Restaurant Review: The Village Inn. Provo, Utah

During my fifteenth summer I rose at 4 in the morning to ride my bike to the Embers restaurant in Roseville, where I worked mornings as a busboy.
Embers was a notable franchise up in Minnesota that was justly famous for delectable onion rings. At least that's all I remember about the place -- I stuffed myself silly with the broken remnants of onion rings all during my shift, which surprisingly did not cause my adolescent skin to bloom with acne from all that ingested grease.
I hated the job, especially because the busboys did not get any tips. Money left on the table was scooped up by the waitress; if I dared approach the table before she picked up the loot she would swoop down on me like a harpy, all screechy and ruffled feathers. Besides, getting up at four in the morning tired me out so much that when I got home in the afternoon all I could do was fall on my bed and snooze until dinner time, and then not be able to get back to sleep until midnight, and then get up again at four in the morning . . .
It finally became too stressful for Evelyn Torkildson's little boy, and I quit in early August, spending all my glorious free time down at Como Lake angling for crappies and sunnies.

Since then I have not been much of a fan of franchise hash houses. I mean, sure, I eat there, but I wasn't going to 'review' any of them in this series of blogs.

However, I found myself getting real sick of pantywaist 'furrin' food today; yearning instead for the real deal -- a burger with fries and a slice of thick, luscious pie to top it off.

So I took the #850 bus down to the Provo Bus Terminal, where The Village Inn sits on the corner of a busy intersection. I walked in to the sight of mature, relaxed couples sitting in booths and talking about John Wayne movies. Old men shuffled about, mumbling on toothpicks and looking for refills for their iced tea.

I ordered cream of broccoli soup, a crush burger with fries, and a slice of caramel/pecan pie. With a glass of lemonade. The soup could have come from a can -- I don't know. But along with it I got a whole basket of Zesta saltine crackers. There was a time, not that many years ago, when I would have taken half the basket and surreptitiously slipped them into my pocket for dinner. Praise God I don't feel the need to do that anymore . . .

Now that I'm home typing on my laptop, I can't remember a darn thing about the decor. It was standard submissive pastels. And there was muzak of sorts, but played so softly I could easily tune it out. Well lit, too -- none of this cavernous darkness that modern joints think is so impressive and moody.

Then, huzzah! huzzah! Out came the crush burger, with fries:

It was all that a burger and fries ought to be. It filled me up; it filled me out; and it went down smoothly and simply, tasting just exactly the way a burger and fries should taste. A clean taste. A wholesome taste. And by jingo, an American taste! This is what our forefathers fought for -- the right to sit down in a restaurant and enjoy a meat patty
 between two buns along with fried potato splinters dowsed in as much ketchup as a man can hold.
Plus there was enough lettuce, onion, and tomato on it to qualify as a small green salad.
Each bite was a pleasure, although to be just a wee bit finicky, I think they could have gone to the trouble of putting some mayo on the bun.

Then came the pie:

I'm not going to torture you by saying how truly good and holy it was. Because I know that you are probably on a diet of some sort that won't let you eat something like this ever again. And I feel sorry for you.

So I'm giving The Village Inn four burps. My meal of soup, burger & fries, pie, and lemonade, cost me $17.91. And the cashier gave me the Senior Discount without me having to ask. -- take THAT, you boutique eateries!

In summation, this is the place where you take your out of town relatives and friends for a good solid meal. The place is a 'safe bet'. And we Americans need all the safe bets we can get right now . . .