Chinook
by George M. Hosier II  - October 23

Keep it Simple

Life is getting too complicated. I suppose that complexity is a sign of sophistication, advanced civilization and high culture, but it sure does rack up the stress level. My personal opinion is that things began to get complicated shortly after computers were invented. I mean, one can’t have a brilliant invention like the computer sitting around with nothing complicated for it to process, now can one? Everything has got to be categorized, specialized, accessorized or systematized.

This was brought home to me this week when I succumbed to the nostalgic whim to have breakfast at a café that I had neglected for several years. The place used to be one of my favorites. I remembered it as a rustic log building tucked into the woods on an undeveloped stretch of road in Northwest Fairbanks. I had been a regular there a number of years ago, and had always been impressed by the friendly, laid-back atmosphere, the 15 cent bottomless coffees and their enormous “Prospector’s Hollow Leg” breakfast platter. The Hollow Leg was served on a full sized gold pan which groaned under the weight of four eggs, a McKinley sized mountain of hash browns, a necklace of sausage links as fat as a Sumo wrestler, a queen mattress of ham, a teetering tower of blueberry pancakes, half a loaf of toast, and the best side dish of biscuits and gravy north of Nashville.

In the past, by the time I had gorged myself into a stupor and feebly waved for my tab, the puny dent that I had been able to carve out of my breakfast would have only been detectable by a team of forensic scientists. Feeling an urge to relive one of those orgies of gluttony that had so dissipated my misspent youth, I turned down the familiar street and accelerated in anticipation.

However, something didn’t look right! The lonely stretch of vacant wooded lots had become a high density business district. Strip malls and office complexes vied with each other for square footage and road frontage. I watched carefully for the log diner, until I realized I had reached the end of the street and had not found it. I turned around and drove back, more slowly this time, seeking a familiar landmark. After the third try, I reached a spot that I was certain represented the correct piece of real estate.

Nothing resembling a log café was anywhere in sight. Instead, I was looking at a building with roughly the same orientation and shape if you didn’t count the extension on the west end and the annex on the back. There were windows where I didn’t remember any, and no windows where I was certain there had been windows before. The entrance had somehow slid around the building from the front to the side, and the walls between the doors and windows were covered with steel siding.

It was a restaurant, though, and I was too hungry to go somewhere else, so I parked and entered. Once inside, I recognized some of the layout, although the rustic rough-cut wood interior had been replaced by stainless steel and texturized plastic panels. I headed for my favorite table in the corner by the stone fountain and koi pool…only the koi pool wasn’t there and neither was my table. The pool had been replaced by a stiff, too-perfect silk tree, and the wooden table was now a stark, sterile booth.

I wouldn’t have made it to the table anyway. A waitress intercepted me, brandishing a menu in my face and demanding to know how many were in my party.

“Just me. Nonsmoking, please.”

She displayed a mechanical smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We only have non-smoking here, Sir. Follow me, please.”

This wasn’t the hospitality I remembered. I attempted a parley, “My name’s George!”

She gave me quick, startled look like I had just asked for her phone number and apartment key. Her pace quickened.

“I used to come in here all the time. You’ve really made some changes around here.”

“Really? I’ve only been working here for three years.”

I suddenly felt old. “How’s Betty?”

“Who?”

“Betty. She still own this place?”

“Uh, here we are, will this booth be okay for you today?”

“Yeah, fine. It’s…fine…”

“Here’s your menu. Our specials today are…”

“I don’t need a menu. I’m going to have a coffee and your Hollow Leg.”

Her pen froze above the order pad. “Excuse me?”

I read her name tag. “Look, Stacy, all I want is the Prospector’s Hollow Leg.”

She put her thumb over the name tag. “Now you want some prospector’s hollow leg! Look buddy, are you going to order something today, or do I need to call the manager?”

“You know what? How about if I just have a cup of coffee?”

Stacy relaxed visibly. “Gotcha! Espresso? Cappuccino? Latte? Iced?”

What brought this on? “I’m sorry, No Habla Espanol!”

She leaned close and enunciated carefully. “How—do—you—like—your—coffee—to—be—made?”

I don’t exactly run a coffee plantation, but I tried to explain to Tracy that the way I understand it, you start with roasted coffee beans. Grind them up. Dump hot water over them. Pour it in a mug.

“Look, Mister, I’ve had a rough morning. Just tell me how you want your coffee!”

“Oh, sorry! I like a little cream.”

“We’ve got Amaretto, Bavarian Chocolate, Butterscotch Toffee, Chocolate Mint, Raspberry, Cinnamon Hazelnut, Coconut Crème, Cranberry Crème, Danish Pastry, French Vanilla Almond, Hazelnut Crème, Irish Crème, Macadamia Nut Crème, Mud Slide, Toasted Southern Pecan, Vanilla Hazelnut…Sir, are you snoring?”

I snorted convulsively, opened my eyes and tried to focus them. “Huh? Oh…uh…that last one sounds great. Gimme that.”

“One Vanilla Hazelnut Coffee. Regular or Decaf?”

I think that was when I threw the napkin dispenser at her.

That level of complexity surrounding ordering a simple cup of coffee may seem outrageous, but coffee is one of the least complicated things around. Back when I was kid, if you wanted to buy a car, you signed a piece of paper, shook hands, and the deal was done. Now you have to complete18 inches of paperwork which includes your autobiography; your complete high school and college transcripts; your finger, toe, and earlobe prints; a copy of your pay stubs for the last fifteen years; the names, social security numbers and body mass indices of all family and extended family members for three generations; and DNA samples from anyone whom you expect to ride as a passenger in your vehicle.

I’m tempted to leave the rat race and go move somewhere remote where life is uncomplicated and has been distilled to its most basic components. Someplace where the air is clean and the sky is wide. Somewhere I can pound a nail or dig a hole without a permit, ride a dirt bike without safety gear, travel without security clearance and background checks, perform a business transaction without approval, and state a personal opinion without fear of a lawsuit or an arrest.

Oh, wait a minute; I already did move somewhere like that! It’s called Alaska. I just hope it stays that way.

 

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