At Lambert’s Cafe, diners crane from their seats to catch softball-sized rolls spinning through the air.
Waiters carrying steaming pots weave through the room, stopping at booths to pile fried okra onto paper napkins and dollop apple butter onto the yeasty bread. Every so often, an announcement crackles through the megaphone about grandpa’s 75th birthday or Alan’s first visit, briefly cutting through the din until diners break into applause.
The walls are just as busy as the dining rooms. Plastered with country kitsch decor, each and every corner tells stories from different eras and places. License plates from as far north as Illinois hang beside biblical phrases painted on wooden planks and rooster paintings that would look right at home in a Texas grandmother’s kitchen. Watching over it all is a portrait of a squinting, cigarillo-smoking, poncho-wearing Clint Eastwood…