I’m thinking about Asheville again, especially Sunday morning when we ate at Five Points Diner. It was rainy and cold and a little early to show ourselves at the Biltmore. We needed a place to be for an hour or so, and our Airbnb host said Five Points was where the locals ate.

She was right. There were so many locals that we had to wait half an hour to be seated. And once we were, it was at the counter. 

It had been a while since I sat at a counter, tucked into the buzz and clatter of food preparation. The short-order cook never stopped moving. He manipulated the spatula like a symphony orchestra conductor wields a baton, cracking eggs one-handed with a firm stroke followed by a forceful toss of the shells into the trash bin. 

“Cooked in Sight. Must be Right” read the sign on the wall. I’d have to agree.