Ruby's Diner became an institution in Denton in only 24 years - a startlingly short time as institutions go - and it is reasonable to ask why. As of Friday, there will be no more Ruby's Diner on the Square, and some kind of valedictory is in order.
It wasn't the food. Ruby's always served up satisfying comfort food, but so have scores of other local establishments, past and present. Owner Ken Willis' occasional offerings of esoteric wild game dishes were an aberration, serving mainly as an exception to prove the rule that Ruby's was a place for sturdy, dependable, down-home grub.
It wasn't the decor. The decor at Ruby's defies categorization; it is a mishmash of old photographs, framed newspaper clippings, faux-cowboy decorations and stuffed animal heads. A full-length stuffed alligator and a barbed-wire Christmas tree keep Willis company behind the cash register. The decor at Ruby's is worthy of note, but only because it is the antithesis of the word "decor." It is as though someone had appropriated the contents of a crazy old hermit's junk collection and flung it onto the walls.
We have given a lot of thought in the last day or two to just what made Ruby's a Denton institution, and we may have come up with something, though we are not sure. We are calling it "Rubyness," though it does not really have much to do with Ruby Eddleman, who opened the place in 1987 and sold it to a man named Tim Shaw in 1994. It doesn't have much to do with Shaw, either.
In our mind, "Rubyness" has to do with geography, continuity and Ken Willis.
A courthouse square is a natural breeding ground for an eclectic restaurant clientele. Lawyers, merchants, bureaucrats, political players, political wannabes, political hangers-on, liars, reprobates, cranks, gossips, geezers, gaffers - they all tend to congregate on a courthouse square, and they need somewhere to grab a meal or a cup of coffee or just get in out of the heat in the hot Texas summer. Once inside, they drink coffee, laugh, tell lies, insult each other (and the management) and occasionally order some food. This odd slumgullion makes for a steady, if rambunctious, core clientele, and it draws others who aren't really kindred spirits but who come to watch the show.
The result is a freewheeling commentary that slithers from one table to another like a gator in a swamp - sometimes quiet, sometimes raucous, but always fascinating and never a respecter of status or wealth.
Continuity is the second factor. You never knew what you might see or hear at Ruby's, but the arena was comfortably stable. Meatloaf day, barbecue day, fried chicken day, catfish day - they were as predictable as the seasons, as were the faces of Margaret, Priscilla and C.J., who bantered with the regular customers and attended to everyone's needs with speed and efficiency.
When a waitress says, "Keep your fork, hon," before bringing you a slice of pecan pie, you know you're home.
And finally, there is Ken Willis himself, who presided over all this to-do with the slightly bemused air of a man who finds himself in charge of a good-hearted but uncontrollable kindergarten class. He seemed to know that he could never stop the good-natured insults that came his way from the coffee-sipping old-timers, so he just insulted them back. He knew there was no quieting the magpies in the monthly "Lunch Bunch" that descended regularly into Ruby's, so he simply protested their loudness at a volume equal to theirs. By appearing to be only nominally in control, he was in control, and he kept the whole disorganized enterprise on course.
This is how a meat-and-three joint gets to be an institution in only 24 years. There will be another restaurant soon in the building that now houses Ruby's; for all we know, it may become an institution, too. We will be watching it with interest. We may even drop in on meatloaf day.
There will be a meatloaf day, right?
