Highly recommended if you happen to find yourself on Highway 287 in North Texas.
I would not have thought of having lunch there any time soon. My change in plans presented itself at the airport in Vernon, where I was resting before proceeding to my home airport. I sat in the lounge wide-eyed and watching the people there and all the activity. Witt, the executive director of the American Bonanza Society hovered energetically around everyone. A student taking an oral exam was there, too, and the lineman. Lawrence's assistant was there. He was a young man who taught flight instruction with Lawrence.
"Let's go have a steak," said Lawrence to Mary. "You oughtta come with us," he said to me.
"Yes," said Mary, "You ought to." I was glad to accept the invitation.
Everyone except Witt piled into a crew car parked outside. Hard to know what company built the car, for the paint had peeled and the dents hid any clues to its model.
Just past the main entrance to the airport, the left back tire started to bump. Lawrence turn back to the airport and drove it into the large, WWII era hangar. There, we piled into an equally beat up vehicle, then drove to Chilicothe, fifteen miles away, uneventfully.
The North Texas landscape had just recently turned to its winter look, light browns and muted greens on both sides of the highway. Long stretches of road reminded us that some highways were built long enough and strong enough to land military aircraft, which is an interesting tidbit about Texas history in aviation.
The meal at Love's was fresh and tasty, just like real cooking should be. The ambiance resembled most BBQ places and yet, one can perceive its own strong personality. Highly recommended for the food will embellish the experience.
Not too long afterwards, we piled back into the vehicle. Lawrence had difficulty starting it, though, and tried and tried.
"Rock back and forth," he said. I wondered what he meant by "rock back and forth." The student and Mary did not hesitate, and neither did his assistant, bending at the waist forward and backward in their seats.
"Sideways," said Lawrence. The assistant opened his door, stood outside the vehicle, and pushed to and fro. The car started.
"Lawrence," I said, "how on earth did you figure out this one?"
"I've driven enough beat up cars to know."
His comment made me think about the experiences that flying gives to a pilot, specifically in regard to cars. Every airport is different, some with character and some without; some very wealthy, some in the middle; and some poor. But all have a car available to loan the pilots for them to drive to lunch. MillionAire in Addison provides Mercedes; Oklahoma City provides a Lincoln Continental, purple and beat up, but drivable. At a few airports, you can expect to find a car key underneath the potted plant by the door, and at others, the manager loans his personal car to the pilots.
Luxury car, rattle-trap car, either one can provide a nice experience, particularly if you can find a great place for lunch.
