Trays of Our Lives

He was amused by the restaurant's eccentricities — gooey cinnamon butterfly rolls wrapped in wax paper; carrot salad made with marshmallows; and a chicken-and-biscuits lunch, which was more like a brothy chicken soup than a stew.

At Jerre Anne's, you have to appreciate the fact that the food is homemade — like some meals one makes at home, certain dishes are better than others. My beef stroganoff was made with hamburger and elbow macaroni and tasted a lot like Hamburger Helper, which evoked a completely unexpected twinge of nostalgia for me. And not a good one. Similarly, my side dish of scalloped eggplant was a fluffy spoonful of eggy soufflé that reminded me of one of my own madcap culinary experiments with vegetables. Fun, but never to be repeated.

Desserts were quaint, old-fashioned items such as baked custard and apple pie swimming in butter sauce. The cherry pie needed more cherries (it was like a cherry-jam pie), but the coconut-cream pie was fabulous, with a terrific crust.

"At a buffet," Patrick said as we drove out of town, "you can eat all you want, and the food is just about the same. Why go to a cafeteria?"

Which, sadly, told me everything I needed to know about why so few of them remain.