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| Evan Williams is a senior journalism major and writes 'My Bucket of Parts' for the Daily News. His views do not necessarily agree with those of the newspaper. |
Welcome to the Rooster Crow, the finest diner atop the Appalachia, this side of Spring City, Tenn.
Cluck.
I think I've taken for granted the term "hole-in-the-wall" when I talk about fine little dining establishments. A hole-in-the-wall restaurant for me has always been an unpopular little shack that has the ambition of a cubby hole, with knickknacks instead of wallpaper covering cement-block walls.
There is always fried food, there is always too much carbonation in the beverages, the owners look like greasers, the other customers (I'm thinking "Cheers") have been there since the chairs have been set on the floor and, overall, you think you're the only one who knows about this restaurant -- as opposed to the crowds flocking to Olive Garden and Panera Bread.
But, darn, it's swell, ain't it?
Then, I climbed the mountain, barefoot and uphill both ways, to get to the "hole-in-the-wall" called the Rooster Crow. My first impression was this: an abandoned trailer, crusting on the sides, dirty windows, a tin roof, peeling paint, dead grass surrounding the already barren landscape and the smell of fat frying.
The building was almost hard to see at first, actually, because of the large satellite dish erected in the dirt out front. The food was probably tasty because the owners received messages from other beings from outer-world universes.
I parked in the gravel lot. I entered through a screen door -- nothing else, except for the bell that jangled when I walked through.
Old men, or, as I like to call them, mountain people, sat in clouds of smoke contemplating mountain talk over their eggs and ham.
The owner, as I assumed, helped me to my seat (she had such large manly eyebrows) and then I realized my definition for a "hole-in-the-wall" restaurant was wrong.
The interior was nothing like the exterior. It was kept clean, painted white, with no spots on the silverware or sticky residues on the table cloths.
Cowboys walked around. They cleaned the tables and brought me food and drink. Polished plates with farm animals hung on the walls, adding class to the decor.
Fly paper dangled by the smudged windows, speckled with dead flies, and an older couple plucked them off as an appetizer before their brunch arrived.
Again, I was deceived by my "hole-in-the-wall" definition that I had before I arrived at the Rooster Crow because the food wasn't just good -- it was far better than any Perkins or Bob Evans. The bacon was longer than Shaq's sneaker and wider than a Sasquatch's foot.
Speaking of Sasquatch, I think one was playing pool in the other room. I heard it curse.
Another "hole" in one for the Rooster Crow was the decent prices -- another staple for a "hole-in-the-wall" restaurant. The only true downfall was the bottled Minute Maid apple juice, instead of fresh mountain cider.
So, basically, a "hole-in-the-wall" is trustworthy no matter where you go -- and it's even better if another person recommends this restaurant.
Oh, and by the way, the couple next to the fly paper finished their appetizer, and asked if they could have my flies, which buzzed around my head.
Write to Evan at emann@mr-potatohead.com
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