The prospect of leaving the town where I've lived for twelve years feels a bit like dying, and I keep coming up with a few more things I want to experience one more time before I go. Beyond that, even, there are favorite haunts of mine that I wish to see pass into someone else's knowledge so that I know someone will be appreciating them after I leave (thereby selfishly ensuring their survival for when I come back to visit). One such happening is the Bluegrass Breakfast at the Cooper Café in Cooper Township, which lucky for me still happens every Wednesday and Saturday morning from about 9:30 to 11:30.
Yogi Berra once said something about a restaurant that was "so crowded nobody ever goes there anymore", which is how I felt about the Cooper Café for a while. In fact, I hadn't been there in so long that I was afraid the place wouldn't be doing the Bluegrass portion anymore, in which case I would have felt obligated to sit down and have the Breakfast anyway -- a sacrifice, since the service used to be abominable and the food insipid. Actually, our waitress was quite good last time. The food is still indifferent (unless you like monster cinnamon rolls, which I don't, although my friends tell me they're amazing by any standards), but the coffee's good and they keep it flowing.
It's hard to understand how such a mediocre dive out in the middle of nowhere becomes standing room only two days a week, until the Lonesome Moonlight Trio starts cranking out the bluegrass. There's a sad-eyed guy in a gray T-shirt named Pete, who plays guitar and sings in a gruff, hound-dog howl; the pale, pleasant, sandy-haired man who plays mandolin; and Abraham Lincoln Guy, who sings very sweetly in an unexpected tenor and used to play a Dobro he fashioned out of a metal washtub. They cover everybody from Wilco to Hank Williams (Sr., thank you very much), and sometimes a big guy who's name I believe is Dave accompanies them from his breakfast table on harmonica.
There's a toy choo-choo that runs around the top of the wood paneling around and around the restaurant, and the waitress with the tattoo circling her elbow will lift you up to pull the string on the train whistle if you're too little to reach it yourself. The coffee mugs are the heavy white kind printed with advertisements for local businesses. The crowd is an even split between elderly Cooperites and hip young audiophiles (and occasionally me and my friends, of course). They're not too uptight about you taking the seats closest to the band and nursing a cup of coffee for half an hour after you eat, but when the music starts and the place fills up, the tiny kitchen gets backed up with orders anyway so you can just enjoy the music while you wait for your food without feeling like you're depriving anyone of a table.
Still, if you're going to go, go on the early side of the music or you may have to wait for a table. When you get one, offer to share it with an old person or two. And make sure to take Old Douglas Avenue to get there (go by bicycle if you're feeling particularly adventurous) so you can take in one of the most scenic roads around Kalamazoo.
Do this some time, or I'll be haunting you next.
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