In North Dakota: Cafe Life

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In less than a minute, plain-speaking Barbknecht ticked off all the dirty linen. Then he moved over to the positive side of the ledger. Havana, it turns out, is a town that just won't die. Farmers are in terrible straits, as everyone knows, but Havana's farmers keep on plugging. This week they were sowing barley and wheat. More important, every other ounce of energy was directed toward keeping Havana on its feet. They had formed a development corporation that had, among other things, brought in a grocery store by providing attractive incentives, like free space. "You want to open a small business, we'll help you get started," said Walter.

"We're just an old retired town," he went on, "but we do have some kids. I mean you got your Berghs at that big table back there in the cafe; their reproductive rate is quite something." Back in the restaurant, a no-nonsense 32-ft. by 56-ft. steel building, David Bergh was saying, "The only good Republican is a dead Republican."

Doris and Murdean Gulsvig were dishing out the special, Swiss steak -- $3.10, not including beverage. The Gulsvigs man the kitchen three or four days a month, as do the other volunteers. The cafe is open Monday through Saturday, serving breakfast and lunch only. When their labors are done, Murdean was saying of Doris, "she goes home exhausted and lays on the davenport, and maybe fixes me some soup and goes to sleep. I mean it's a lot of work."

Not that it isn't appreciated. People have been known to wash their own dishes. Most everyone makes change at the cash register, paying the bill unassisted, unobserved, as the cafe talk rolls on in a relaxed, little- village-stuck-in-time way:

"Hey, what kind of a bird can't fly?"

"A jailbird."

Walter Barbknecht bursts from his seat, saying, "I got to go tell Carlton the grocer that one."