Tag: diners

‘A great place to eat’

“A fine dining restaurant impresses your date, but a truck stop counter saves your soul 24 hours a day”
— Overheard at a truck stop cafe.

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There was a time in America when veteran travelers agreed that one trusted clue clearly signaled “great place to eat.”

That was any place where constantly rattling diesel engines and sporadic spewing of air brakes oddly harmonized amid a profusion of pumps on acres of asphalt. All under a sign declaring, “Truck Stop.”

On a cool fall morning some 40 years ago, the sun was repainting the night sky with rays of color when I had already logged a couple of hours cruising through southern states in my ’56 Ford Thunderbird. The goal was going home to the East Texas pines after a trip to Daytona Beach, Florida.

So began one of many stories from my days traveling highways and back roads, sometimes astraddle a motorcycle with packed saddlebags. Others driving a car that rolled off the assembly line during Eisenhower’s administration.  

It was a time before shiny new travel stops, cookie-cutter truck stops with attached chain restaurants, and gas pumps that require credit cards.

Craving coffee and a hot breakfast, I spotted my clue. “Truck stop and cafe ahead.” I pulled in, roosted my ‘Little ‘Bird’ with the cars, and smiled at the glowing neon-trimmed sign that shouted, “Open 24 Hours.” As if any truck stop cafe ever closed.

Inside, George Jones on the jukebox blended with the chatter of truckers stories as they caressed coffee mugs. I knew I was in the right place.

Claiming the last open barstool at the counter, I was still eyeing the split in the plastic seat cushion when a white China mug landed just shy of my chin. I saw a name tag. “Bettie Lou” was pouring coffee without asking, dispensing it like a pro.

Hot Joe was still rippling in the mug when a menu landed in front of me. Bettie Lou flashed a smile and offered “good morning, honey” as warm as if she’d just awakened her sweetheart. Then she strode away, turning every man’s head like a synchronized chorus line.

Blinking away the distraction, I lifted my mug, anxiously anticipating that first sip. One gulp delivered that “good morning, inspiration,” waking me up faster than a country preacher’s alter call. Gotta love coffee with a little muscle. Especially when it’s strong enough to hold up a spoon.

In a flash, Bettie Lou was back, packing an order pad and pulling a pencil from behind her ear. “What’cha havin’ this morning, sweetie,” she asked between smacks of chewing gum.

“What do you think about the sausage and cheese omelet,” I inquired. “My favorite,” she smiled. Not coincidentally, the same smiling response I overheard her give the guy at the end of the counter when he asked about the pancakes.

Bettie Lou was back in a heartbeat, balancing an omelet as big as Big Tex’s hat. Two biscuits the size of Cadillac hubcaps drowning in cream gravy, accompanied by hash browns hanging over the edge.

I was still eating and debating whether I could finish more than half the plate when I caught a glimpse of an older couple coming through the door. I sized them up as having arrived in the big Coupe DeVille I just watched pull in beside my Thunderbird.

The silver-haired, sophisticated lady stepped inside with her well-dressed husband following. She looked around the room, heard the music, took one look at the gimme-cap crowd, and caught Bettie Lou’s “honey” and “sweetie” greetings.

Then, with a look of disgust, she whirled her hubby around in his shiny Florsheims, grabbed him by the arm, and escorted him out the door.

Still sopping gravy with the remains of the last biscuit, I thought to myself, “How sad. They just missed the best omelet east of the Mississippi, the chance to collect a first-hand story about a truck stop meal, and a friendly waitress named Betty Lou … sporting one of the tightest-fitting waitress uniforms south of the Mason-Dixon line.”

It just doesn’t get much better for breakfast than an old-fashioned truck stop cafe.

—Leon Aldridge

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Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting the next challenge. His columns appear in: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

A good story needs a good buildup

“My life is basically a series of long-winded stories fueled by caffeine and late-night writing.”
—Popular opinion put forth by family and (some) friends.

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“You ever see Elvis perform live?”

Someone in a group gathered in the lobby of the Rio Theatre in Center, Texas, Friday night a couple weeks ago, asked me that question. We were busy blending thoughts and memories after watching the new documentary “EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert.” Great movie, if you’re a fan. Lots of recently discovered never-before-seen footage from 1970s performances and moments, both on and off stage.

“I think so,” I responded. “But that’s a long story; one you’ve probably heard. But I’ll bet you a cup of coffee that I have an Elvis story you might not have heard before.

“Seriously?”

“You know that I contend coffee is somewhere between medicinal and therapeutic, right? It’s also my belief,” I continued, “that the beverage’s benefits may also be determined by what sort of container from which one’s java is enjoyed.”

This comparison of coffee containers arose a couple of years ago at the downtown morning coffee club business meeting. When conversation centered on caffeine consumption from one of the popular insulated metal cups versus my favorite: the classic curved-side, thick-bottom, white porcelain mug.

The signature mug long revered by serious coffee drinkers originated during World War II. The military commissioned Victor Insulator Company to design a mug with thick walls for insulation and durability, plus extra weight on the bottom to prevent tipping. The result quickly became an American eatery icon known as the “diner mug.”

“I thought you said you had an Elvis story,” my questioner quizzed.

“Wait for it,” I pleaded.

Blessed to have grown up in a coffee-drinking family during pre-interstate highway days, many of my memories include diner mug coffee. It was a time when every Texas wide-spot-in-the-road cafe or diner offered not only tables and booths but also a counter near the kitchen where the coffee-only bunch or the dine-alone clientele perched on stools. Chatter was constant as white-uniform-wearing waitresses moved about, rapidly refilling coffee mugs. They knew what regulars wanted and greeted everyone as “sweetheart” or “honey.”

My grandfather always looked for the place with the most trucks in the parking lot. He swore that’s where the best coffee was being served. His guaranteed first coffee stop on regular trips between Pittsburg in East Texas where I spent summers with my grandparents, and our home at the time in the West Texas small town of Seymour, was a small cafe and motel in Greenville. The inconspicuous eatery sat on the north side of Highway 67 just east of town. Right before the highway bends southward toward Dallas. A simple sign noted the name of the place. “Floyd’s Cafe.”

‘Still waiting for Elvis to enter the building,” my impatient friend said, pretending to check his watch.

“Patience,” I replied. “A good story needs a good buildup.”

So … one morning during a stop at the East Texas eatery, we entered to see a brightly colored plate displayed on the wall above one of the booths. On it was hand-printed: “Elvis Ate Here 3-14-58.”

After hesitating to get the timing right, I delivered the long-awaited plot-twisting surprise ending.

“So, 68 years ago tomorrow, Elvis ate at Floyd’s Cafe in Greenville, Texas. Where I also like to think that he enjoyed a cup of good, hot coffee in a diner mug.”

After that, I always looked forward to seeing the plate during subsequent visits to Floyd’s. As a student at nearby East Texas State University during the late 60s (now East Texas A&M University at Commerce), Floyd’s was still a good place for coffee. Or a chicken-fried steak or hamburger, for that matter. Either one, remembering trips with my grandparents, and enjoying good coffee.

Floyd’s faded away sometime after I graduated from ETSU in the early 1970s. Also fading from Americana by then were uniformed waitresses, diners, and cafe lunch counters. The venerable diner mug filled with hot medicinal coffee has remained a favorite, however. As has Elvis Presley’s music and his place in American entertainment history.

Along with my long-winded story…at least, so far.

—Leon Aldridge

(PHOTO ABOVE: Left to right, guitar player Scotty Moore, Elvis Presley, and bass player Bill Black. Date and location unknown. Original black-and-white photo was in a collection of other photos and two Sun label Elvis Presley 45 RPM records I purchased at an East Texas estate sale in the mid-1980s. The high school stage setting, portable amp in a folding chair, etc. pictured was a typical venue for Elvis touring southern states in the mid 1950s between Louisiana Hayride appearances.)

P.S. If you missed the above mentioned story about “I think I saw Elvis,” it’s available here: https://leonaldridge.com/2015/07/07/the-night-elvis-finally-entered-the-building/

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Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting his next big opportunity. His columns appear in: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’