(The little diner on the corner in Culpeper. Photo Loretta Prencipe.)
I was having breakfast for a late lunch at The Frost Diner in downtown Culpeper. It was a gray day, misting a bit, though not enough to run the wipers on the Hubrismobile on the way down Rt 29.
I had met with the Yard Guy who supplements his income from the Gas Company by knocking down the invasive flora on the little farm, and apparently has some excess capacity, since he has offered to throw himself into the actual landscaping of the property.
I am OK with that, since this season I have a bit more money than time (I am confident that will be reversed soon enough) but he wanted my personal OK on what he is up to, and Heckle the Cat was out of food and there was every reason to be down there and every reason to realize there was no food in the house and why not the guilty pleasure of a stool at the diner.
Frost is all about guilty pleasures. It fronts the intersection of Main, which is Business Rt. 29, and East Davis. The Amtrak station is just down a couple blocks and it is sort of bewildering that this little town is one of the few where the trains stop and pick up people, and from here you could get just about anywhere there is passenger service, if there was world enough and time.
It was long past prime lunchtime, but the place was full, with only two booths available. The people were all locals, with a country sort of flare, and big the way Americans are these days. I opted for one of the 21 stools at the long counter where I could watch the lady doing the cooking.
According to local lore, the diner opened in 1928, a wholesome Roaring Twenties answer to the prohibited saloon culture. I don’t know if you could get a belt from the Pharmacist or not. All the folks that would have known where to get a drink in the County are long gone.
(The counter at the Frost Diner, directly in front of the griddle. Photo Philip Lambert.)
Then, it was known as the Gayheart Drug Store, and featured a soda fountain and a lunch counter. The outside neon sign, the interior pressed metal ceiling and the classic ceramic tile floor is in good shape, and behind the counter is a wall of diamond-patterned stainless steel. The soda fountain, the grill and the hood are also stainless, as are the metal mixer cups for the milkshakes.
The menu claims that Frost uses Monticello Dairy ice cream to make their milkshakes, which connects them vaguely to President Jefferson’s dairy cattle, but what won my heart was the fact that they serve breakfast 24 x 7.
Anyway, I had nothing but time and surveyed the menu. The footer boasted that: “Quality is remembered long after the price is forgotten.”
True enough, I thought, but the place was dirt cheap compared to Arlington, and I ordered a sweet tea to start and glanced through the options.
The sandwiches start with bologna on white bread, at $2.75, and go through about everything else you can think of, and there are the plate specials with plenty of potatoes.
I had a hankering for breakfast, and ordered a three-egg ham-and-cheese omelet with a side of corned beef hash.
I sipped the tea and ran through what was on the Crackberry as I watched my check advance across the clip-rack above the fry-cooks head. The staff is all female and wickedly efficient.
The omelet, hash and English muffin dripping with Monticello melted butter arrived just as the phone went off in my pocket.
The name on the caller ID was that of the admin specialist at Potemkin Village and my heart sank.
I answered, and discovered that think were not going that well Up North. I am supposed to be the medical advocate for both my parents, and that is something I try to avoid thinking about whenever possible. I am particularly leery of the term “advocate,” but their Doc and I seem to be on the same sheet of music.
“Your Dad fell again in the dining room,” said the lady on the phone. “We took his vitals and his heart and respiration are in the normal range, but we don’t know if he has injured himself, since he can’t communicate.”
“Is he comfortable?” I asked, looking down at the yellow omelet scattered with blue-gray specs of country ham.
“We are not sure. You might want to have him checked out.”
I started to think what that was gong to entail. Ambulance, then the Emergency Room at the regional hospital, then someone to pick him up and get him back to the Village when they what they might do to him in the interest of saving his life.
I thanked the lady and told her I would get with my brother and sister and see what they thought. Anook will be there shortly, though it will be four days.
I called the Village and Mom wouldn’t pick up the phone, and there was no response from Alaska or Arizona to walk through things. The omelet was cold by the time I got to it.
I had left enough messages that something happened after I gave up and went to bed. My sister did get through to the staff, on Alaska time, long after I had gone to bed.
She left me a voice mail saying that he had been able to walk down to dinner on his own, so I guess we will let this one slide.
Crap.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com