If not for the 6,000 miles of land, laws, and life between us, I’d have breakfast here every Tuesday morning.
Tate’s Table in Princeton, Missouri isn’t just a café. It’s the last warm breath of a town that still believes in mornings. The iced tea was honest, the eggs and sausage divine—not because of seasoning, but because they were suggested by the lady in charge.
The menu is written on a blackboard that’s actually an old door—maybe a hundred years old—possibly rescued from another place that once gathered strangers, the way this one still does. On one wall, seven framed illustrations from old children’s books—Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Hans Christian Andersen—remind you that wonder was once handwritten. Another wall features a painting of this very building, with “1796” etched above its drawn door like a prayer disguised as a date.
A shelf with 15 completely mismatched mugs hangs like an inside joke. Each one probably has a backstory. None of them are for sale. The word “Gather” appears in several frames, each in a different style—more than a theme, it’s a philosophy.
The tables and chairs don’t match. They come from different eras, different homes, maybe different families. But they sit together in harmony. Like the people here.
As I was writing these words, the lady’s husband—six feet tall and 200 pounds of cautious kindness—finally approached me and asked what I was doing. I told him the truth: I’m writing a review. And yes, even your honest concern will be part of it.
Because I loved this place. I loved the people in it. And I respect their motto, printed and...
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