It’s Only a Pale Moon

Previously unpublished essay

It was 1977. Jimmy Carter was in his first year as President of the United States, and the Pale Moon supper club—on the west outskirts of Centerville, Iowa—was the pinnacle of fine dining in Appanoose County. The only real competition they had was from the Green Circle south of town on Highway 5.

My family tended to prefer the Green Circle, primarily because it was only a ten-minute drive from where we lived on the farm—as opposed to a twenty-minute drive to the Pale Moon. Both places specialized in what nine-year-old me saw as exotic food served in exotic surroundings. Each establishment had its attractions.

From the gravel parking lot of the Green Circle, you’d enter via a single metal-framed glass door—like the kind you might find going into a Denny’s or Walgreens. From there, you’d walk up a gently sloping hallway covered in green Astroturf, presumably to remove stray bits of snow and/or mud from your shoes before entering the establishment.

At the top of the ramp, you turned right to face an elegant wooden door with a small diamond-shaped window at adult eye-level. Through here, you’d enter into a dimly-lit lobby covered by dark burgundy wall-to-wall shag carpet and decked out with an ancient cigarette vending machine and large metal coat rack.

The hostess would then whisk you away to the dining room where you’d be seated facing an enormous plate glass window that looked out on some sort of evergreen-enclosed rock garden that featured a ceramic gnome with one missing ear, a scattering of stunted boxwood bushes, and an anemic pair of hostas trying their best.

The most fascinating feature of the garden was what appeared to be a small man-made pond with a rock formation rising from the center. It was apparent by the dark stains streaking the sides that it was a “waterfall” that hadn't actually seen any running water since the pump broke—likely sometime during the Johnson administration.

The pond itself looked like a miniature concrete arroyo in between rainy seasons. The only thing left was a bit of mud and a faded green garden hose lying abandoned on the bottom. Where had all that water gone?

It struck me as odd that no one commented on this. I recall asking my mother once why there was no water in the pond. She just gave me a frown and a subtle little shake of her head that indicated this was something we didn’t discuss. Nothing more was said about this waterless water feature. Ever.

The menu was equally fascinating. It was delivered with a flourish as the waitress opened it before handing it to you. It had evidently been typed up on the old Olivetti manual typewriter that sat on the desk in the “manager’s office”—tucked behind the front counter dominated by an ancient brass cash register. The menu pages were inserted into some sort of transparent vinyl folder that, by 1977, was held together with hastily-applied lengths of yellowing Scotch tape.

I would make a great show of perusing the list of specials and entrees, but in truth, I always ordered the same damned thing: The Seaman’s Platter. To me this was the acme of decadence. My mother was a good cook, but the fare at home was hearty and simple. Meatloaf. Mashed potatoes. Fried chicken. Polish sausage and sauerkraut. She viewed seafood with more than a little suspicion, so consequently this was my one chance for a bit of culinary devil-may-care.

The platter featured a handful of battered-covered shrimp, no doubt fresh off the Sysco truck, fried in the same Oil of the Ages that had been used to prepare the French fries, onion rings, mozzarella sticks and hush puppies the restaurant served its guests. I would assume the oil was, in fact, changed regularly, but it was probably best not to look under that rock.

It was served with a side of “cocktail sauce” that, in truth, was Heinz ketchup with just enough horseradish stirred in to give it an attitude. It was ketchup with a vaguely sordid backstory—ketchup that probably knew where Jimmy Hoffa was buried, when you got right down to it—but you knew better than to ask.

Meanwhile, my mother would order the “lady’s portion” of spaghetti and meatballs while my father would splurge on the prime rib, requesting it “medium, but on the done side.” It was his way of telling the waitress, “Surprise me—but don’t you dare surprise me.” It was a common way for men of that era to order their beef—an era deeply suspicious of flavor.

Above all of this, though, the thing I recall most vividly was the owner. In an attempt to class the joint up, he would occasionally avail himself of a concertina and go about—squeezing and wheezing—from table to table. Attired in a powder-blue sport coat that looked like a cast-off from the Lawrence Welk show, he would serenade patrons with off-key renditions of old standards like “Stardust”, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”, and “Moon River.”

* * *

Speaking of “Moon River,” occasionally my parents would decide that we needed a change of venue. So, on a Friday night we’d all get gussied up—me in my sweater vest and dress jeans, my sister in a pink skirt with little strawberries embroidered on the hem—and pile into the family car for the drive to Pale Moon.

It sat on a small frontage road on the left side of Highway 2, heading west out of town. The building was a fairly subtle affair compared to the Green Circle—which at the time featured a big sign out front with flashing theater marquee-style lights topped by a huge green sphere (because of course it did).

By contrast, the Pale Moon was a two-story structure clad in dark brown wood with the name in big letters on the front, next to a wood cutout of a crescent moon and what appeared to be a martini glass and a scattering of stars.

Instead of a garish sign covered in blinking lights, the owners of the Pale Moon had splurged on a genuine concrete parking lot on one side of the building, where the entrance was located. Like most public buildings in Iowa—in a nod to the bitterly cold winter weather—it had an outer and inner door to prevent the wind from barging its way into the dining room.

Stepping into the lobby/bar area of the Pale Moon was like walking into what I imagined Elvis Presley’s living room must have looked like back in its heyday. The floor was covered with “indoor/outdoor” carpeting—a kind of low pile carpet that was presumably easier to keep clean.

Inexplicably, though, the walls were covered in an off-white shag. This always struck my kid brain as a classy design choice, but looking back, I now understand why the entire place always smelled vaguely like an ashtray soaking in a sink full of beer. Adult me recalls this scene and I imagine myself, attacking those oddly upholstered walls with a rented Rug Doctor (“steaming mad at dirt!”)—scrubbing and vacuuming until my fingers bleed.

In the main dining area, we were greeted by a large room paneled in blonde maple floor-to-ceiling wainscoting. It was illuminated by low-wattage lights affixed to a chandelier that appeared made from an old wagon wheel.

Once we were seated and presented with menus, our waitress would take drink orders and disappear into the kitchen while we surveyed the choice of entrees. She was a kindly, efficient lady who spoke English with a thick Italian accent, and looked as if her first job might have been bussing tables at The Last Supper.

Presently, she would return with our beverages and the key item that I was anxious to dig into: the relish tray. This was delivered with reverence, almost as if carried by cherubim. No one ever ordered this per se—it simply arrived, like a visitation.

It consisted of crinkle-cut carrots (because the owners had invested in that industrial slicer in 1962, by God, and they’d be damned if they’d replace it now), celery that had been marinating in salt water since sometime around Eisenhower’s first heart attack, and old radishes with the approximate texture and moisture of sandstone.

The crudités were served on an oval plastic tray fashioned to look like bamboo and accompanied by a plastic wicker basket of individually wrapped pairs of saltines—and precisely four slices of white bread with four pats of margarine. Margarine, mind you, not butter, God forbid. This was 1977, after all—were you trying to have a heart attack?

The pièce de résistance, though, was the white pleated paper cup, looking for all the world like an oversized version of the medicine cup the nurse used for your morning meds. It would arrive on the tray of crudités, packed full of… ham salad.

Ham salad must be understood properly in this context. It was the Midwest’s answer to aioli. It served as both a dip for the vegetables and a spread for the crackers. Not the bread, heaven forbid. That was what the margarine was for. Only a heathen would spread ham salad on the bread.

They didn’t give you enough to do that anyway, and to ask for more would undoubtedly have invited a wordless look of judgement from the waitress, as she trudged back to the kitchen for a second paper cup of the stuff.

Ingesting large quantities of ham salad was only considered socially acceptable if done in the privacy of one’s own home—preferably at 2 a.m. while standing over an avocado green kitchen sink, the fluorescent light humming faintly above, tastefully hidden behind the chocolate brown dust ruffle your Aunt Ada made as a housewarming gift in 1971.

Finally, the waitress would return to take our dinner order. It was always the same thing as the Green Circle. Prime rib, medium but on the done side for Dad. The “lady’s portion” of spaghetti and meatballs for Mom. My shrimp basket and my little sister’s hamburger and fries from the “children’s menu.” Frankly, there wasn’t a nickel’s worth of difference between the food at Green Circle and Pale Moon.

I’d always assumed we just came for the ham salad.

* * *

Well into the 1980s, both of these supper clubs continued doing a brisk business, particularly around special occasions like Easter, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July and so on. One day in particular they benefited from was the first Saturday in May when my local high school would hold the Senior Prom.

The tradition was all of the couples would go out together for a "fancy dinner" before the dance at the high school gymnasium. We would dress up in tuxedos and fancy gowns—hair, makeup the works. For my senior prom, I went with my best friend Noelle. She wore a stunning peach-colored gown.

Most of the guys in my class would rent a basic black tuxedo with a black or red cummerbund and call it good. Me being me, however, I decided my tuxedo needed to match Noelle’s gown.

So there I was, walking into the Green Circle on Prom night with permed hair, wearing my snazzy heather gray tuxedo, white tuxedo shirt with French cuffs and cufflinks, and (drum roll, please) matching peach bowtie and cummerbund. In hindsight, the only thing missing from the outfit was a baseball cap that said—in pink neon lettering—“We're Just Friends!” In 1987, clothes were not the only thing in my closet.

We were seated at one of the tables right in front of the plate glass windows. It was Reagan's second term in the White House. The hostas were still fighting the good fight. The boxwoods looked as scraggly as always.

And the water feature?

Still as dry as those radishes on the Pale Moon’s relish tray.

Maybe I should have taken Noelle there instead?

After all, I really did love their ham salad.

* * *

Years after I’d moved away, time finally claimed both of Centerville’s supper clubs. Tastes moved on, chain restaurants made their way into Appanoose County, and most people preferred to eat dinner in a more informal setting.

Still, it seems a shame sometimes.

The Green Circle has long since been razed to the ground and the area is now dominated by a Walmart Super Center. The Pale Moon eventually acquired new ownership and continues to operate as a bar and restaurant after a fashion. It’s been a long time since I’ve been inside, so I can’t vouch for the carpeted walls, but here’s hoping.

But something tells me… the ham salad isn’t what it used to be.

* * *

(To the tune of “Paper Moon”)

Say it’s only a Pale Moon

Sailing over ham salad seas

With carrots like rubber bands

They serve to you and me…

Shag carpet upon the wall

And a waitress from Italy

Only four pats of margarine

Allowed for you and me…