We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
T.S. Eliot
Years ago, I regularly traveled back and forth from Dallas to Baton Rouge. It was a grueling seven-hour drive on Interstate 30 and Interstate 49, with state troopers lurking in the wooded median strips, fiendishly designed to be perfect speed traps.
For years, I searched for a good place to eat on my weary travels, a country diner close by the highway that served comfort food at a reasonable price.
Unconsciously, however, I was looking for a 1950s diner like the cafes I knew in rural Oklahoma when I was a kid. I wanted to find a place that smelled like frying onions and hamburgers sizzling on a greasy grill. I wanted a country restaurant with a juke box playing songs sung by Lefty Frizzell.
Unfortunately, I only found fast-food chain restaurants: McDonald's, Burger King, Whataburger, and Dairy Queen.
One day, I stopped for gas in Waskom, Texas, the last Texas town on Interstate 30 before you cross the border into Louisiana. There, partially obscured by a McDonald's, I spied Ed's Barbecue with a sign that advertised barbecue and fried catfish. Could this be the end of all my exploring?
I entered, and a cheery waitress greeted me with an expansive invitation to sit wherever I liked. The joint looked right. A framed image of John Wayne hung on one wall alongside a vintage photo of Hank Williams performing on The Louisiana Hayride, an iconic radio show broadcast out of Shreveport, Louisiana, in the 1930s.
I quickly perused the menu and ordered a cheeseburger and a glass of sweet iced tea. In the long tradition of Texas roadside restaurants, my waitress addressed me with a string of endearments: sweetie, honey, and darlin'.
I remember my cheeseburger came fully dressed with a generous side of fries.
During my visit, I entered the men's room and saw an image of Don Knotts' Barney Fife holding up a single bullet for inspection. Undoubtedly, this pleasing washroom decoration had been curated by a high-end interior design firm in Dallas.
My burger was excellent, and my sweet tea was prepared just as I like: so sweet that I would be a pre-diabetic by the time I finished my meal.
I paid my bill and bought a jar of pickled tomato relish from a stack piled next to the cash register. As my waitress handed back my credit card, she asked the golden question:
Would you like a go cup for your sweet tea, sugar pie?
I realized then that my lifetime of aimless searching had brought me back to where I started, a little Southwestern town. And this was where I belonged--not in the Harvard Faculty Club or a stuffy university, but in Ed's Barbecue Restaurant, chowing down on a cheeseburger, catsup-drenched French fries, and a large glass of sweet iced tea.
