There’s a certain golden glow about America’s collective memory of small-town restaurants and cafes. Slices of tender, juicy meatloaf and crunchy chicken drumsticks parade through our brains, followed by apple pie with flaky crust and vanilla ice cream in a perfect scoop, or maybe a little round dish of peach cobbler. But it seems as though the fantasies skip right over salads. Folks born after the Eisenhower Administration would scarcely recognize them as such. They knew a scoop of cottage cheese on a slice of canned pineapple, atop a leaf of lettuce. Or the so-called combination salad of iceberg lettuce, diced celery and carrot shreds, perhaps a slice or two of radish, with a choice of Kraft dressings. Maybe a couple of slices of hard, pink tomato on top. And that brings us to today’s lesson. We recently stopped for lunch at Cowan’s in Washington, MO. There, on a white board, was the announcement that BLTs were made with homegrown tomatoes, news that brought a gasp of pleasure. Back in the old days, tomatoes were industrial, at least in our experience. They came in plastic tubes from someplace on the other side of the world. Folks with gardens grew tomatoes, gave them to favored neighbors, gorged themselves, canned the rest. But were tomatoes that good and red and sweet and juicy found in restaurants? Nay, in our small-town experience. But here they were, and they were exceptional. Of course we had the BLT. Piled high with bacon and those tomatoes, it was jaw-stretchingly, juice-drippingly good. From the breakfast side of the menu came whole-wheat pancakes, full-flavored and soaking up a pitcher of warm maple syrup. A side order of ham isn’t the Burger’s country ham also seen on the menu, but for an extra charge, we enjoyed a large, thickish slice from the California, MO smokehouse that was perfect. Country ham is easy to overcook and toughen, but this was divine, smoky and salty and tender. And then there was the pie. Why ever resist lemon meringue? The filling was stiffer than what our aunts used to make, but nicely tart, and the meringue itself almost floated off the plate. But the blue ribbon goes to the blackberry pie, absolutely flawless with its sugar-dusted top. Both pies showed off very flaky, thin crust that hadn’t, in the case of the lemon, gone soggy from its visit to the refrigerator. And just the sort of service you’d expect, bustling but friendly. 114 Elm St., Washington, MO 636-239-3213 Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner Wed.-Mon. (Closes early on Sun.) Credit cards: Yes Smoking: No Entrees: $5-$10 Wheelchair access: Poor
Cowan’s has been feeding folks since 1930, a year like 2009 in terms of the courage necessary to open a business. It’s a classic small-town café–you can imagine the guys with their coffee cups, sitting around every morning and dissecting local real estate, the latest disgraced legislator and the upcomingof one of the servers. Breakfast is served any time, another major plus. And then there was the constantly growing list of pies on the white board, added carefully in left-handed penmanship,and the almost sky-high meringue on one that, before our very eyes, was placed on a pedestal behind the counter.
