“Thanks for coming out on such a cold night. We need the money,” says the big, affable, totally bald host. “You can sit anywhere you want.” They don’t stand much on formality at Maple Tree Restaurant, especially on a frigid Tuesday night in February with the temperature on the Forsyth building clock across the street holding stubbornly at 15 degrees Fahrenheit.
But in this longtime Lake Street eatery, it’s warm and cozy, which is probably partly why so many regular customers have come out on such a cold night. Comfort food in a comfortable place.
A succession of familiar “How are yous” follow from the front door as diners enter. The enthusiasm of the greetings rises and falls with the level of familiarity. No names are uttered, but you can tell they know one another. “How are you,” the bald guy asks, “besides cold?”
It’s always morning at Maple Tree–or at any rate it’s always breakfast–and there are large reminders printed on green awnings behind the old-fashioned food counter: “Great mornings start with great breakfasts!”
I order an early-evening breakfast of two scrambled eggs and corned beef hash. I also order grits on the side. “No grits after 3 p.m.,” the waitress states firmly as if this were a widely understood, immutable law of the universe–or decreed by the National Grits Association. Grits after 3 p.m.? What, are you kidding?
Well, I don’t want the hash browns and have never liked cantaloupe, so I ask if they have applesauce. “Sure,” she says amiably, scribbling on her pad. “Sorry about the wait.”
There wasn’t much wait, which is why I came here. I’m on my way to Grace Episcopal Church, and there’s just enough time for a quick meal. You can get in and out of Maple Tree, feeling stomach-sated, in a half hour and still make your movie at The Lake–or on this evening, a Handel Week concert in Grace Episcopal’s parish hall.
At the booth behind me, the waitress is clearing the table for an elderly woman. “I feel like I should help you,” the patron says. After years of waiting on others at home, it seems, she still isn’t quite comfortable being waited on in a restaurant.
“Wheel of Fortune” is on one TV screen, perched high by the front windows. Something celebrity-related is on the screen in the back corner by the washrooms. It’s a long, narrow storefront restaurant, so neither is visually intrusive.
Most of the patrons are elderly, and all seem to be living life in the slow lane. This is unpretentious food for unpretentious people. The wholesome heartland, nothing fancy, thanks. Garrison Keillor could write poetry about this place. A couple of elderly ladies, backs bent, clothes riding upward, shuffle past, nodding at each booth, saying, “Hello, hello.”
The place isn’t completely static. One of the waitresses has a strong Latino accent, reflecting a changing population and upward mobility. Ownership has changed here several times, but the rest is pretty constant. One waitress lays out the dessert choices for someone nearby: rice pudding, jello, and vanilla ice cream. You don’t get any more down-home than that. And if that selection doesn’t grab you, you can buy a candy bar from the display case by the cash register on your way out.
On weekend mornings, this place is hopping and the service, by necessity, becomes a little more impersonal, but on a cold February evening, this place is incredibly relaxed, with a camaraderie forged by sharing a severe Midwestern winter.
And surviving it together.
As I leave, the bald guy doesn’t say “Good-bye.” He says, “Take care.”