Tally’s Cafe
Sunlight streams through two walls of windows and falls onto the terrazzo floor, cut into neat squares. The diner sits on the corner of Route 66 in Tulsa, a staple of the community for almost forty years. Decades of crowds have eaten here, including a handful of the rich and famous. Neon signage adorns the walls, complemented by both Elvis and Marilyn Monroe. The room is dressed for Christmas during my visit, with strands of garland and ornaments conveying holiday cheer. Nothing is fancy, and nothing pretends to be. It is a tidy, comfortable sort of kitsch. Here is a place that never stopped being itself.
Tally moves through the space with practiced ease. His smile brightens whenever a new arrival enters, welcoming them with unforced warmth. His accent is soft and indeterminate after so many years in Oklahoma. He stops at each table, giving the patrons his full attention for a brief minute before letting them return to the homemade dishes in front of them. When another guest walks in, he rises to greet them, exchanging a few words, before returning to the seat across the table from me. This is a man who has done this thousands of times. There is a consistency around Tally, a sense that the routine of this place is woven into his nature.
He did not come to America dreaming of polished counters or neon signs, but the desire to feed people and make them feel welcome had taken root long before Route 66 entered his life. Raised in Lebanon, as a young boy Tally began helping his mother cook. He chopped the vegetables; she measured ingredients by sight and by heart. His father owned a 1959 DeSoto, an absolute classic. Tally recalls that they could easily fit nine people into the car, with its massive fenders and the sweeping expanse of a rear seat. With his own country torn apart by war, Tally’s family sent him to America in 1979. Far different from what is shown on TV, there were no beaches and California girls in the middle of Oklahoma. Just heat and loneliness.
Isolated, he wept daily, and flew back home after only six months. But Lebanon was not a safe place for a young man and so Tally’s brother again put him on a plane to Oklahoma. With no other options at this point, Tally committed to building a life his way. And the longer he stayed, the more he found his footing. He spent three months learning proper English; his “Hello, how are you” was commonly met with a confusing “Howdy”. He put his head down and worked; somewhere in those years an old impulse resurfaced. He wanted a place where people could sit, eat, and feel at ease.
Tally spent years working in other people’s kitchens. Moving between Dallas and Tulsa, hotels and steakhouses, he learned the cadence of a restaurant. The flow of the dining room, the detailed speed of the prep line. These years taught him so much more than how to carry plates or take orders. He watched not just the chefs but the owners too. How they handled customers, kept the staff steady. How they dealt with the pressure when the days turned long. Taking it all in, he waited for his next move. It’s a wide jump from waiter to owner, but by the time he returned to Tulsa for the last time, Tally had built a deep understanding of what a restaurant demanded. And he wanted to do it his way.
Tally pauses and jumps up from the table again. “I’m going to get you a cinnamon roll,” he says, disappearing to the back. Moments later he returns with a plate-sized roll covered in shining glaze and sprinkled with a custom concoction. The thing is massive and delightful far beyond what one would expect. The filling is particularly interesting. It has a noticeable consistency to it, thick and sweet, with small chunks of nuts. It’s like the filling between layers of baklava. I comment this and he smiles. Guess where baklava comes from? He goes on to tell me that his best friend is the baker and they’ve worked together for decades. It is not surprising that this man would have a lifelong crew. At the time I could only manage a few bites but I finished the cinnamon roll later in the motel room while processing my notes from the day.
Tally’s opportunity came in 1987 when a small restaurant on Route 66 in Tulsa went up for sale. The previous owner was in trouble with the IRS and no one wanted to pay what he was asking for the business. Folks were trying to buy it for substantially less. Then Tally showed up, inquired as to the price, and called his own brother. A nephrologist, Tally’s brother helped secure the loan for $120,000. Full price, no negotiation. All his lonely nights and long walks to work poured into that one moment.
The building itself dates back to 1935 and has lived multiple lives; a drugstore, grocery store, piano shop, and of course the restaurant Tally had purchased. He immediately got to work pulling up the old carpet to discover the shining floors. He explains that terrazzo is chipped marble and is very durable. He looks down and smiles at the gleam. The pride is evident, and earned. This man poured his life into the diner and after a while it’s hard to separate him from the place. He mentions a second diner he opened several years ago. It’s nice and new, but he prefers this one. I ask if it’s home and he smiles again, a bit wistfully. “It is home,” he says, with a slight nod.
This is more than just a job to him. Most of his hours are spent in this very facility. He laments missing some of his son’s basketball games growing up. He did try to make it to most of them but there was always work to do here. The early years were thin, some days barely covering the bills. He pushed through long shifts without complaint, doing anything needed to keep the doors open. He points to a circular booth in the corner and says that he regularly napped there during breaks between meal times. Before he was able to grow the restaurant into more of the building, there was no office for him to work in so he would count money in the restroom. At least he could close the door and have a few moments to think. Success took time, and with a satisfied smile he recalls the first day he made $5,000. The work shaped the man, and the man shaped the diner.
Each Thanksgiving, Tally serves more than 1300 free meals. It’s the only day the restaurant is closed to paying customers. The tradition dates back to his first years in Oklahoma. Some coworkers invited him to spend the holiday with them in Inola, a small town up the road. When he drove into town, the police officer pulled him over. They didn’t have many visitors and the vehicle was clearly not local. Tally showed the officer the address and was then followed to make sure he found it. He pulled up to the home and found it full of welcoming strangers. They told him the Thanksgiving story while they ate. Everyone took a nap and then woke up to eat again. It was the first time he felt truly at home in America. The desire crystallized in his heart to share that feeling with anyone he could. Tally’s Cafe opened on November the 13th - a Friday. Two weeks later he hosted his first free Thanksgiving. Now, the line stretches out the door and wraps around the building into the back parking lot.
A faint smell of char drifts through the air. Tally says “Someone burned the toast.” He noted it just as a farmer senses rain on the horizon; instinctive and unforced, a quiet reading of something he has known for so long he no longer has to think about it. Then he moves on, rising to greet a couple who have stepped inside. He then goes to another table for a brief chat and to see if they need a refill. When he takes his seat again, I ask if he’s ever going to retire. He shakes his head lightly, “No, this is where I am happy.” It is his life’s work. He took a vacation once, and had a panic attack. This is his community, his place, his people. Tally tells me stories of important visitors. John Boehner, Garth Brooks, Danica Patrick. But he treats everyone like they belong here. “You can’t just go table to table and fake a smile, you have to really know your customers.” He repeats something like this multiple times throughout our conversation. It is clear that Tally’s love is not just the restaurant, but the people it brings him.
The food is excellent, no doubt. The award-winning chicken fried steak is clearly hand breaded, with delicate whorls of crisp batter. A little chew, but not gristly. Basically perfect. Heaping mashed potatoes smothered in gravy. He points at the carrots on my plate, they are his favorite. But beyond all of that, I saw this man for who he really is. An utterly unique and delightful person, running a restaurant with a level of caring and quality that is almost unheard of anymore. It is appropriate that it sits astride the Mother Road, Route 66. Oh, Tally loves old cars too, with a 1969 Oldsmobile and a 1932 Cadillac LaSalle. But I get the sense that he’s living in a form of personal heaven. The day-to-day grind is the price he is more than willing to pay for deep meaning.
Tally gets up to continue his afternoon; the dinner rush will be coming soon. Corrina comes by to refill my drink and let me know that he took care of the bill. I’m honestly not surprised. It is exactly in line with the story that I’ve heard for the past hour. She tells me that he treats everyone like family and always has time and advice for his people. She brings me a box for the remains of my cinnamon roll and shakes my hand.
I came to this corner of Route 66 for pictures of a classic diner. I left with an understanding of a life’s work. Tally is a man complete, willing to do whatever it takes to craft his own meaning. I come away with the sensation that I’ve witnessed something beyond rare. And I’m glad I got to meet him.
