Pass the ketchup

I am absolutely addicted to small town cafés.

Skip the filet mignon and the watercress salad. I want pie a la mode.

If you walk into a small town café, you never feel like you didn't dress up enough. You know there won't be "Calorie Counter" dishes on the menu. And you're certain your hamburger won't look like it was jostled around in a backpack for a week before it landed on your plate.

The chef is usually sporting a baseball cap rather than a white hat the size of the tower of Pisa. He's the kind of guy who will make sure your hamburger will not only be juicy with a thick slice of melting cheese, but the bun will also be deliciously oil soaked and crispy from a sizzle on the grill. And when he serves it up he'll tease one of the customers about getting skinny.

I tend to eat pretty healthy - just ask the people I work with. They usually call my snacks "rabbit food." But when I get to make a stop at a café, I don't hold back. I'm going to have their thick French fries with extra salt, and I'm going to have bacon.

These people, like Grandma, have cooked for years and know how to make a hungry person happy. I tip my hats to them for surviving in this low-carb, diet-happy world. Without them, would the hot beef commercial survive? Café people know the sanctity of the dinner table.

And the choices for dessert are berry pie or rhubarb crumble? One of each please.