The first thing I noticed were the plates. Thousands of them line the walls. Yellowstone, New York City, Florida, The Parthenon, Independence Hall, Ecuador, Germany, Disneyland, plates from 1953, plates from 1943, plates from 1973, Expo ’67 in Montreal Canada, Mount Rainier, Okinawa, Australia. While I waited for the waitress to bring hot biscuits and honey, the walls provided reading material.
Po Po’s is inconveniently located a few miles off of I-10 West on Waring-Welfare Road in the middle-of-nowhere, Texas. It’s like nowhere else. It was a dance hall built in 1929. On the porch, bootleggers sold shots of moonshine for a quarter or an entire gallon for $3.00. It’s been a family restaurant since the 1950s. The decor is permanently stuck in that Happy Days era.
We stopped for dinner on our way home last week. Bacon claimed he wanted to climb Enchanted Rock, but secretly, I think he planned the excursion just to eat.
It’s pure Texas. The chicken is fried, the iced tea is sweet, and despite geography, the dining room is packed. Bacon isn’t the only one, who believes Po Po’s is worth the trip.