You can see it coming a mile away. And dozens of miles after that. Some idiotic joint along the interstate, letting you know well in advance your life will just not be complete if you don’t stop there for whatever dreck it’s peddling.
The natural response is to drive right by the exit in spite, because you’re so P.O.’d by then.
That would have been my inclination too. But this time, I gave in.
Because Peggy Sue’s Nifty 50’s Diner was one of the few games in town, the town being the big block of desert separating Las Vegas from Southern California, where I was headed after my Paris sojourn. My mouth was as dry as the Mojave, and I thought it was as good a place as any to escape the monotony of I-15 and get some iced tea.
The place was near a military base in California, not far from the Nevada border.
My expectations, which weren’t that high to begin with, were even lower, since the place had a built-in clientele.
But I was pleasantly surprised. It looked like what Cracker Barrel would look like if there were only one, out in the middle of nowhere. And had a lot more personality.
It was homey, as in the old definition of homey. Comfy. Like old shoes. Since it was the 1950s, I was a little kid again so it was OK to have an ice cream soda and drink in the atmosphere. A fun little respite before hitting the long road again.
A welcome sight after miles of nothingness.
Girls’ night out: Woman and granddaughters on way to Vegas.
Peggy Sue and Annette Funicello
Someone else who decided to pull off the interstate.
You don’t see this at Cracker Barrel.
The same kind of milkshake machine that got me canned while waitressing in Asbury Park. The first milkshake I tried to make splattered everywhere.
Dorothy and the gang, of course.