The sun was just starting to come up, painting the sky with bright fuchsias and dusty pinks and oranges when I pulled into the half-paved parking lot of the Kountry Kitchen. The long, narrow brick building stands on the west side of town and is known for its cheap coffee, flaky biscuits, and free gossip. I parked between two dusty pickup trucks and walked inside.
A man in a navy blue work shirt and dark jeans sat at table by the door, sipping from an old ceramic coffee mug. He nodded at me and raised the bill of his faded camouflage cap as the bell over the door announced my entrance. “Mornin’.”
I tried to smile, despite how early it was. “Mornin’.” I ordered a biscuit with strawberry jelly, bacon, and a Dr. Pepper. The waitress gave it to me in a white paper bag. It only cost $3.46.
The walls were cinderblock, painted white and splattered with blue and red paint. Pepsi-Cola signs, American flags, and pictures of little boys in overalls covered the walls. There was a big table in the front of the restaurant, by the register, with eight chairs tucked around it. The rest of the space was filled with wooden booths. I took my bag of food and sat in the back corner booth.
Three men were sitting together in a booth next to the table. Two of them were in overalls and one was wearing faded jeans and a brown Carhartt jacket. They talked about farming while they nursed their coffee cups. The man that had greeted me occasionally leaned back in his chair to join their conversation.
I could hear dishes clinking in the sink and bacon sizzling on the grill. The bell over the door dinged loudly, announcing that another customer had arrived. Everyone turned to the door and greeted the older couple that walked in by name. The woman, dressed in khaki pants and a red sweater, poured herself a cup of coffee while the waitress reached under the counter for a bottle of vanilla coffee creamer. The woman smiled and poured more creamer into her mug than coffee. The man with her was tall and slim. He took his coffee black and stopped to talk to the man at the front table before he sat down with his wife.
“Ding!” A man in a black t-shirt and camouflage pants walked in, followed by a man in jeans and a grey work shirt. They stopped at the counter for their coffee, then sat down at the front table. A third man came in, poured his own coffee and offered to refill cups for everyone else. He joined the rest of the men and they leaned forward on their elbows and fell into easy conversation.
The three farmers stood up, all needing to go feed their animals now that they had fed themselves. They counted out their money down to exact change before they walked to the register. The waitress didn’t bother to add up their orders. She just took their money, smiled, and called, “Have a good day!” behind them as they left. They were regulars.
The men at the front table were in deep conversation about the price of gasoline, football, and small-town gossip when the waitress brought out food that they hadn’t even ordered yet. They were regulars.
An older man dressed in a grey t-shirt and shorts and wearing a camouflage Dale Earnhardt, Jr. baseball cap walked in. He wandered from booth to booth, shaking hands with everyone and exchanging small talk. They called him Jimmy. He nodded at me and smiled, but I could tell he was wondering what I was doing there. I am not a regular.
A young girl in a green plaid shirt, dark jeans, and black boots came in, said “mornin’” to no one in particular, exchanged a few bucks for a white paper to-go bag and left within thirty seconds. A few more people did the same. They all had exact change ready, so they must have been regulars.
The sun finally decided to come up and peek through the large picture windows in the front of the restaurant. One of the men at the front table stood up to demonstrate something to the group. They had started talking about construction. The man in the grey work shirt rubbed his fingers over the stubble on his chin and listened intently. They all nodded in agreement, and whatever dilemma he’d had about adding onto his garage was solved.
I crunched on a piece of bacon while I listened to the men laugh. The cook came out of the back with a to-go plate in her hand. “Your order’s ready, Jimmy,” she called.
More coffee was poured and forks and knives clinked against ceramic plates. The waitress brought out a new pot of coffee and set it on the warmer by the register. Steam curled up from the pot and filled the small restaurant with a strong, earthy scent. Everyone seemed to pause and take a deep breath, then the regulars got up and started refilling their cups.
There were only three women working – one in the kitchen, one taking orders and money, and a young girl clearing tables. The young girl wiped down the booth in front of mine, then stopped to talk to the older couple. The man wanted to know where her glasses were. She told him, loudly, that she had her contacts in because her glasses were so old that she couldn’t see out of them anymore. He laughed and offered her his own glasses. “Wanna try these?” She grinned and shook her head. He must be a regular.
The woman that was with him stood up and carried her bottle of creamer back to the waitress, who tucked it under the counter. “Gonna have to order you some more soon,” she commented as she took the woman’s money. “Have a good day!”
“Ding!” When the older couple left, the man in the navy work shirt stood up and stretched. “Well, it’s been a long night,” he said. “I’m going home to sleep.” He handed some money to the waitress and stopped by the coffee pot. “Y’all want some more coffee ‘fore I leave?” He refilled his friends’ cups, tugged the door open, and sauntered out to his truck.
The front table was down to three men. They had finished eating and were leaning with their elbows on the table again. “You reckon them boys at the high school can win that game tomorrow night?” one of them asked. The other two shrugged and sipped their coffee.
The man in camouflage pants and the black shirt left, and there were only two. They refilled their cups and sat in silence for a few minutes. “Well,” the tall man in the grey work shirt said, “I got to go open up the store.” He took one last swallow of coffee and tossed a few bills onto the table. “See ya.”
An old man in faded jeans and a black leather jacket walked in as he walked out. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the front table. The waitress brought him an egg sandwich and he ate while the other man told him a story about a boy he knew that was having trouble with “the law”. They laughed, poured more coffee, and started talking about politics.
After a few more cups of coffee, they left. I followed them outside and got into my car. The sun was shining now and the sleepy little town had started to come alive.
I may never be a regular at the Kountry Kitchen, watching the sun come up while drinking coffee and sharing wisdom and gossip. But I know that tomorrow morning, they’ll be there.
They will laugh and talk and drink coffee. They will greet one another by name. They’ll probably wonder about the girl that was sitting in the corner today. They’ll wonder what my story is, why I was there, and who I belong to. Then they’ll pour more coffee and talk about football and the price of gasoline. Because that’s what they do. They’re the regulars.
