Читать книгу The Hungry Cyclist: Pedalling The Americas In Search Of The Perfect Meal - Tom Davies Kevill - Страница 13

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys.

Don’t let ’em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.

Let ’em be doctors and lawyers and such.

‘Son, I drove cross-country once. The boredom near killed me.’

Plucking a couple of dollar bills from the pocket of his dishevelled checked shirt and tossing them on to the table as if placing a bet in a Vegas casino, the substantial man sitting in front of me then poured the remainder of his coffee into the mouth I had just witnessed demolish a breakfast large enough to feed a small nation for a month.

‘But good luck to you all the same and God bless.’

He began to leave the diner booth we were sharing. No mean feat for a man of his size, who had to lever himself up on both hands while sliding a few inches sideways. But following three strenuous manoeuvres he was on his feet. He picked up his foam-fronted trucker’s hat, pierced with the colourful feathers of prized fishing flies, and pulled it on to his round balding head.

‘Thank ya, darlin’.’

‘You enjoy your weekend, Pete.’

My eyes followed him through the rain-lashed windows as he did his best to hurry through the torrential downpour, dodging puddles on his way to a large brown and yellow pick-up truck. The engine rumbled into life, the windscreen wipers began their repetitive routine and he rolled out towards the highway. ‘Born to Fish. Forced to Work’ announced the sticker attached to his rear window. He waited for a juggernaut to thunder past, kicking up a violent swirling storm of surface water, rain and wind.

‘What can I get you, darling?’

‘A Hungry Trucker’s Breakfast, please.’

‘And how dy’a want your eggs?’

‘Over easy, please.’

‘Links or bacon?’

‘Bacon, please.’

‘Toast or muffins?’

‘Toast.’

‘What bread would you like?’

‘Rye.’

‘Home fries or regular fries?’

‘Home fries.’

‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Oh coffee, definitely.’

Since leaving the Canadian Great Lakes and following the southern beaches of Lake Superior through Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota, I had become good at these small-town American diner exams, and with another multiple choice successfully completed all I had to do was wait for the results, and I really needed a good score. Americans don’t like getting rid of their beloved gas-guzzling vehicles and the previous night, unable to find anywhere else to camp before nightfall, I had slept in a post-apocalyptic automotive graveyard, forced to pitch my tent amidst the rusty broken hulks of neglected station wagons, engine blocks, suspension shocks and other derelict metal innards.

Minnesota’s state bird, the mosquito, had plagued me from dusk until dawn, and it had pissed with rain from the early hours and had no intention of stopping. Soaked through after a soul-destroying ten-mile ride through the wind and rain to where I now sat, this small-town, family-run diner, like all the others that fed me as I moved west across America, was a gift from God. A warm, comfortable, friendly sanctuary where, for a fistful of dollars, a hungry cyclist could take in enough calories to burn for a week. Eggs sunny side up, over easy, poached, boiled or fried. Thick pancakes in tall stacks drenched in maple syrup. Chunky waffles smothered in whipped cream and blueberries. Golden slabs of French toast dusted with icing sugar. Rashers of crispy bacon, sticky cinnamon buns, home fries, French fries, hash browns, English muffins, links of sausages, oats and coffee. American diners know all about breakfast.

With a mountain of cholesterol sitting in front of me, I took an essential gulp of coffee, refilled my cup and with a jammy piece of toast in one hand began to peel through the pages of the Frazee Forum the previous occupant had left behind. The quality of regional Midwestern journalism was as reliable as my breakfast and I entertained myself with the headlines that jumped off the page.