An ordinary day and extraordinary memory

There was something off about this Perkins. Something askew.

It wasn't one we'd visited before. As a Minnesotan of a certain age, I had a list in my head of Perkins I had known and loved, and most were gone. The Wayzata Boulevard Perkins, the Riverside Perkins, the Nicollet iteration near Cub, all the places that once were lurid orange and brown with gaudy Tiffany lamps, then green and serene after the great makeover —gone.

The Perkins we visited after piano recitals — the one that had the silent clown sitting in the corner threatening to wander over and make balloon animals — that one was still around, but we were on the other side of town. And we had a hankering for Perkins.

We'd just come out of a movie, and a trip to Perkins seemed the natural next step. It used to be like this: You emerged from the theater, and everyone agreed that pie was next, and a bottomless pot of coffee.

It was not, of course, literally bottomless, because that would have meant scalded laps and lawsuits. The phrase meant they would keep it coming. You drank, they brewed and delivered. I remember explaining this to a New Yorker long ago, and he was confused: "They bring the pot? The entire pot? Then they take it back, right?"

Only if it's empty. Then they fill it up and return it.

In these days of seven-buck bespoke joe, the notion of a waitress — in a uniform, mind you — swinging by your table, picking up the pot to test its weight, then delivering another jeroboam of hot brown go-juice seems like something from a lost civilization.

Anyway. As I said, there was something off about this Perkins. A restaurant will have a morning mood, with a buzz; there's the settled, lazy mood of the afternoon, and the casual clatter of dinnertime. This wasn't any of that.

This was unsettlingly silent. The patrons were old and unmoving. The color scheme seemed a bit off. I wondered if we'd actually walked into Perquins, a knock-off that fooled you until you realized that they'd copied everything. "Euro Coin pancakes? What is this?"

The waitress appeared, said nothing, dropped menus, poured coffee, and took the pot. We looked at each other.

"I think we're in purgatory," Daughter said.

Well, if so, it's going to be a long stay, so let's have breakfast, I suggested. Breakfast for dinner is one of those mad, daft indulgences that Perkins permits, and you always wonder why you don't do that more often.

I remembered ribbing my dad when he ordered off the senior menu — you're getting up there, might as well harvest the perks. That was when he passed 55, with 30 years to go. Now I qualified. I had a sudden conviction that I did not want to celebrate this mortal life-marker here, this sudden awareness of Senior Qualification in this weird, inert, un-Perkins Perkins.

We waited until the waitress wasn't looking and made for the door. We drove across town to the post-piano recital Perkins. Bring on the balloon clown! I asked for an off-menu patty melt, and they made it. We talked about the movie and everything else in the world.

It was Father's Day, too many years ago. The best gift possible: Time together and a memory made.

The post-piano Perkins is gone now, and Daughter's off and thriving. But today on the phone I'll ask her if she remembers Purgatory Perkins, and I know she'll say, "Yeah!" Dads will understand; that's all the Father's Day gift you need.