Gone but not forgotten
When we first moved to our farm, back in 1977, we were privileged to have in the little town of East Berlin, the most wonderful general store, restaurant and butcher shop in the world. They were all under one roof. Lau's Store. You went in the back door into the grocery store. To your right and down the aisle Wayne Lau had his butcher shop. He sold the best apple smoked bacon you ever ate. I mean it. It was just wonderful. He had great cheeses, sausages, even chorizo sausage.
There were groceries, and they even sold goat skin gloves that cost $4.95 and when you wore them they made your hands so soft you couldn't believe it. You turned left and at the front of the store Sonny Lau had his own little bit of heaven. He sold cheap perfume, watches, flashlights, jewelry and all things in between. It was so neat walking up and down the aisles. Each turn was an adventure. When you got to the front left, after winding past a row of soda fountain stools you came to some of the most astounding characters you have ever seen, perched like crows having a church service on the telephone wires. They were permanent fixtures, only changing with the meal being served.
Still further on was the dining room. Each table may as well have been reserved, because there were regulars who never missed a day and you had better not sit in there spot or you would be singed by the fierce glares they'd direct your way. I sat at the first table straight ahead, along with my friend Becky Mummert, Bob Linebaugh, and I sometimes we'd allow an interesting stray to sit with us. We'd sit, if the coffee didn't appear we would go behind the counter and serve ourselves. The Queen of the store, heck, the TOWN was Isabelle Lau. She was about 4' 10" and made of pure, unadulterated curiosity. How she loved to listen in on all the conversations going on. She would chip in if she got the chance, and then go off on a storytelling rant that was just hysterical. She was the mother of Sonny and Wayne. Her husband Bobby died the year we moved up here. We were a community. We knew what was going on in everyone's lives and we cared what happened there. The restaurant served honest if not sometimes wonderful food. On Friday night they had all you could eat Red Snapper (before the rich folks discovered it) and my husband often ate 4 plates piled high. You didn't have to place your order for breakfast. Rhonda, the waitress extraordinaire knew what we wanted. You just sat down and started talking, soon your eggs were on the table and all was well with the world.
Any excuse worked for beating a path to their door. It was where you wanted to be for some reason. As time went on we were all starting to get achy and stiff. The Lau boys had to close the store and that was the end of an era. We mourned it like a death in the family when they closed. The whole community went silent. We had no where to go for our morning meetings. No where to go for the apple smoked bacon. No more cheap perfume. There was a little old man that walked so slow that if he was at the back door when we came in he would just be getting to the front door when we had finished our meal. No kidding. He took these little shuffling steps. He was just precious! Where did he go after Lau's closed. I don't know.
Since then one restaurant after another has tried to win us back. We aren't easy. We try them out. Give them a chance, but the ghosts that walk those aisles are still haunting us. Now you walk in the back and are ushered threw a series of cattle shoots that lead you up a musty smelling dark hall to the front restaurant. It's decorated in a cutesy country decor that makes you want to stick your finger down your throat. Where are the tables that rock from the uneven floors? Where is Isabelle, and why aren't our friends here? It's gone, and no one is ever going to replace what we've lost or exorcize the spirits of Wayne, Sonny and Isabelle.
There were groceries, and they even sold goat skin gloves that cost $4.95 and when you wore them they made your hands so soft you couldn't believe it. You turned left and at the front of the store Sonny Lau had his own little bit of heaven. He sold cheap perfume, watches, flashlights, jewelry and all things in between. It was so neat walking up and down the aisles. Each turn was an adventure. When you got to the front left, after winding past a row of soda fountain stools you came to some of the most astounding characters you have ever seen, perched like crows having a church service on the telephone wires. They were permanent fixtures, only changing with the meal being served.
Still further on was the dining room. Each table may as well have been reserved, because there were regulars who never missed a day and you had better not sit in there spot or you would be singed by the fierce glares they'd direct your way. I sat at the first table straight ahead, along with my friend Becky Mummert, Bob Linebaugh, and I sometimes we'd allow an interesting stray to sit with us. We'd sit, if the coffee didn't appear we would go behind the counter and serve ourselves. The Queen of the store, heck, the TOWN was Isabelle Lau. She was about 4' 10" and made of pure, unadulterated curiosity. How she loved to listen in on all the conversations going on. She would chip in if she got the chance, and then go off on a storytelling rant that was just hysterical. She was the mother of Sonny and Wayne. Her husband Bobby died the year we moved up here. We were a community. We knew what was going on in everyone's lives and we cared what happened there. The restaurant served honest if not sometimes wonderful food. On Friday night they had all you could eat Red Snapper (before the rich folks discovered it) and my husband often ate 4 plates piled high. You didn't have to place your order for breakfast. Rhonda, the waitress extraordinaire knew what we wanted. You just sat down and started talking, soon your eggs were on the table and all was well with the world.
Any excuse worked for beating a path to their door. It was where you wanted to be for some reason. As time went on we were all starting to get achy and stiff. The Lau boys had to close the store and that was the end of an era. We mourned it like a death in the family when they closed. The whole community went silent. We had no where to go for our morning meetings. No where to go for the apple smoked bacon. No more cheap perfume. There was a little old man that walked so slow that if he was at the back door when we came in he would just be getting to the front door when we had finished our meal. No kidding. He took these little shuffling steps. He was just precious! Where did he go after Lau's closed. I don't know.
Since then one restaurant after another has tried to win us back. We aren't easy. We try them out. Give them a chance, but the ghosts that walk those aisles are still haunting us. Now you walk in the back and are ushered threw a series of cattle shoots that lead you up a musty smelling dark hall to the front restaurant. It's decorated in a cutesy country decor that makes you want to stick your finger down your throat. Where are the tables that rock from the uneven floors? Where is Isabelle, and why aren't our friends here? It's gone, and no one is ever going to replace what we've lost or exorcize the spirits of Wayne, Sonny and Isabelle.
posted by Prudence at 8:22 PM
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