Candacy A. Taylor

Candacy A. Taylor
Counter Intelligence
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The waitress’s ear-piercing twang, mixed with the reverberating ring of the kitchen’s bell, creates the atmosphere that diners have marketed for decades. Grease carries the burnt smell of the range, while the aroma of frying bacon permeates the senses. You know breakfast is cooking when you hear the hollow crash of the frying pan hit the grill. The smells of bacon grease and watered-down coffee, mixed with blueberry pancakes, curdled fat, and fried starch, drift in the air. It’s not just the odors but the cacophony of clanging silverware against thick glass cream-colored plates laid over the chatter of patrons—all mixes in like a syncopated jazz riff. This environment with legs, mouths, arms, eyes, hands, and the silent breeze of Esther rushing by stirs up to a breakneck pace in a centrifugal spin. All managed and controlled by the well-seasoned waitress who raced to our tables, quarreled with the grill guy, and brought humor and culture to the American roadside dining experience.