According to Wikipedia, pie is “a baked dish usually made from a pastry dough casing that…contains a filling of various sweet or savory ingredients.”  In other words, crust makes the pie, and since the creation of flour and baked grains goes way back in time, pies are indeed very old.  Pie has been traced to the Neolithic or New Stone Age more than 9,000 years ago when honey was wrapped in a grain cover, an early form of the French galette.  But it took the Greeks to create the first flour, water, and fat crust and to wrap it around meat, quite an adaptable meal for long sea journeys.  Apple pie is most likely NOT an American invention since apples originated in the Middle East.

So, for me, seeking the pie-in-the-sky as my life’s goal comes with profound historical significance.  As a geologist, I’ve trusted my fate to the next rock outcropping and city-limit sign boasting 328 souls and an elevation of 6,050 feet.  I always look left and right as I slow my vehicle for that tiny café, a ma and pa place promising a five pointer.  Let me be frank about my quest.  Good pie is hard to come by, but through the years, working in much of the American West and occasionally in the east, I can recall some delicious experiences of crustal proportions supporting a sedimentary mixture of sweet delight.

I’ve always had an infatuation with pies, especially fruit-filled ones.  I love the look and smell of those fresh-baked beauties, the challenge of a perfect crust, and that complex but sweet taste.  A five pointer requires a semi-sweet fresh fruit filling with a marginally gelatinous texture, and a thin, flaky, not-so-sweet crust.  There’s nothing worse than a lousy commercial assembly-line pie concocted in a factory facility by uninterested staff.  Pies conger up small town America for me, family cafes and truck stops or county fairs where pie makers are women in their 60s or 70s, proud bearers of secret family recipes, skills passed down from grandmothers and a special added ingredient, or just a personal touch resulting in a unique flavor from a bygone era.  I’ve tasted good pies in cities, but rural America has added ingredients, space and special people blended together for maximum flavor.  Pies are also about travel, hitting the road and stumbling on an exceptional place, a lonely café on the right side of Nowhere, that perfect storm of ingredients and atmosphere, an environment that makes a great taste even greater.

It was late morning and the sun’s reflection from the distant green metal sign was painful to my eyes.  I hadn’t even seen an indication that a small town was near, but when I reached the sign and read the words, my expectations were fulfilled:  Pie Town.  Two words, not one, a clear message that pie was important here.  I had just crossed the Continental Divide at 7,600 feet.  I was driving west on US-60 in far western New Mexico about 150 miles southwest of Albuquerque and only 50 miles from the Arizona line. Here, the Nation’s spine is not mountainous, just high desert, mostly a hilly scrub of sage, buffalo grass, and Chamisa, a few small scattered mountain ranges dotting the distant landscape—Datil Mountains, Sawtooth Mountains, Escondido Mountain.  I released the gas pedal and slowed to 45 mph, suddenly realizing I would be through Pie Town in a few seconds.  I passed some derelict buildings, a campground on my left, a collection of old ranch windmills, some old utility vehicles, and then I saw it, a faded sign atop the clapboard building:  Pie-O-Neer Café.  The paint was fading, but the message was clear.  I pulled off the road on the right into the post office parking lot.  Pie Town, NM 87827.

I’ve known about Pie Town for several years, and visiting it has reached a position of stature on my domestic bucket list.  I was fascinated by an old black and white photo of the back end of a jalopy, a beat up Model A stacked with luggage and a perforated cardboard box marked chicks lashed to the rear.  The image was titled Pie Town, New Mexico 1946.  That image has been burned in my brain ever since I viewed it while visiting the New Mexico History Museum in Santa Fe.  I had to get Pie Town.

The story goes that Pie Town got its official start when Clyde Norman, a WW-I vet wandered into the area in search of gold in 1922, but he did better selling doughnuts and supplies to cowboys and the occasional traveler that stumbled in.  Doughnuts eventually morphed into pies, and by the time Clyde retired, several pie dispensaries were prospering.  Today, three pie offerings are open to the public.  I selected the Pie-O-Neer Café because it seemed to bleed with history:  the old wooden frontier porch and entry way, the peeling paint, and of course, a parking lot full of out-of-state plates, a sure sign of high quality pie.

Since retiring as a geologist, I had been out of the official pie tasting business.  My friends, colleagues, and fellow pie colleagues had dispersed, and after all, I was trying to stay in shape.  But in all honesty, I hadn’t really abandoned pies.  My recent visits to the Drifter Cook Shack and Bunkhouse at the High Plains Homestead near Crawford, Nebraska, the Black Rock Café in Black Rock, Arizona, and the Little Montana Truck Stop in Grassrange, Montana, suggest that I hadn’t really lost my knack for gustatory pleasures.  Of course I was nostalgic, thinking of my old pie tasting days, and very conveniently, I just happened through town during lunch time.  I parked, and with some anticipation, walked across the lot, up the steps, and walked inside.

The large airy dining room had lots of windows and was brightly lit by a noonday sun.  I sensed a friendly place, more like a home than a restaurant.  A prominent counter with six stools dominated the back of the room.  The walls were covered with old photos of Pie Town and its early inhabitants, some advertisements from the 20s and 30s showing pie appreciation, and various examples of pie paraphernalia.  No one looked up when I entered the room; they were too busy eating and conversing.  The server, a young energetic woman in her 30s, handed me a menu and told me to sit anywhere.  I chose a table in the far corner across from the counter near a large antique buffet supporting several pie plates.  I sat down with my back to the wall.  I wanted a commanding view of the room and close proximity to some of the most beautiful pastries I’d ever seen.  I counted five glass pie plates filled with Americana right out of a Norman Rockwell painting.  The pies were in various states of disappearance, creamy, crusty, flaky confections waiting patiently to be eaten.  I memorized the lineup from left to right: cherry, blueberry, apple crisp, peaches and cream, and chocolate cream.  The buffet was backed by a mirror, giving the visual impression of an army of pies.  I stared for a moment, daydreaming, and then wondering if I could try a slice of each.  I wandered back to my table and studied the lunch menu realizing that vegetable soup was the only logical option when dessert is the main course.

I attempted some light-hearted humor with the server, but she inserted a reality check by telling me to reserve a piece now to ensure a first choice.  I selected the single crust cherry, settled back to watch the customers, and catch up on local news in the weekly gazette.  Customers were entering and leaving.  Newcomers enthusiastically walked to the pie counter and pondered the offering.  An older man in shorts was particularly excited about his visit to the Pie-O-Neer.  He was obviously a tourist, probably from Phoenix, and was impressed.  He asked lots of questions about pies, how they were made, and about Pie Town.  Then I noticed the brawny-looking Europeans, probably Slavs, maybe Serbs, sitting nearby.  They got up and frowned as they walked by to view the display, commenting to the server that pie was invented in their homeland.  They looked like thugs on the verge of pie larceny. They settled on chocolate cream with merange and returned to their table in that anticipatory way as all pie lovers do before eating.

The Pie-O-Neer opened in 1995 when the Knapp family migrated west across New Mexico in search of real pie.  When they saw the old dilapidated Thunderbird Trading Post and the prominent sign that read:  There used to be pie in Pie Town, but there ain’t no more.  For sale.  The rest is history.  Today, Kathy Knapp and her partner, Stan King, manage the Pie-O-Neer with true dedication.  It’s been a family business ever since, with a dedicated following, and was even featured in an issue of Sunset Magazine, Travel + Leisure, and the Best of New Mexico.  Kathy’s motto is: “If you bake it, they will come”.

When my vegetable soup arrived, I realized that Knapp family dedication was spread beyond piedom.  The fresh vegetables were at home in a rich chicken stock, not too salty but full bodied and spiced to my taste.  A warm, fresh baked roll, only minutes from the oven, added an extra flair and was a pleasant surprise.  I gobbled this appetizer in haste while chatting with the thugs at the next table about the Serbian origins of American Pie.  Then the main course arrived, warm to the touch, reheated gently in the microwave to extract maximum flavor.  A mouth watering pleasure that exceeded my expectations!

My first best slice was in The Last Best Place, Dell, Montana, population 195, elevation 6,065 ft.  Dell is a misnomer because a grave error occurred during the railroad era when union Pacific executives inadvertently switched the names Dell and Redrock, in what was then Montana Territory.  The old red brick building and belfry was the most prominent structure in town, the home of Yesterday’s Calf-A.  My first encounter with the Calf-A was a memorable one.  It was August, 1981 and I was headed to Pullman, Washington to begin graduate studies in geology.  I stopped in southwest Montana to meet with U.S. Geological Survey scientists to decide on a research problem for my dissertation.  This side trip was a big deal for me because a bad decision in selecting a research problem could hurt my chances for completing a PhD.  I had already fallen in love with Montana and was desperately hoping for a good match.  After I crossed the railroad tracks and approached the parking lot, I realized I was in what constituted the east side of Dell.  The Dell Merc building, a combo grocery, hardware, and tack shop dominated the scene.  The rodeo field, in desperate need of weed wacking, and the Dell Hotel, an old turn of the century two-story white wooden structure were nearby.  A few rundown buildings of unknown origin were scattered through the area. 

Yesterday’s Calf-A was always busy, except on Saturday when it was closed—the owners were Seventh Day Adventists.  The parking lot was a 2-3 acre gravel field with a few 18-wheelers, some cars with out of state plates, and four or five local pickup trucks.  Later I would see the occasional oil company helicopter. Locals were easy to identify.  The number 18 on a Montana license plate meant Beaverhead County, and local ranchers and cowboys used their vehicles for serious work.  A liberal veneer of mud and manure was always in evidence.  The Calf-A was easy to spot.  It was originally built as a school in the 1890s and served in that capacity until 1963 when local schools were consolidated to the larger communities of Lima and Dillon.  The red brick building sat vacant until Ruth and Ken Berthelson bought it in the 1980s and converted it into a café.  Ruth and Ken decorated the dining room by leaving it untouched.  Blackboards, maps, book shelves, the American flag, and George Washington remain in their original pre-cafe locations.  The only major change was the addition of a grill kitchen, and large family-size tables and mismatched wooden chairs instead of student desks.  Ken and Ruth also added a few notes on the blackboard: two eggs, hash browns, toast and coffee- $1.50; Pie $1.75.  The large, airy room could seat 30 or more hungry people.  A side counter was added later to separate the dining area from the adjacent kitchen and the glass-fronted bakery cabinet containing pies and pastries.  The Yesterday’s part of the name required the work of a collector.  Ken Berthelson filled the adjoining building, a log cabin of sorts, with borrowed left overs from abandoned ranches and farms in southern Beaverhead County.

In 1981, the Calf-A was the local meeting place of geologists, truckers, ranchers, cyclists, and itinerants from I-15.  An oil boom was in progress, and travel and research money was plentiful.  The area was a magnet for science types looking for butterflies, Indian ruins, thunderstorms, archaeologic treasures, and petroleum.  Shell, Exxon, and Amoco geologists arrived on the scene with serious appetites via United business class and new 4 X 4s, while we government types traveled in beat up Broncos or cheap rental cars.  The Calf-A entrance hadn’t changed since youngsters walked through the door after a teacher announced class with a bell ringing ceremony.

Ruth ran the restaurant with an iron fist.  She never seemed to be in a good mood, always upset about something.  Modifying or changing an order was an only once affair.  No one wanted to get on Ruth’s bad side, like the time Chris Haley meekly held up his plate of eggs when Ruth passed by indicating to her that he had ordered scrambled eggs, not over easy. Ruth tore the plate from his hands, stalked to the kitchen where she tossed his eggs on the griddle, and using a spatula as a weapon of vengeance, murdered them.  She returned immediately and slammed the plate in front of Chris as if threatening to scramble him next.  But generally, few complaints were registered, especially when two eggs, hash browns, toast, and coffee cost $1.50. On another occasion, Chris came in late from the field.  It was a Sunday when Ruth served a family-style roast beef or turkey dinner with potatoes vegetables, salad, and rolls, all in large serving dishes at our table.  When Chris arrived, Ruth handed him a plate. He commenced emptying the serving bowls and was not charged a cent.

Of course, when folks entered the Calf-A, their first order of business was to approach the glass bakery case and select their slice.  It was cut immediately and set aside for the customer.  This was serious business as pies could disappear in seconds.  A slice meant ¼ of a 10-inch pie.  Pie was the REAL bargain at the Calf-A, delicious pastries with fresh, often locally picked berries—rhubarb, goose berries, raspberries—and a flakey lard crust handmade daily by local women in Dell and Lima.  The pies were so consistently excellent, that I would occasionally have pie for breakfast.  On one occasion, I had pie for breakfast and dinner.  I might have had pie for lunch too, but I was out in the field banging on rocks miles from the Calf-A!  I never thought to order a to-go box.

Over the years, I’ve returned to the Calf-A, often bringing friends, colleagues, or relatives, trying to impress them with the attributes of a five pointer.  A few years ago, I arrived with my nephew, Joe, a young man with a sophisticated palate, a lad who would go on to major in hospitality management and work in the restaurant business.  We were camping our way through the northern Rockies, and Joe had just savored a dinner of fried spam and baked beans in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming surrounded by hungry flies. We both ordered berry pie.  Joe was impressed.

I also spent time in the East while working with the USGS.  I often travelled to Morgantown, West Virginia to meet with the US Department of Energy.  I managed a project with DOE addressing Devonian Shales in the Appalachian basin.  I would fly into Pittsburgh and drive to Morgantown, then to Reston, Virginia to meet with other USGS participants at our National Center.  Rumor had it that Penn Alps in Grantsville, Maryland had the best food anywhere in the region, and they served shoofly pie, a 19th century favorite rich in dark molasses with a sugary flavor and cake-like texture, apparently originating in Philadelphia.  It was on my route to Reston, and I always stopped there for lunch or dinner.  It’s rich in history, with an 18th century grist mill and stone arch bridge nearby.  Penn Alps served authentic Pennsylvania Dutch fare with a long tradition of regional favorites like fried corn, homemade smoked sausage, apple butter, and shoofly pie.  On one occasion I purchased a shoofly pie on my way to the Pittsburgh airport and hand carried it on my return flight to Denver.  I surprised some house guests that evening at dinner with my dessert.  Everyone was impressed.

I travel a lot these days but don’t focus on my former collecting habits. Occasionally though, a tidbit of information, an eye opening lead directs me to a pie opening experience.  Such an opportunity occurred recently while I was visiting my nephew, Matt, in San Diego.  His roommate, Brian, asked me where I planned to go while visiting southern California.  I responded with the usual walk-a-thon venues in the mountains and deserts, activities like hiking in Joshua Tree National Park or along the shores of the Salton Sea.  Brian then suggested I visit the Julian Pie Company in Julian, California, indicating that it was on several southern California must do lists.  Julian, he added, was and old mining town reshaped for tourism, on the way to the Salton Sea, along state highway 79.  When I hear the word pie, I generally become more animated and excited, focused on the conversation and ready to hear more.  I liked the ring of that name—Julian Pie Company—and wanted more information. 

After my short weekend visit with Matt and Brian, I headed east on The Eight, as the locals call Interstate 8, with only one thought on my mind, to exit at milepost 40 and head north on California highway 79 to Julian.  Julian was originally settled in the late 1860’s during a mini gold rush in the region, later evolving into an apple growing agricultural and tourist community.  The main street caters to visitors with restaurants, gift shops, bars, and book shops.  At the north end of Main Street next to the AT & T building sits the Julian Pie Company in a small refurbished house converted into a pie making enterprise.

A discreet but prominent sign on the front door indicated I was in the right place.  A friendly front porch contained several tables with umbrellas.  I entered and looked around the small dining area adorned with four or five tables, a small bar and some stools, and old apple and peach pie signs on the walls, a simple, tidy, efficient decor.  It was not very busy during my early afternoon visit—it was a Sunday.  The theme was clearly apples.  A large sign to the left of the main counter listed the current fare: apple rhubarb, Dutch apple, and apple-peach crumble.  It took only a second to decide on my choice.  Two young women busily worked behind the counter in front of the baking ovens, in crisp, apple friendly attire.  My order was quickly taken, and I waited impatiently for my name to be called.  I was soon served with a tray containing a paper place-mat showing several generations of women, no doubt family members and owners.  I grabbed an empty table, sat down and stared at my offering.  It was a generous piece of pie, warm to the touch, just out of the oven according to my server, with fresh apples and peaches and a sugary crumbly crust, that complex smell of fruit and baked dough, and just the right amount of sugar mixed with Granny Smith apples.  The contrast in sweetness between the peaches and apples added to the unique flavor.  It was a 5/5.  I texted Matt and told him to forward my personal thanks to Brian.