I parked at one end of downtown and explored by foot. It was early — five o’clock — but I was hungry. The first restaurant I came to was Jimmy’s Pizza. I kept walking, as I was enjoying a warm dusk in a strange town. The second restaurant, four blocks from Jimmy’s and right at the end of the historic strip, was Plaza Caf. The blue diner stood in the corner of a parking lot, in front of a glowing orange sunset, beneath a white and blue sign. Nothing against Jimmy’s, but I decided to cash my chips at Plaza. That kind of diner flourishes around 5:30 p.m. The Plaza is a homey little diner, where the waitress calls everyone “Friend.”
I sat in a booth, near the door, facing the coffee bar and the TV behind it, and took out my latest issue of YES! Weekly. I jotted notes on the diners around me — not many; two silent men, a construction worker picking up an order and an old couple — and my dinner. I ate a comfort-food countryfried steak, with minced coleslaw, gooey caramel yams, okra poppers and buttered sesame seed toast. The $7 meal came with fresh-brewed sweet tea — I watched as the waitress mixed in half a pound of sugar.
As soon as I demolished the large plate of food, I felt sorry that the meal was over. Plaza Caf would be a good place to hang around. Or rather, it’d be a good place to visit regularly, every Wednesday night, or every Sunday after church.
Can one appreciate a neighborhood restaurant while just passing through? Glumly, I ordered a slice of cheesecake. But as fate would have it, I was forced to leave Plaza Caf and come back a second time. It was around six, and the waitress had just brought out a white and yellow fluffy cube of cheesecake, when I realized I didn’t have any cash. I asked if the restaurant took credit cards, and they did not. So I left my jacket, notebook and cheesecake, and walked out to find an ATM. There was a Wachovia near where I parked the car. I walked in the cold up those still, empty streets, darker now. On the far side of town, Jimmy’s Pizza was packed with its own crowd. I got some money and returned, back to my haven for the evening. Twenty-five minutes later, I entered the warm Plaza Caf. “Hi, Friend,” the waitress said, smiling, looking up from a conversation with a woman in a booth. “I didn’t realize you were walking! It’s a good thing I didn’t tell you to go that way,” she said, pointing south, “That’s a bad neighborhood.”
They were waiting for me. So was the cheesecake. Since the intermission of my meal, the white and yellow fluff had hardened and expanded. I ate it anyway.
The cake was immense and delicious.
The Plaza Caf 336 S. Main St. High Point; 336.886.5271
High Point’s Plaza Caf (below) offers no-frills Southern cooking. in a non-descript locale. Right: Country-fried steak with gravy, okra poppers, yams, slaw and a slice of white toast. Also: Sweet tea. (photo by Gus Lubin)
