Friday’s edition of our LVN contains an article stating that Fallon is among the best places to live in Nevada. It also discloses that we have one restaurant per 235 inhabitants. I believe that’s true, since my son, Doug, and I’ve tried all them at least once.
You all know what a “foodie” I am. Since this subject has come up in our newspaper, it gives me another chance to talk about something that happened here in town that made me furious. I simply don’t understand why any business in Fallon or anywhere else, for that matter, would hire employees who don’t know their job and often treat customers with contempt. This happens too often and it happened to us again last week.
Still in that “cancer or no cancer” mode, I asked Doug if he’d take me out to get either a good steak sandwich or hamburger along with a nice cold glass of beer. A local establishment came to mind, one we hadn’t been to for a long time, and we headed out the door. It was just a little bit before the normal dinner hour. This location has a huge menu of assorted burgers.
When I spied patty melt, my choice was easy. I told Doug what I wanted, and asked him to order a dark beer, preferably not bottled. He went to the bar to give our order — no body comes to your table it seems — and when he ordered the waitress turned to another employee and announced loudly that she didn’t know how to make a “patty melt,” and didn’t know if they had any rye bread.
Doug was tersely told that they didn’t have any dark beer on tap, just bottled beer. How often it’s stated, “it isn’t what you say it’s how you say it?” This was definitely one of those times. We left. I was thinking about this as we headed in the next day to Carson City for my PET cancer scan as passed a little white house that sits just off of the highway in the Stagecoach area.
There’s a story attached to that little house — now unoccupied — that brings back a ton of memories. In the 1970s my husband Van and I had moved onto our five-acre homestead close to that area. At that time, the only restaurant was in Silver Springs was at a casino. There were no stores to buy even a loaf of bread; you went to Dayton or into Fallon for groceries.
Then unexpectedly, just a week or so after we moved into Stagecoach, somebody opened a restaurant in that little white house. Van and I were thrilled and decided to go to enjoy dinner as soon as we heard the news. A gentleman took our order and brought us our first cocktail. We were enjoying our drinks when another couple came in. The owner rushed to the door, hugging these new customers.
The new people also ordered cocktails. Then the owner served them first, quickly going into the kitchen and coming out with their salads. We hadn’t been served any food.
These people finished their salads and were halfway through their entrée before we even saw our first course. I wanted to leave, but Van said no, we were both very hungry so we stayed. It was unbelievable the way we were treated.
It was the one and only time we ever set foot in that little white house.
Stagecoach and Silver Springs, even back then, had quite a few residents. I wondered how a new business could afford to treat anybody the way we were treated? The place closed up before half a year had passed. Conversely, a few years ago one of our local casinos had a gourmet meal for special customers.
It was, without a doubt, among the very best meal I’ve ever been served anywhere. It proved that we have qualified people in Fallon. I just wish we’d have a more diverse selection of food than we do at this time. Why we don’t have a restaurant that serves great Italian food just boggles my mind. We’re lucky that there we have fine establishments that serve great breakfast and lunch menus, and a couple with fine dinner entrees.
So I guess I should stop complaining. I’ll see if Doug will take me out to have lunch where they serve those great homemade potato chips, or dinner where you can’t complain about their prime rib. I’m getting hungry.
Edna Van Leuven is a Churchill County writer and columnist. She may be reached at email@example.com