At that time, there was one called The Chat 'N Chew. It was an old style diner. The grill was in the main part of the restaurant, and a full length counter with swiveling stools lined it. Booths stretched the length of the restaurant by the windows.
Whenever someone asked me about the interesting names of Malad restaurants, the Chat 'N Chew was the one that always made them smile. The food was exceptional there, but the name was fun. It was typical of our town.
During the time when Ann and I dated in high school, we always went there for a steak after a movie or dance. It always shocked me that Ann did not put ketchup or steak sauce on her cut of beef.
She never said anything about not liking it. I never found out about that preference until after I married her. I still find that funny, not that people should not feel a craving for something to spill on their steak but that I should think that everyone drowned their beef in artificial flavoring like I did and still do.
The second restaurant was the Dude Ranch Cafe. This one brings back memories. It also was like an old style diner, although the kitchen was in the back.
Their pies are still fantastic. Whenever I can, I buy a Boysenberry or Gooseberry and take it home for us, especially when we expect visitors.
And their corn chowder is still incredible, although I found a recipe that tastes more like how I remember it did when I was young.
When Ann and I lived in Malad, our German guests who came with exchange groups every spring loved to go there in the afternoons for a "slice."
On one exchange, I sent two teachers from Berlin there before us to have dessert first. They wanted to go for a walk, and we had some things to do at home first. I figured we would get there for dinner about thirty or forty minutes later.
They returned angrily within fifteen minutes. "What's wrong?" I looked at both teachers. Both were angry.
"We ordered our pie, and the waitress called us bitches." He described the waitress, a former student of mine at the high school who would never have done anything offensive. Both Helga and Juergen's eyes flashed with resentment at being treated so poorly. I told them we would drive there for dinner, but they were tense and uneasy. I could tell they wanted to resolve the problem. They wanted a taste of justice instead of pie.
As soon as we sat down in our booth at the Dude Ranch Cafe, my former student came to our table. "I was wondering where you went." She looked at the two teachers, hoping to find out what was wrong. Helga smiled and laughed politely. "The two of them left after they ordered pie. I thought they were sick or something," my student continued. The two teachers glared at her.
I began my order, after looking through the menu. "Could I have a Farmer's Special with corn chowder instead of salad?" I looked up at the young girl, trying not to smile at the two angry teachers in front of me. I knew there had been a misunderstanding, because this girl never offended anyone. 
"You betcha!" the waitress said, smiling at everyone while trying to break the ice. She wrote down all our orders on the small green pad in her hand, stuffed it in her apron and walked back to the kitchen at the back of the restaurant. Both teachers shared a moment of bliss at the thought that I had been mistaken and that they really had been insulted by the waitress in question. I could not understand what they seemed to pleased about at the moment.
"See, she called you a bitch too," Juergen said. His eyes still flashed anger and resentment. I sipped water from my glass and choked a bit. Ann and I both laughed. And the two teachers were angry at us too, until we spent a little time talking to them about the Malad dialect and words people from Malad use that sometimes can be confused with something else, just like they do in Germany.After that, the two teachers went to the restaurant and had the same waitress bring them pie every day. There was no problem.
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