I was looking for four items crucial to every motorist: a gas station, a restaurant, a money machine, an inexpensive motel and a clean, open-to-the-public restroom. You can't take them for granted on US 12 or when off the interstate in northwestern American.
At first, I was thinking Waitsburg struck out 4 out of 5 accounts. I found a gas station, but I didn't find it open and I didn't see restroom unlocked along the side. If you had a credit card, though, a motorist could pump gas. I saw a bar, the Lyons Den, still extending a hanging shield as signage to the main street. And then I noticed the Brokerage sign, offering it for sale. At least Waitsburg had a beer, wine and liquor license up for sale. I turned the corner, entering the second main street and I found closed sandwich and breakfast places and antique stores and a few brick outpost banks of the big regionals, meaning a money machine was available. Gas and cash will move you out of town, but the two alone are unlikely to cause a motorist to dally in your town.
And then I saw at free angle parking, eight or ten nice cars. I scanned the storefronts looking to see where the people went after parking. I saw an unusual sign, a good indicator that the post-baby boomers had arrived on main street America. I am going to write to the owners of the brick standalone store, because I had to really look deeply behind the windows to see the softly glowing hanging lights of its dining room. I parked in the gravel lot adjacent, willing to risk a pull on a locked door. I had a chance at good food, a place to freshen up and the crown in the jewel, at good company. So Waitsburg turned out to have it all, except for an inexpensive lodging. I was charmed by the two waitresses, Amanda and the redhead, and I sat at the bar and enjoyed their openess to my conversational gambits. Amanda, of course, means worthy to be loved. She received this comment with genuine interest, or so I felt she showed genuine interest.
Amanda didn't want to hear I wasn't too hungry, and she put her fingers in her ears and went, "La da dee da. Nah, nah nee nee Nah". So I ordered a ginger beer, rather than a cane soda, a delicious bowl of corn and shrimp chowder and a salad featuring goat cheese from a local goat pasture. All of the food, as much as possible, was sourced from the locals, and the menu named the local farms and businesses. I was half-certain that the redhead, with curly red locks and a translucent complexion, had modeled for the woman on the sign. As I made my case, she laughed goodheartedly. The model had curly hair. So did the redhead waitress. The model had a great smile. So did the redhead. Finally, in a hoot of laughter, she confessed. I didn't ask her to kick off her shoe as final proof, but I am now regretting that unmade request. The bar area has a bronze or wood version of this sign, an object from which one probably could pull prints.
Restaurant art from time to time includes immortalization of the lovely waitresses who give their time and strength to make the business pleasing to customers. At McKinnon's restaurant in downtown Northville, Michigan, a number of his long-term waitresses are painted in lozenge size portraits on his bar, under a quarter-inch of varnish. You can recognize the women from their portraits, even when one just steps in for a glass of wine.
The WhoopemUp Hollow Cafe
120 Main Street Waitsburg, WA 99361
509-337-9000 Fax 509-337-9002
"Why not sup at the Whoopemup!!!"
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