“Hello there, hon,” a slim redheaded waitress in her early forties said as she breezed by him carrying two plates heaped with food. “Sit anywhere you want. Plenty of room at the counter.”

Henry looked at the stools with the red seat covers and decided he’d been spending enough time sitting on stools lately, so he opted for the corner booth on the right, one of only two booths in the place that wasn’t already occupied by customers. He sat facing the door, a habit his father had gotten him into when he was just a boy. “Better to see trouble coming,” his father had told him on more than one occasion. “Then wish you had.”

Henry took the plastic-coated menu from between the napkin dispenser and the salt and pepper shakers, and looked at the front. It had a sepia-colored photograph of the Teamster Café building from 1901, although the name on the sign read Roman’s Hotel. There was a brief printed history of the café and the building underneath the photo, that included a paragraph about the Donner Party, which had camped only a few hundred feet from where the building now stood just weeks before they were caught in a blizzard up in the Sierras.

“Ready to order there, cowboy?” the redheaded waitress quipped, “Or do you need a little more time?”

Henry was a little surprised that she got to him so soon. How did she sneak up on him? But it didn’t matter, he knew what he wanted before he even walked in the door. “Steak and eggs,” he said quietly without making eye contact. “Rare…over easy. Coffee—black—hash browns and some wheat toast if you got it.”

“We do,” the waitress smiled, taking a pencil from behind her ear and jotting everything down on a small green and white pad she had pulled from the pocket on her apron. “Orange juice or anything else to drink?” Henry looked up. It had been years since he’d had orange juice. In fact, he had almost forgotten it existed. He sat for a second, staring into the waitress’s face. “Best juice in town,” she smiled. “We squeeze it ourselves.”

Annie had a saying about orange juice, and he was trying to recall what it was. “Yeah,” Henry nodded. “I’d have some orange juice, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” the waitress smiled. “And if you don’t like it I’ll buy it for you. How ‘bout that?” A bell rang back in the kitchen, sounding like one of those they use in hotels to summon a bellboy. “Oops, I’ve got an order up.” She stuck the pencil back behind her ear. “I’ll get this right in for you. We’ll have you full up in no time.” With that, she turned and breezed back toward the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Henry said to the back of her head as she walked away. But she was already on to the next thing and didn’t hear him. He glanced back down at the front of the menu. What was it that Annie used to say about orange juice?