The Skillet and Morgan's on the Square

February 14, 2020 – The Skillet and Morgan's on the Square

         I was the chauffeur for my husband going to the heart clinic for tests and he could have no breakfast and half way through the tests he had to eat and then return for the final test.  In my mind, I had two possible destinations in mind, one I didn’t think was in business any longer, and my favorite was a perfect destination for a late breakfast – if it was still in existence.

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         I used to work in Spartanburg in the late 1980s and not knowing my way around the city on my first day of work, I simply got in my car at lunch time and drove south a couple of blocks and took a left at the second stop light – when I saw the tallest building downtown – a bank building.  I knew there had to be a sandwich shop in town somewhere.

         I ended up on East Main Street and looking ahead several car lengths, I noticed a sign on the right that advertised The Skillet Restaurant with the letters of 

S K I L L E T spelled out in white against a row of individual black silhouettes of skillets.  I liked the sign, it was cute.  I pulled into the parking lot of the small strip of 3 or 4 store fronts, The Skillet was on the left end bordering a busy street.

         I parked and walked in, my kind of place, a place to disappear in a crowd in a new city.  A place to eat alone, without any fanfare, as a stranger. I was immediately comfortable as the door closed behind me.

         It smelled like hamburgers and freshly brewed coffee.  I saddled up to the twirling chrome stools at the undulating countertop between two total strangers and snagged the menu.  The two waitresses were dashing to and fro and one came up to me as soon as I looked up from the menu.  I had a hamburger and cup of coffee – no big decision on my part.  But, the menu had all day breakfast and the thought of an omelet crossed my mind momentarily, but I went with the “safety net” burger because of the smell of cooking hamburgers.

         That first lunch started my love affair with The Skillet.

         When I got back to the new job at the new office, my new boss asked where I’d gone to lunch.

         “The skillet,” I answered.

         He smiled and asked, “How did you happen to find that place?”

        

         “I just got in the car and drove – first thing I came to. I had a great hamburger.”

         I remember from the look on his face and the tilt of his head to one side, I got the impression he expected that someone had suggested it, or that I knew Spartanburg.  But, that side head tilt made me ponder – I still wonder what he thought.  Did he think I was crazy, or adventurous, or would simply make a good member of the team.

         Over my tenure at Butler, Means, Evins, and Browne, the law office in downtown Spartanburg, I, alone or with another secretary would slide off to The Skillet for a wicked hamburger.  It didn’t take long before I’d be eating a hamburger,and one of my attorneys would be across the room having a burger alone or with a friend.

         I had a handful of haunts in town to eat.  Most days, to economize my dress size and my budget, I’d be brown bagging and I would switch between three places.  I’d drive to the railroad depot and eat, or the water park if it was nice and sit outside listening to the fountain or down behind Converse college and watch the ball players practice on the field.  I kept a folding chair in my trunk for that lunch outing.

         Then, when I was spending money, it was evenly divided between The Skillet Restaurant and a restaurant known as Morgan’s on the Square – across from the banking establishment that handled my affairs. On those days when it was clear weather, year round, I’d walk over a few blocks, cash my check, and then immediately cross the street and lunch at Morgan’s on the Square.  It was my every other Friday treat to myself for being employed and commuting over an hour each way for that job.  I would ask for a seat in the corner to watch people and I’d write personal letters to my Mom or friends while I waited for my lunch and afterwards continue to write to kill the rest of my lunch hour.

         All the attorney’s discovered I spoiled myself on payday down at Morgan’s on the Square – it was a pricey lunch – often I would have a glass of Merlot if my boss attorney was not going to be in the office that afternoon.  [I honestly don’t type that well under the influence of one glass of wine.]

         One day, beautiful sunny day, I walked down, cashed my check and had lunch at Morgan’s on the Square.  Half way through lunch one of those sudden thunderstorms that swept the city in the spring or fall – came fast out of nowhere and it was raining buckets.  I paid my bill and I waited to leave expecting a break in the rain in 15 minutes or so.  I paced back and forth inside the front of the restaurant. I had no umbrella and no rain coat. I would have to wait until it stopped raining.  Even if I had an umbrella, in that type of downpour I’d be soaked to the skin before I got half a block back to the office and I was two and half blocks away.

         The oldest attorney at the firm, Mr. Browne, knew about my every other Friday paycheck routine, of luncheon at Morgan’s on the Square.  He asked the office manager, Margie, to come with him to fetched me.  He parked at the front of the building at the curb, of Morgan’s on the Square, and Margie dashed into the building.

         “Mr. Browne was worried about you. Curb service!” she announced as she dropped back her hooded raincoat.

         I was so surprised, I had been debating telephoning the office . . . then thought I‘d give it another 15 minutes.

         Even running from the restaurant to the waiting curbside car and then scampering from the law office parking lot to the back door – all three of us were half-soaked.

         Talk about a fine southern gentlemen – Mr. Bobbie Browne was that.

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         Coming from the heart clinic I slipped down side streets I’d almost forgotten and hoped my memory served me well.  I slowed as I drove past where Morgan’s on the Square had been, no – wouldn’t work for my husband.

         Then I took a left turn at the next intersection and heading right for the tallest building still, the bank building, and later turned in at the faded sign.  It wasn’t until I swung the door of The Skillet open that I knew we were at “home” for a late breakfast.