On my 1960 scooter trip across the US, mid-afternoon somewhere near Manchester, Kentucky, I pulled into the dirt parking lot of a small, well-worn café for a cup of coffee. A six stool counter was the serving area, with two of the stools missing altogether. So it now seated four rather well-dispersed patrons. At that moment I happened to be the sole customer. The coffee was served without a word. Good strong-tasting coffee, better than most places I had tried in the last month or more. Thought I might get something to eat. To the short, very wide, moderately dark-skinned woman behind the counter, I said, “Excuse me, miss, but this coffee is excellent.” She nodded a barely perceptible yes, but said nothing. So I continued with “Maybe I should get something to eat. Could you make a hamburger and maybe some French fries for me?” There were no displays of menu items or prices anywhere that I could see. Her low, soft, gravelly voice said “No hamburger, no French fry … we got bean soup.” That didn’t appeal to me, so I asked “Well, instead of that, could you just make something like a small ham and cheese sandwich?” Facial expression remained unchanged as she said, “No ham, no cheese … we got bean soup.” My third try was simpler … “How about just a couple of slices of toast? Toast sounds great!” With no change in voice, and without showing any impatience whatsoever, she said, “No toast … we got bean soup.”
Well, it doesn’t take me all day to do some basic problem solving. So, from out of the blue, into my head, came one final idea … “Would you happen to have some bean soup by any chance?” She said evenly, “We got bean soup, thirty-five cent.” “Good, I’d like some bean soup, please.” From some mysteriously hidden pot, she ladled out a generously-sized bowl of bean soup. And it was absolutely delicious.
Glad I thought of it.
