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By Al Neal
The line at the Denny’s diner was out the front door and stretched into the shared Motel 6 parking lot when I pulled in at 11:00 a.m.
There was nothing special, or different about this particular eatery—I’m sure they all look the same architecturally nationwide—but the smiles and twinkling eyes of patrons waiting to be seated said otherwise. This was the place to be.
Twenty minutes later, I was shown to a single-chaired corner table, next to the drawn blinds offering plenty of shade from the blistering afternoon sun—Fox news blaring above me on the television.
“¿Algo de beber? (Something to drink?)” asked the server, appearing out of nowhere and catching me off guard.
“Café negro, gracias.”
“Got it, one black coffee, and I’ll be back with a menu,” she said, confirming my order in English now.
From that moment on, my ears picked up on all the conversations taking place around me, and how fluidly English and Spanish blended throughout them. And it seemed everyone knew each other—there was a sense of community.
As I placed my order for huevos rancheros and gingerly sipped my cup of black jet fuel, a Latino family took the table next to mine. It was a husband, his wife, and his parents respectively.... Read More »
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