms and linguini Alfredo.” Aha. Pass-dah. Right.
We all order the ravioli, and find it’s just delicious. We leave a generous tip for Cherrie, and are back out on the highway by seven. Frandsen, the dedicated drinker of O’Douls, takes his turn at the wheel, with a hundred miles to go to Burbank.
The ravioli had been even better than we expected, and it turned out the house red was absolutely drinkable. Tommy and I both agreed that it really hadn’t needed any ahsenet, and the little liter was just about right.
Brilliant - educate me - what is that accent? Coincidentally, my wife and I spent our honeymoon in the states in 2018, and we travelled across 18 states in a 'little' Toyota - 'little' because that what the locals called it, but to us, it was just a normal sized saloon (different way of looking at things!) - coincidence because every time we entered a new state I sang On the Road Again as loud as I could. Good times.
Love this slice of life … fabulously written, Sharron.