An Oregon writer a long way from the Bronx

Many readers of Looking for Karma at the Eden Cafe have asked if the Eden actually exists. They want a slice of that delicious pie, they say, and a good, cheap meal to go with it. Others say the Eden Cafe reminds them of a restaurant in Bozeman, Montana, or in Oxnard, California, or even a neighborhood place in Brooklyn, N.Y.

One reader questioned the very idea of the Eden Cafe. "Unbelievable," she said. "So many people standing on line to get into the cafe? No way. And would paying customers allow Riva or Karma to seat them with people they don't like? Absolutely not."

There was such a cafe. I used to eat there three or four nights out of seven. This was years ago when Rick and I were dirt poor and  living in Talent, Oregon. We'd rented a dismal little house, a half-block from the railroad tracks. Every night, the midnight train rumbled past, rattling doors and windows and shaking the walls. The best part about the sleep-deprived year we lived in Talent was dinnertime. We were two of the loyal  patrons who nightly lined the sidewalk outside the cafe, waiting for the doors to open at 5:00 PM.

Sometimes, the line outside the cafe extended down the block. We'd cross our fingers, hoping we'd get in, hoping there'd still be a slice of pie left for us. When we got to the front of the line we didn't dare argue about where the old woman directed us to sit. We sat at tables with actors from the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, we sat with farmers and loggers and teachers and bankers. We sat with tourists and with families who were descended from the early pioneers. We sat with folks from Talent, Medford, Ashland and Grants Pass, as well as people who regularly drove north from Dunsmuir and Shasta, over the Siskiyou Mountains, to eat at the old Talent Cafe.

There was no menu,  just one waitress who announced  the menu of the day (chicken fried steak, meatloaf  or  pork chops and always fried chicken on Sundays) , asked  for our choice of salad dressing (ranch, blue cheese, Italian), bread (whole wheat or white) and drink (water, soda, tea or coffee). There were rules too and if you didn't know them, the old woman, perched on her stool behind the counter, would be sure to embarrass you with a public reprimand. No elbows on the table. No swearing. No hard liquor. No pie unless you ate everything on your plate, especially the vegetables.

As I recall, the old woman's name was Marie and the waitress was Wanda. I never learned the name of the third woman, who was the cook.  Years after the cafe shut its doors and I moved miles away, I remained nostalgic about the cafe and curious about those strong, competent women.  A story began to take form. It became Looking for Karma at the Eden Cafe.