The locals take a quick glance as the three of us walk in the door, but they don't put down their forks or newspapers. We take a seat in the nearest red vinyl chairs and faux oak table and turn our off-white ceramic mugs right-side up.
The Cheyenne Cafe is the kind of place where old men trade bales of hay for cords of fire wood in between bites of hot cakes and you politely call your twelve-year-old waiter, Sir. Food is the first priority, but service and decor are not far behind. I notice our waiter's mother pointing out my buddy, Brand, as he tips his coffee mug at a 45-degree angle to the sky. Her fingers holding the shaka, she tips her wrist back, mimicking the cue to our young waiter. He's wearing a belt buckle larger than the trowel I used during my morning constitutional, and tops off our mugs with piping hot coffee. The only creamer is powdered, which is fine because coffee is better enjoyed better black here.
I'd ordered the Portuguese Scramble based solely on the name. In my investigation of rural sporks, I've consumed many a scramble, but none of the portuguese variety. The scramble obviously included a side of biscuits and gravy, but as we mow through our heavy helping, the young Sir delivers a plate to a man wearing Sam Elliot's mustache. We watch him, not so much impressed with the mustache as we are the hubcap-sized plate hash browns smothered in gravy. I'd seen the option, but opted instead for the traditional biscuits; a choice I don't fully regret for the reasoning that it only means I must come back to the Cheyenne Cafe.
The Greasy Spoon is a selection of establishments off the beaten path you're not likely to find in any travel magazine, dining guide or even Yelp. All suggestions are best served with dirt under your fingernails after long days yonder.