For those of us in our 60s and 70s, the City Restaurant was more than a place to get food. It was the center of teenage social life and the turn-around point for every teenager’s car. Circling the “City” had nothing to do with the Town of Franklin and everything to do with a restaurant.
Like many others, I worked at the City when I was 16 and 17. The owners at that time were Larry Brooks and Jim Sessions. Other girls my age also worked there. We were never called servers. We were waitresses.
I mainly worked during breakfast and lunch. Listed on the daily lunch menu were five or six entrees that cost $.95 each, followed by a special that cost $1.25. Only the high rollers went for it. Coffee or tea was, of course, included in the price. Any day I made $20 in tips; it was as if I had hit the jackpot.
I remember the first time I observed someone having just water with lunch. He was, obviously, from somers-else. When he asked for a slice of lemon in his water you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Turned out he was with the Salvation Army and was supposed to save money however he could. He must not have known a drink came with the meal.
I have a distinct memory, which will prove beyond a doubt how hardworking I was. It had been a busy dinner. Just two inept waitresses, of which I was one, were in charge of the main room. We had to clear our own tables; and, during the rush, neither of us had time to spend a second on anything except serving people. Then the rush was over as quickly as it had started.
Every table, except one, was cluttered when my fellow waitress and I saw a car drive up. We were worn out from taking orders and serving customers, not only at the tables but also at the counter. The thought came, more or less, to both of us at the same time. We grabbed menus and then sat at the empty clean table as if we were also customers waiting to order. The people entered the restaurant, looked at the mess, and went past us into the section we called the dining room. We thought we were so slick!
Another great memory is that of Election Day when one of our local office seekers came in several times with man after man, buying their lunches while each time he ate a hotdog. He must’ve eaten 10 hotdogs that day, which led me to believe no office was worth taking that kind of a chance on major gastrointestinal distress.
While I was working, my coworkers included Birdie Brooks, who cooked and once escaped injury when the pressure fryer blew chicken all over the kitchen; Nell Ledford, who also cooked and made the delicious pies; Barbara Lanning, who was the chief waitress and did not care for my antics; Richard Carpenter and Jimmy Garner, who were curb hops; and, Lizie who, washed dishes.
At night the parking lot was always full, and the curb hops were always busy. It was where to go to see and be seen. It was there that plans were made, romances flourished, and hearts were broken. It was the place to be — the place to learn small town street smarts, like who to avoid and who to befriend. Sorta hurts my feelings to think about it being demolished, but such is progress.