Mainstreet Restaurant, Detroit Lakes, MN

Narrative Retelling of 9/12 Observations by PJB at Mainstreet Restaurant, Detroit Lakes, MN

Mainstreet Restaurant, in one form or another, has forever held down the corner of Holmes St. looking south toward Detroit Lake from its perch on Washington Ave. Its large movie style marquee announces a lunch special and reminds me that in a few years I could save 80 cents on their Hot Roast Beef Plate. I remember it from long ago as the Gopher Grill. They removed the oversized rodent from the big lighted marquee when it became the Mainstreet. So how could I resist? I step into the entryway off the warm sidewalk and I’m immediately greeted by a chrome sign that invites me to “Please Seat Yourself.”

I find a single table with a booth-style seat on the northeast corner of the floor that affords me a view of most of the eating area. In a flash my waitress arrives with water and silverware. She offers a menu; that is of course unless I already know what I want. I can’t just show up and write. I’ll order to fit in. I’ve come just before the lunch rush, at 11:00 AM – and I’m hungry too. I cover my notebook reference to “Mainstreet” and ask for her recommendation. So just how good is that Hot Roast Beef Plate? Although she has never tried it, many people do order it. Based on that experience she advises that it is supposed to be “very, very good.” So – I’ll try it too.

In short order, my open face hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes smothered in gravy is carried to my table at a quick pace. I hadn’t noticed the side order of green peas and homemade cole slaw that arrives intermingled with it when I ordered though.
When you eat at a diner there are different standards of food presentation than one might find at say – Morton’s. On main street it’s quite all right and in fact expected that my palate would enjoy the delights of slaw sauce mixed with peas and brown gravy all at once.

Across from me at a center table three men from a local lawn service are talking about trailers in their matching shirts while shoveling in the roast beef off their plates. Nothing dainty here, there’s no concern about silverware placement or how one holds his fork – just take a break from work and stoke up for the afternoon. It’s all neat, no spills, and wickedly efficient.

I learn that these women aren’t “servers.” They are waitresses and proud of it. Just watch them. They work hard and know many of their customers on a first name basis. Given another lunch or two on my part, I have no doubt they’d know my story too. But today I only wish to observe.

There’s a group of old men in the corner at the “regulars’ table.” It’s a bit segregated from the other tables and commands a view of Washington Ave. They shout back to the kitchen area voicing their satisfaction and letting their waitress know they’re leaving. They’ve finished their pie.

Pies are a big thing here. They are listed on a permanently mounted sign. The white board trumpets these pies as homemade so it is fitting that their announcement on the wall is garnished with the pride that only accompanies a carefully placed artificial fern. It matches the one potted in the base of the plastic Mainstreet/Restaurant street sign sitting by the “regulars’ table.”

I notice that in addition to the pie sign, there is an assortment of fake bird houses with their permanently fixated residents that forever adorn the walls along with miniature half-canoes that hold various knick knacks. They add an ever so slight touch of someone’s home.

A husband and wife, I suppose, sit along the opposite wall from me. She peruses the menu while he presses his cell phone to his left ear. They face each other but don’t look at one another.

A couple of guys from Detroit Power Sports walk in. They meander around aimlessly waiting for a booth to attract them – to beckon them to sit. They do – eventually, toward the back.

Soon every booth is full. The place, and this is a place, is alive with chatter. A child’s tenor voice, just learning to talk, wants to know, “What is this Momma?” It cuts through the low drone of the prevailing adult conversations. I hear bits of weather, gardens, big portions, garages, and Texas Toast. Suddenly – “I gotta go look” and a lady scurries out the door. It’s all coming alive as we close in on noon. Work shirts and sweatshirts, not a suit for miles; casual is the norm at Mainstreet.

There are only two waitresses managing all of this hurly burly – one on the left side and one on the right. I note that it’s fitting with the political season and recall the two benches directly across the street through the window; one is stamped “Democrat” and the other “Republican.” But in here there are far fewer differences – the language is food, and everyone seems satisfied if not downright happy.

The waitress on the far side wears a blue polo shirt – mine wears red. There are no name tags; you’re supposed to know everyone here. Even if you don’t – you act as if you do.

There are three generations of women next to me; they’re engaged in an accurate description of the deli, vegetable, and meat sections at Central Market. Their food hasn’t arrived yet – they must be hungry. No shame in that here.

I’ve finished my hot beef plate and now launch into an oversized portion of world class coconut cream pie that is lovingly extricated from the lighted five tiered pie display case. It’s big. No wonder I’m warned by the pie board not to split the pie and coffee special. I’m sure many are tempted to violate that regulation. It would be a shame to throw any away.

The service is efficiently and proudly provided. The food is all homemade, like the pies. Someone had to be here real early to do all the baking, as is the case in many small towns, Perham being another.

The waitresses know they have a good product and they smile the smile of one who confidently delivers. The customers return the pleasantries as do people who have their daily expectations met – and then some. This is the give and take; the quid pro quo.

I’m starting to take up valuable revenue generating space on this sunny Friday afternoon. My waitress keeps checking on me. She’s too polite to ask me to leave; never – not here.

This is main street America, as I hoped it was, as I thought it might be. It’s coffee and pie at the counter, busy, noisy – old men, and women with children. A three year old boy announces matter-of-factly “I’m gonna go pee, Momma! I need to go pee!” And with that, the Mother hurries him by the hand to the restroom in the back amid the lunch breaks of the others and the escapes from the noon routines of home.

It’s comfort, it’s a nod, it’s talk, it’s a smile, an acknowledgement that things can work, at least at times, at least in here. For things to keep working I should pay my bill and leave a generous tip for the time and space --- then a dish crashes in between the counters. I hear “Ooooooo – I’m in trouble” as apologies are exchanged. Whatever it was, it sounded heavy, undoubtedly full – a glitch in the otherwise smooth operation of exchanging food and humanity.

Now it is time to pay and step out onto our town’s main street.