Church Services--Grace in Grace's Kitchen

"Hey First Churchers,  Y'all still think you're the only ones going to heaven?" loudly joked rancher Pat  Shultz when Greg and Sue Caldwell and  others walked through the front door of Grace's Kitchen, late and sweaty because of Bob Bowen's rambling sermon in the church with the broken air conditioner.

Greg winced, and the raucous laughter of the other Methodists sitting at the two tables closest to the doors didn't help. Other members of the First Church tried to ignore the comments and headed for the back two long tables at the rear of the restaurant. Caldwell, owner of the newspaper who had to work with all faiths in town, managed a weak smile. He knew the best way to overcome that stereotype was to throw something back, but he didn't expect it on Sunday morning. He also knew knew that most of the other churches in town believed the same thing, but hadn't preached it.

Last to come in was Brother Bob, his short plump wife Ann, and slim church secretary Joanie "Blondie"  Johns, whose traveling salesman husband Ron was out of town again. Most of the members of First church were small business owners or retirees. The Methodists  were the town's professional people--bankers, lawyers, big ranchers, doctors, and richer retired folks. They included the mayor, school board and city council members.

The First Churchers had to navigate between smaller tables now occupied by Nazarenes in long dresses and and First Christian members, all of whom were please to have arrived before the First Church crowd, thanks to Bowen's long sermon. They smirk some, already getting their food from Blanche.

"Y'all gonna have a prayer first?" Shultz cackled back. Caldwell snapped back, "We don't need to, but you might consider it," bringing a roar of laughter from the Methodists, cringes from Caldwell's fellow members, and a tug on his arm to sit down from Sue, with a hissed "Shhhhh."

The Methodists just had too much fun, Caldwell thought, a fact resented by the First Church and other groups in town. Caldwell thought they just resented the Methodists enjoying and flaunting much social and political prominence in town.

"Being prominent in this town is like being a head latrine orderly," Caldwell had said to Shultz one time, drawing a frown, and then a laugh. Shultz responded, "Don't you drive a Dodge? I'd rather have a sister in a whorehouse than drive a Dodge."

Other First Church members were whispering about rumored wild parties some of the Methodists were having, including drinking and possible wife swapping. Then Blanche came up with a big pitcher of iced tea, and started pouring coffee for Greg, taking orders, "What'll it be?"

They all started to head to the buffet, but Greg ordered the chicken fry and pintos.

"Wait, we need to say grace," said Brother Bob, and the members hesitated.

"Hi, Graces," Greg yelled at the kitchen where Nancy and Bub Grace were cooking. "Now we've said 'Grace,' let's eat." The other members scrambled to the buffet line, the preacher and his wife didn't know what to say, Sue frowned, and the church secretary, Blondie, smiled.

"Church Services"--Saying grace at Grace's Kitchen

Grace's Kitchen, "Where everybody says Grace," was owned by 260-pound cook Nancy Grace and her 120-pound husband Bub, a member of AA. She cooked, he helped.

The town's only Main Street Cafe specialized in chicken fried steak with pinto beans, and Nancy's homemade lemon meringue pie, but on Sundays they set up a buffet for church members, starting at noon and lasting till 2.

The cafe was in an old red brick building next to the Panhandle Index, the weekly newspaper office, 25 feet wide, with the kitchen in the rear in front of the one bathroom, a counter and open window facing the diners. The floor was bare cement, the walls bare brick except for photos of fishermen and their catches. 

Long folding tables for groups of six to eight and square tables  were covered with vinyl red and white checked tablecloths. Each table held salt and pepper shakers, a jar of catsup and of Tabasco sauce, a full pitcher of ice water, plastic glasses, paper napkins,  coffee cups, a single sheet laminated yellow menu, and a plastic  flower in a plastic vase. The chairs were plastic Walmart vintage lawn chairs. Yellow fluorescent lights, and two noisy ceiling fans hung from the ceiling.

Skinny Blanche Everson was the only waitress, gray hair rolled up in a bun on her head, thick glasses, stained apron, a pencil she never used for orders behind her ear, coffee pot permanently in her hand except when serving. It seemed she knew what every body wanted before they sat down and never forgot an order.

The Sunday buffet usually carried two "specials"--usually fried chicken and meatloaf, brown gravy, massed potatoes, pinto beans and green beans, plus the salad bar of lettuce, tomatoes, onions, relish, fake bacon bits, crackers, and ranch and Thousand Island dressing. The price had been $9.99 for as long as anyone could remember.

When church let out, the crowd was so thick you "couldn't shake a stick" at them, Blanche would say, and people lounged out on the sidewalk against a light pole in front of the diagonally parked cars or sitting in two benches, waiting for tables to vacate.