Road Trip Number Six--Marina and Big Horace



Strange Cactus-like succulent now growing on my front porch

      Six AM in Marina, California, is not a busy time so we decided to walk down to a taco stand we’d noticed and get some breakfast.  It was closed until ten am, so we went another block to a convenience store to look for breakfast tacos.  They had some of those frozen things with opaque packaging, so you have to buy it to see what it is—the truth being that if you knew what it was, you wouldn’t dare buy it.  I was grousing around the glass-doored freezer when I heard Wayne talking—he had found an audience—surprise, surprise!

     “We’re on a sort of bucket list road trip here,” Wayne was saying to a tall fireman whose polished name plate said “J. Lundgren.” “We’re just running the blacktop, heading up the road to Oregon to see my brother.”

     The fireman—he was some kind of officer-- uniform sharply creased in a military fashion, spit shined shoes, polished brass, the works--said, “Well, what a fine time of the year to do it.  The weather is great this time of year.  Looks like you two are having a good time.”

     “Yeah, but we’re having trouble finding a breakfast taco.  Don’t you all have those here in California?  Hell, they’re on every corner in Texas and you’ve got at least as many Hispanic folks as we do!”

     J. Lundgren said, “You need to go over to my cousin’s place.  It’s just a few blocks from here and he has a breakfast burrito you won’t believe!  He’s an Italian—my cousin by marriage—but he’s all right and makes a great burrito.  Place called “Coffee Mia.”  You can’t miss it—just around the corner and down the block.” 

     Both Wayne and I were intrigued—we came on this trip to discover new places and meet new people.  J. Lundgren gave us detailed instructions and insisted it was an easy walk to Coffee Mia.  Just to be safe, we went back to the motel and got the truck.  Thirty minutes and about two miles later, we pulled up to a strip center with Coffee Mia occupying the front corner space.  There were a couple of tile tables and a few scattered chairs out front on the sidewalk.

     Inside, there were several small tables to the front and left of the space, near the big windows.  All down the right side was a glass counter filled with pastries, pies and a few cakes.  The entire wall behind the counter was covered with a giant menu.  Between the counter and the menu, there was a mousey little lady and a big Italian guy.  The lady took the orders and the Italian did the cooking.  From the menu, it was a combination bakery, Deli, Bistro, Coffee shop, Italian restaurant, Mexican restaurant and neighborhood café, all in one.  There were travel posters on the walls and a chalkboard with daily specials.

     I was discussing the choices of coffee with the mousey little girl when I heard Wayne, who had gone directly to the big Italian, engage in conversation.

     “We’re on a sort of bucket list road trip here,” Wayne said.

     “Well, God love you!” boomed Horace, the Italian.  I knew we were in the right place.

     “A fireman we met told us about this place.” I said.

     “Oh!  That’s Kona Jack.  We call him that because he always wants Kona Coffee.  He’s not Italian, but he’s all right.  Married my wife’s niece.”

     Wayne ordered the breakfast burrito—I hesitated, because it sounded like more than I should be eating, even on vacation.  I decided to order oatmeal.

     “What, you are gonna eat oatmeal when the world’s greatest burrito is on the menu?  What kind of deal is that?” Wayne chided.

     “Maybe he knows that we also serve the world’s greatest oatmeal.”  Pointed out Horace. “What’s the next stop on your odyssey?”

     “I have some friends in Moraga, if you know where that is.  We’ll spend the night with them tonight.”  I answered.

     “Moraga, huh?  Of course I know where it is!  I once ran a tire store in Moraga—beautiful little town.  Saint Mary’s University is there.”  We talked some more while Horace prepared our food.

     The oatmeal was really good.  Not instant and not micro-waved.  Steel cut oats, probably Irish, and cooked long and slow, so that it was rich and smooth and creamy.  Horace gave me my choice of about six different fresh fruits for topping—I chose fresh strawberries and bananas and it was delicious.

     Coffee Mia is open six days a week, from 4:30 AM until 6 PM, and Horace is there all the time.  He gets there at Four AM and leaves at Seven PM and does the rest of his life during his free time.  We had a nice visit with him.  I admire his work ethic and thoroughly enjoyed his restaurant—you can find out about it if you Google “Coffee Mia—Marina, California.”  I still wish I’d had that burrito.  You had to see it to believe it.

     To me, Horace epitomizes the type of person who makes this country great—he demonstrates the ability, ambition, courage and adaptability that have built this nation.  It is interesting that Kona Jack Lundgren thinks Horace is all right, in spite of the fact that he is Italian, and Horace thinks Lundgren is all right, even though he is not Italian… they are both American.   At the risk of sounding silly, I have to admit they make me proud.  They could have grown up in Lubbock.