Seeking food, and finding Dino

He asked us how to spell "ambrosia." In a heavy accent we'd later learn was Greek, he shouted above the head of the paper-goods salesman to our table by the window. "A-m-b-r-o-s-i-a," I piped up. "Ah, yes, thank you! Thank you so very much," he said. "God bless America," He then returned to the argument he was having about the cost of Styrofoam cups.

My husband, Chris, and I were on the last leg of a 4,000-mile motorcycle tour of the Southwest, heading back to Indiana. Two days on flat Kansas asphalt had seemed like two weeks. Silos. Farmland. Silos. Farmland. It was hot. We were tired.

Time for a gas stop before hitting the Interstate. Across the parking lot from the gas station, the sun beat down on a building no bigger than a boxcar. "DINER" stretched across the front of the building in big, red, capital letters. A place obviously designed for the motorist long before Interstates changed the course of history. A few feet from the entrance, a Cadillac of dubious color and vintage slumped in the dust like an old dog.

We parked our motorcycles in a small patch of shade and made our way to the diner. We skirted the Cadillac, pushed through the doors, and found ourselves in a whirlwind.

The proprietor and a salesman were having a heated dialogue about how prices just keep going up and quality just keeps going down - and why is the 16-ounce more expensive now, when the materials are cheaper? We smiled politely, moved past them to a seat, and buried our heads in the menus.

I sneaked a quick look at our host. His hands flew above his wild, gray hair as he tried to explain his point to the salesman in loud and broken English. He caught me looking at him, gave me a huge smile, said he'd be with us in a minute, and went back to his discussion, scowling again.

A moment later, the spelling question. The salesman didn't believe my answer, and walked over to us thumbing a pocket dictionary. He apparently didn't realize I'd been the fifth-grade spelling champ at Edgewood Elementary School. A-m-b-r-o-s-i-a. I retained my crown.

Our table sat near three others, all set with mismatched flatware. No two chairs looked alike. Posters from local organizations, pictures of nameless people, children's drawings, and framed newspaper clippings bloomed across the walls. In the middle of it all, hanging from a red, white, and blue ribbon, was a shiny bronze medal.

The counter with its six red stools was the focal point of the establishment, but no one was seated there except the frazzled salesman. He soon mumbled something, stood, shouldered the door, and was gone. We were alone with the wild man.

If you travel long enough, it happens: You arrive smack in the middle of something bizarre and wonderful, and it's always best to simply hang on for the ride. In Ellsworth, Kan., we had arrived at the Las Vegas Diner.

"I'm Dino," he said. "Welcome to the Las Vegas Diner. God bless America!" He was polite, gracious, calm. A maitre d'. "And you are...?" With some surprise, we gave him our names and then our order. Hamburgers and fries.

As the grill begin to sizzle, Dino shouted from just out of sight, "Hey, you print as good as you spell?" Chris said, "Sure, she can!" I groaned.

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