I first stumbled across the Crazy Mountain Inn in Martinsdale, Montana on one of my trail running road trips. I had been through the area once before with a friend, and decided to come back to take a jog with my dogs up in the Castle Mountains. Luckily, the Inn was still open after our 10-mile jaunt up to the ghost town.
There’s nothing like sinking into a chair at a quaint little diner - when you’re exhausted, hot, sticky, and starved - and having a waitress ask, “Would you like to hear our list of desserts made fresh this morning?”
Who would say no to that?
“We have rhubarb pie, peanut butter pie, sour cream lemon pie, sour cream banana pie, apple pie, chocolate cake...”
“This waitress is an angel,” I thought to myself. “And I am in Heaven.”
As fate would have it, I took a temporary housesitting job in Martinsdale just months after my first visit. The Crazy Mountain Inn was now a close neighbor, and the owners - Cheryl, Peter, and Miles Marchi - instantly became great friends.
A few weeks ago, a friend and I sat at the counter silently savoring our desserts when Cheryl mentioned that she was really wanting to go to Oregon in early July to see her newborn grandson.
“But I need someone to work,” she said.
“I’ll help out,” I offered, knowing she needed a vacation. It might even be fun to be the “angel waitress” who gets to read the pie list to weary travelers, I thought.
“Have you ever waitressed before?” she asked.
“Well... mostly just helping you out here over the Holidays,” I said, knowing I was holding back just a little.
Actually, this wasn’t the first time I was asked to waitress while I was a customer sitting at the bar eating dessert. Many moons ago in Boulder, Montana, I became an instant waitress.
“Gosh, darn-it!” I heard the owner-cook-dishwasher curse as she slammed the phone back on the hook. The woman turned around and saw me - the only other soul in the place -eating a piece of cherry pie a la mode.
“My waitress just called in drunk,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ve got a live band tonight, and it’s hunting season... I’m gonna get killed.”
“What a bummer,” I replied, more focused on the perfect flaky crust than the woman’s woes.
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked.
I looked up, saw her looking at me, and choked on my pie.
“Can you waitress?”
“I never have,” I said.
She continued to stare.
“But I guess I probably could...”
“Here’s an apron. There’s the silverware, salad fixings, menus, bleach water...” I followed her though the building, taking notes on the back of an order book.
Within an hour the morgue-like atmosphere of the diner had transformed into a Wild West Saloon. I had no idea what the heck I was doing, but for the most part no one seemed to care or complain.
Everything was just fine until the rancher ordered a side of spaghetti.
The plate was piled high with pasta and red sauce when the cook handed it to me. With a pitcher of beer in one hand and the saucer of spaghetti in the other, I took off across the room like an Olympic speed-walker. I slammed on the brakes directly in front of the rancher’s seat; unfortunately, the spaghetti kept right on going.
The mound of spaghetti slid straight off the dish and landed in the old man’s lap.
And what happened next, I’ll never forget.
The rancher picked up that spaghetti with both hands, flopped it right back onto his empty salad plate, and wiped his fingers off on his jeans.
“Got a mind of its own,” he said, jabbing the fork into the angel hair and twisting. “What’s for dessert tonight?” he added, looking up at me with a wink.
“Well, uh, we have cherry pie, apple pie...”
A good dessert list is a godsend.
For more information about the Crazy Mountain Inn, go to www.crazymountaininn.com or call 406-572-3307 for their current hours.
The Martinsdale Reservoir is beautiful right now with boaters, fishermen, wind-surfers, and kite-surfers taking advantage of the plentiful water and winds. The Bair Museum is also a popular destination. Go to www.bairfamilymuseum.org for their summer schedule.
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