Steak & Eggs in the desert

I don't usually eat steak and eggs. Watching the cholesterol. But Mary is away this weekend and I'm on my own. I went out on the art tours yesterday, and got to chat with folks I haven't met before, and this morning, feeling the need for a little more socializing, I decided to have breakfast at The Palms, on Amboy Road.

The Palms is an institution around here. A good place to run into people. How many times have we seen people pulled over on the side of Amboy, taking photos of the mountains enclosing our valley in the blue security of their weight, and we think, they must think this is the most deserted spot on earth? They should go to The Palms.

This morning, guys were dismantling equipment from the stage out back. In the back parking lot, folks car camping were stoking up their charcoal grills or heading to the two funky outhouses. Today is the day after one of the regular fun festivals that The Palms pulls together, bringing bands from L.A. and other parts out for a little musical adventure in the high desert. Run by the Sibley family (brother James and sister Laura are in the house band), the bar-restaurant-music venue is one of those hip-anarchic-laid back places you hear about, but never manage to run into, unless you live in Wonder Valley or any of the communities out here, like Twentynine Palms, Joshua Tree, or Yucca Valley.

I run into Almut, an old friend from the mid-80s in L.A., and she introduces me to Teresa Sitz, who is the rep on the local advisory council. I've met Teresa a number of times over the past year, but we never remember each other! But she remembers seeing me yesterday at the Glass Outhouse art fair, a little unofficial, makeshift add-on to the Hwy 62 Open Studio Art Tours taking place this weekend. She invites me to sit at the table with her and her friends. Ordering my steak and eggs at the bar, someone else says, "didn't I see you at the Glass Outhouse yesterday?" Everybody is really friendly here. When you live in such an isolated place, where everyone is so spread out across the valley, people are generally just happy to recognize a familiar face, or introduce themselves if they don't know you already.

I order my breakfast, get a small cup of intensely bitter Café Americano and sit down at the table. Teresa's friends are my age -- mid-50s, mid-60s, retired, living on the cheap in the desert (so I say, what do I know?). Teresa is telling someone about a program for free, or cheap, firewood for people without money. And then there are the folks in their forties, probably locals, in for breakfast or an early beer, long hairs, artists, self-employed (again, what do I know?). And then there are the music folks, musicians, people in for the event, mid-30s, composing themselves for the long drive back to L.A. or maybe another day out here (what do I ... ?). You've got to remember that the Palms is a small place and it's only 10:30am. The place is buzzing with people chatting at the bar, or hanging out in the back room over breakfast in the booths or the long picnic table, like me, or wandering in and out of the back where the stage is.

Brother James comes out of the kitchen with a breakfast plate, looking glinty-eyed (Teresa says none of them got any sleep last night because of the music fest) and walks outside, looking for whoever ordered steak and eggs. Teresa grabs his arm when he wanders back in and directs him to me. I'm pretty hungry by now. The steak's a little gristly but for $5.50, including two eggs, home fries and a buttery chunk of toast, what's there to complain about?

So Teresa and I chat about local issues ... tax increases for road maintenance and the local fire station ... the small fire station about a half-mile from our house is closing down ... Teresa is worried about what that will do to people who managed to get home-owners' insurance ... they'll lose it without a fire station nearby. But will the new fire tax keep the fire station around? Teresa has her doubts. Then she gets up to leave and Almut sits down and we talk about the book she is reading. She's in a book club; the only thing the group reads are books about the Mojave desert. There's a lot to read about, if you've been out here for a while and gotten a taste for the hidden complexities of desert life. But Almut has a drive to L.A., to hear the philharmonic playing a concert of baroque music, so she leaves. Now there's a guy sitting at the old piano playing jazzy versions of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and what kind of sounds like the Charlie Brown theme.

The backroom is now emptied out and after I've sopped up the last of my gooey egg yolk with the piece of toast, I go to the bar to pay my bill. There's only a few folks drinking coffee or beers at the bar and the bartender says the crowd has left to go see Mark Heuston doing an aluminum casting demonstration at his studio, another practicing local artist on the art tour. I saw Mark's demo yesterday. Impressive. All done with tools Mark makes himself. And Mark has one prosthetic arm, a fact not to be overlooked. The bartender and I chat for a couple minutes about other highlights on the art tour and I leave him a tip and go back to the backroom.

The guy is still playing the piano. I tell him he's sounding pretty good and he proceeds to tell me how joint trouble in his hands keeps him from playing the piano more. He's now playing drums for therapy, says pounding on the drums loosens his hands! So be it.

I go out the back door, check out the stage where the four hip-looking guys who were dismantling equipment are now sprawled about, laughing and chatting. The car campers are still doing their thing in the back parking lot. I get in my car and head home. Steak and eggs in the desert. Nice way to start the day.