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“For fine dining, maybe. But even then, you prep dinner service so that you don’t keep the customers waitingthislong. The timing on the courses is supposed to be ‘leisurely,’ not ‘slow.’ Besides, this isn’t a fine dining restaurant… it’s adiner.” Summer pointed out.
Grandma Abigail sighed. “You’re right, of course. And I really wish they hadn’t run out of the fish and chips.”
“Or the lamb chops?” That had been the first item that Summer had tried to order off the crowded menu, since it had jumped out at her from the list of usual burgers, soups, and salads on the menu. “Or the elk chili?”
After their third attempt to order something off the menu, Terri, their high school-aged server, had finally suggested either the breakfast or lunch specials.
Grandma Abigail had brightened at learning that the breakfast special was a waffle topped with house-made huckleberry compote and whipped cream from the Stevenson Dairy, just down the road.
After hearing that the bison in the meatloaf lunch special originated at the Snowberry Springs Ranch, Summer had ordered it. The price of the dish seemed absurdly low, considering the cost of the ingredients.
True to the small-town spirit of Snowberry Springs, all the diner’s patrons had greeted them when Grandma and Summer entered the place.
Summer had forgotten how nice it was to be back in a place where everyone knew you.
While she and her grandmother waited… and waited… and waited for their lunches to arrive, Summer used the time to study the front-of-house operations.
At least the place was crowded with locals. That hinted that the diner’s problems might be fixable. A business that couldn’t attract loyal patrons wouldn’t survive the slower winter months, when the flood of tourists died down to a trickle.
“Is the diner normally this busy?” she asked, looking around.
Her Diet Coke was down to a quarter-inch at the bottom of a tall plastic cup filled with crushed ice, and Grandma’s coffee cup had run dry a while ago.
Behind the long Formica-and-chrome counter, Terri had her back resolutely turned to the diner’s patrons. Her phone was stuck to her ear, and even above the hubbub of conversation, Summer could hear that the girl was having a loud argument with someone named Ashley regarding Noah (or possibly Noel).
Grandma Abigail nodded. “Oh, yes. It’s even busier at breakfast. Everyone loves the waffles and pancakes here. There’s a line going down the sidewalk most mornings.” She paused. “That’s a good sign, right?”
She had given Summer the rundown on The Yummy Cowboy Diner’s bleak financial situation on the drive into town.
“Sure,” Summer agreed, but couldn’t help asking, “but are you sure the line isn’t just because the kitchen is so slow?”
“Trust me, it’s worth the wait. I’ve never had waffles like the ones they serve here,” Grandma repeated. “But you see why I need your help.”
She hadn’t said much about the diner’s new owner, other than that he’d been the head cook and still worked in the kitchen.
“The front-of-house operations are a hot mess,” Summer reported. “And if you want to turn this into an upscale dining establishment, the first thing this place needs is a major facelift.”
She swept her hand around the diner’s interior, taking in the dingy brown wood paneling cluttered with old license plates, metal signs, vintage photos, tacky cowboy memorabilia, and a very dusty taxidermied bison head mounted above the door leading to the bathrooms and kitchen.
“The booths, tables and chairs are all in rough shape,” she continued. “The decor in this place hasn’t changed since I was in high school. Heck, Grandma, maybe not sinceyouwere in high school!”
Grandma Abigail laughed, but Summer wasn’t exaggerating.
Wherever she looked, she saw seat cushions either peeling or torn and patched with silver duct tape. A row of ugly, fake-wood Formica-topped tables marched down the center of the dining room, with even uglier metal chairs that looked like they’d been purchased at a flea market somewhere.
A long counter with beaten-up turquoise vinyl barstools ran along one wall of the diner. Behind it was a backbar crowded with big industrial coffeemakers, a wide conveyor belt toaster, a soda fountain, and a vintage chrome and sea-foam green enamel milkshake machine straight out of the fifties. Hideous yellow and brown linoleum tiles covered the floor.
“I don’t think you can salvage much here. Just hire a dumpster—or a fleet of dumpsters.” Summer could already envision the changes that her grandmother should make here. “Take this dining room down to the bare walls and—”
“Abigail dear,” interrupted a woman’s voice. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Jolted out of the mental list she was furiously compiling, Summer looked up to see Mrs. Jeffries standing next to their booth. The gray-haired lady with the stylish black-framed glasses had been Summer’s sixth-grade teacher, though she was probably long retired by now.
“Thank you, Susan,” Grandma said as Mrs. Jeffries bent to hug her. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to speak at the funeral. You remember my granddaughter, Summer?”
“Of course!” Mrs. Jeffries straightened up and smiled. “Abigail’s kept us informed of your success. I’m waiting for the day when you get a TV show just like your sister!”
Summer grinned at her. “I’m camera-shy. I prefer to work my magic behind the scenes.”
