Editor’s Note: Marlow will be traveling with his lovely bride W for the next few weeks, and he mentioned he was not taking the battered Smith-Corona typewriter with him. I have another couple of his ruminations on older and changing times in the Great Midwest. As you know, that has always been a topic of interest to the many exiles from Eden. Then I may have to go back to working for a living. Another milestone on a thoroughly unconventional biography of a Great American: RADM Donald “Mac” Showers. It is exciting getting to the final first draft manuscript!

– Vic

I first visited this place on a cold day of winter of 1970 after a 9 hour night crew shift to eat breakfast before going home to shower, pick up my books and go to my morning classes.

From the outside it was hard to tell one was at the White House Restaurant unless one knew what they were looking for. It was catty-corner from Adams High School, from which my grandchildren would graduate more than forty years later. The White House’s sign read nothing more than “24 HRS COFFEE SHOP 24 HRS.” The all cap letters were cut out of plywood and laced with a core of neon light. The building’s face was constructed from a hodgepodge of brick, limestone, wood paneling, and metal siding. Half of the restaurant’s interior was a worn-looking kitchen, part behind-the scenes, part within clear view of the long formica topped counter. It was 100% function, zero form.

Upon entry, the smell of grease and cigarettes hovered below the low, yellowed ceiling like a fog. The galley counter was cramped, and patrons straddled spinning vinyl stools waiting for food or to order. Greasy stainless steel flashed the areas behind the counter, a few corners of which were covered with gunk that looked like the build up had been there for at least twenty years. No one seemed to care, since the coffee was plentiful and 50 weight strong. Drunk chatter filled the air, interrupted by the sizzle of grilled fatty strips of bacon and sausage patties popping away. Students slurred clumsily about the war, turning green as they struggled to finish their late night hangover cure meals. Others, perhaps old timer locals, huddled over black coffees, jabbering on about local gossip, or such and such “dumb son of a bitch.”

Over the decades according to my daughters, the plastic panel walls would come to bear messages, many directly applied with Sharpie markers: “Smoking establishment, must be 18 to enter”, “Please pay when served NOW, Thank You”, and “Coffee ½ price with breakfast”. Other black markers had updated the 25 cent rises in the price of coffee over the years.

As the sign said, you paid first and then watched the server ring your order up on the grease-coated register keypad then break open your eggs. I never got sick after eating there. I heard that neither the owner or the women who operated the place during the grave shift ever had the money, time or foresight to get the place looking good. What finally cleaned it up was a fire in 2012 that destroyed the inside several years after the owner-operator had retired.

As I remember it, Gag-n-Heave’s counter was in front of a big griddle. Not much of anything adorned the off white walls that were stained with decades of grill grease and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t a greasy spoon that cut corners to save costs. Servings were large and ingredients fresh not frozen nor from a can.

If the inebriated got sick, the unlined parking lot full of haphazardly parked cars of the regulars awaited them. Should you throw up in the bathroom, you were banned for life. Meanwhile as chunks blew outside, conversations about politicians playing dirty, how much chid support they owed to a first wife as compared to their second, and what plates should be ordered went on as nothing else else mattered in the world.

During my time, the menu was diner standard with several tips of the hat to local ethnic tastes from eastern Europe (kielbasas, latkes, etc) to a Mexican omelet in honor of the migratory Hispanic pickers who tooled through town every summer to harvest local farm produce. What made G-n-H memorable were two things – it was opened 24/7 (long before 24/7 went country wide outside of the big cities) and it catered to everyone.

Chicken-fried steak? Yup, hand-breaded and piping hot, smothered in perfect cream gravy. Omelets? Their flagship dish — the largest, richest one ever — consisted of countless buttered eggs, bacon, ham, green peppers, hash browns and onions and topped with thick brown sausage gravy. Toast? Sweet American white, wheat and rye breads delivered fresh daily from a local bakery. The strawberry jam? Homemade.

Old timer locals called it the Gag and Heave. Some said it was in tribute to the last names of the original owners which began with a G and an H. I can tell you that the G owner was daily seen in and around the kitchen with his cigar in hand supervising, training new employees and cooking. Even into his late 70s. he would come in early to make the day’s donuts.

Factory workers loved the place so much they brought their familes there, their teenaged kids would bring their dates there, and birthdays and anniversaries were celerbrated there. It was just what folks did back then. When the town hit hard times with the loss of industrial jobs, the Gag-n-Heave’s clientele shifted. It began to attract a younger crowd of college students. They nicknamed it in the mid 70s after one of their more favorite but stern griddle chef/waitresses – Fat Shirley’s.

My daughters frequented the place during their time in college two decades after my first visit and reported that Shirley and her successors took no crap from anyone. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, family man, old, young, black, white or brown were treated the same and were expected to behave. No swearing, yelling or stinking. The authority these middle aged women working the graveyard shift waving greasy mason’s trowels had was absolute.

It was a true safe zone with good food, cheap, fast and round the clock.

Late night parking and dining adventure always available

I loved Gag and Heave ladies in their hairnets, they were beautiful to me
I loved Gag and Heave ladies in their hairnets, they were beautiful to me
I loved Gag and Heave ladies in their hairnets, serving dinner to me
Yodalady hooo, apple pie, me-oh-my-oh . . . .

I loved their burgers, fish-n-chips, fried taters-n-eggs, but, please, no peas
I loved their burgers, fish-n-chips, fried taters-n-eggs, but, please, no peas
Oh, what the hell, gimme a side of fruit cocktail, and a cookie if you please.
Yodalady hoo, apple pie, me-oh-my-oh . . . .

I shoulds bought my wife a Gag-n-Heave hairnet, it’d made her look so cute
I shoulda bought my wife a Gag-n-Heave hairnet, it’d made her look so cute
She coulda worn it with her birthday suit
Yodalady hoo, apple pie, me-oh-my-oh . . . .

I loved my Gag and Heave ladies in their hairnets, they were always good to me
I loved my Gag and Heave ladies in their hairnets, they were alwasys good to me
I loved my Gag and Heave ladies in their hairnets, serving good food to me
Yodalady hoo, apple pie, me-oh-my-oh . . . .

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