Mark Twain Encounter: The Wit is Still Alive in Hannibal, Missouri

"If your food, drinks, or service is not up to your standards, please lower your standards."
Posted at Becky Thatcher's Diner, Hannibal, Missouri.

Two waitresses ambled through the time-stood-still Becky Thatcher's Diner on Third clearing plates, taking orders, and exchanging pleasantries with the locals. All I got was a quick "coffee?" Not that it wasn't pleasant. It was cordial enough. It just wasn't:

"You go out on the boat this weekend?"

"Every weekend!"

"Oh, that's nice. Oh, looks like you're missin' one."

"Football practice."

"That time already!"

"Hard to believe isn't it?"

"Coffee?"

"Sure. We're gonna sell the boat. Maybe get a pontoon instead."

"Once you have a boat, you've always gotta have a boat. Pontoons are nice now that you're getting older-who needs to zip around."

The man in the next booth ordered a root beer and an omelet. My wife likes coffee. This guy likes root beer. To each his own. I opted for two scrambled eggs, coffee, and a pancake.

The coffee came first-in a white mug with purple grapes on it. How long has this mug been here-Mark Twain himself might have had his burly mustache on the rim. Hmmm.

It was good, and I hate to say it, but I liked it better than Starbucks-it was simpler than Starbucks. It was coffee-plain and simple. It was not golden Barrymore cold-weeded, slightly jaded, kosher-prayed-over, Venezuelan coffee. I wasn't looking to taste twelve adjectives-I was looking for coffee. And boy, this waitress surely delivered. I bet she thought: you know, I'll put it in that mug with the purple grapes. He'll like that-he'll probably think Mark Twain himself had coffee from that mug! But you know what? I'm positive she didn't think that because I saw her grab the mug off the shelf over the coffee maker and she did it arbitrarily-like a doctor had just hit her elbow to test her reflexes. Naw, she just grabbed the silly mug. Nothing grand.

I drank.

Of the two waitresses running the show, I preferred mine. I imagine she'd worked there for over thirty years. Or maybe eighty years. She seemed to have everything down to a science. I'll fill these up with ice just in case I don't have time later-then I'll just have to pour water into 'em and that is that. Now I'll bring out the bacon to table twelve, clear table ten on the way back, and then take Dorthy's cash at the register. I wonder how her puppy's doing? Runts don't often make it-especially Thom's-I guess that's why he gave it to her-but she doesn't know. And she thought he was being kind! I bet he's furious that that little pup is still alive. Could've sold it for over $100 from what I hear.

You might wonder how I know she was thinking all this.

I don't.

But I'm absolutely sure I'm right. To prove it (and I'm not making this up), she and the other waitress completely left the restaurant. I almost panicked. Who's gonna fill my coffee? Three servings isn't enough! She'll be back. Drink the water. Just drink the water.

I drank the water. Somewhere in there my food arrived. Truthfully, I don't remember much about the food other than it's exactly what I wanted. I was too busy watching the blisteringly interesting action.

After the waitresses left, the cook, evidently on a self-imposed break and sitting at the diner's counter, yelled out after them.

"Can't I come too?" She beckoned.

Then she laughed the sort of tarry laugh that conveyed she'd invested in tobacco products for quite some time. I acknowledged the cook's depraved joke with a smile and clever, tarry laugh of my own. Well, I did laugh, but not the tarry kind.

I could see the waitresses just outside of the restaurant's front picture window-they were enjoying something in a patron's car-a baby? You'd be wrong if you guessed baby. That's what I thought. No, it was that little puppy. They came back into Becky Thatcher's Restaurant talking about how wonderful the little beast was, how cute, how cuddly. I'd never seen anything like this-employees quit working to see a dog, then come right back to work and refill everyone's coffee (or root beer). How's that even possible? I dunno how, but it happened. It happened in Mark Twain's birthplace. And I loved it.

This town, it's people, and it's culture have the warmth, wit, and charm of Samuel Clemens himself.

Thanks Hannibal. You make America lovely.