Retirement is a dirty word to Valentine Korrey. The
88-year-old drives himself to work at 2 a.m. five mornings a week, to
the same grill he’s been cracking eggs on, to the same stainless steel
counters he’s been making Coney sauce on, to the same restaurant he’s
owned for over five decades.
You might have driven by Sip ’n Snack on Okemos Road
hundreds of times without noticing it. Maybe you’ve seen the camel in
the window (it’s what caught my eye), but chances are that tuba museum
restaurant on the corner or the lingerie store with prominently displayed unmentionables captured your attention instead.
Sip ’n Snack is right there though, a
small town holdover from a time before big-box stores and concrete
sprawl were introduced by the Meridian Mall and — another dirty word in
Sip ’n Snack — chain restaurants brought stiff corporate competition.
Korrey shows his age. By closing time at 2 p.m. his face
is a puffy topography of red folds and creases. He walks with a slight
hunch and has trouble hearing. He’s not fond of interviews anymore,
either. So Peter Wade, a Meridian Township retiree and daily volunteer
for his old pal, Val, kindly agreed to chat.
"He knows more about me than I do," Korrey says.
Wade, a brusque man with a bald crown and a sure
handshake, is Korrey’s junior by a generation. "This was the only
restaurant in Okemos for years," Wade says. Between questions, Wade —
with a deer trophy on his sweater — talks gun gauges with his barber
from next door.
"It’s like family here," Wade says, plainly, sweeping a
hand at walls of photographs. Such sentiment has nothing to do with
marketing at Sip ’n Snack; it’s a fact as sure as it’s cold in winter.
One wall of photos comprises a collective patron shrine: Dozens of framed photographs commemorate now-deceased friends.
Wade motions to another wall of glossy photos. There’s Bobby Woods, who owned the gas station up the street, Bill Bankroft from next door, and this is Harold Hodge. That guy was a tree trimmer, Wade says, pointing to the yellowed faces in the pictures. She was a teacher, he laid cement.
"This was the meeting place for people in town for years," Wade says.
Three people operate Sip ’n Snack on any given day. Korrey
cooks, of course, and there’s a dishwasher and waitress. That’s it.
Between orders, Korrey, in a white apron, leans into a shiny metal
counter, surveying a place that’s been filled with conversations ranging
from the Korean War to the Japanese tsunami.
The food is simple, nothing fancy,
exactly what you’d expect. A breakfast special with two eggs, bacon,
potatoes, toast and coffee runs $5.75. A couple of dozen sandwiches —
burgers, Coney dogs, ham, grilled cheese, chicken — run from $3.25 to
"We’re famous for our Coney dogs," Wade says. "Val makes his own Coney sauce, he doesn’t buy it."
A hot dog split down the middle is the carriage for Val’s
cumin-based Coney sauce. It’s topped with a bright yellow ridge of
mustard and a handful of diced white onions. Onion rings ($2.75) are a popular side: Thick batter, fried golden brown, encases the crunchy bracelets.
Silver and green stools are raised a step
off the floor at the lunch counter, where I imagine a row of diners
eating burgers and sipping Cokes. Local businesses advertise their
services on the menus. An old police scanner, now defunct, sits atop the
The waitress, Sherry Niles, rings up $7.45 on
an old-style cash register. White digits on black rolls spin as she
punches keys — kathunk-kathunk, kathunk-kathunk — seven times until the
right price shows through the register window.
This is Niles’ day job. She likes her other work at a hotel, too, but at Sip ’n Snack, it’s different.
"There’s balance here," she says. "I’ve
worked other jobs where it’s all buttoned up and corporate. It’s like
family here. It’s balanced."
It’s just past 11 in the morning. A lone
trio is finishing up a late breakfast. Korrey says the gas to the stove
is on. It’s running, he says again. Dishes rattle and clank in the
backroom. Wade and I chat in a back corner. His barber says goodbye from
the front door: "Nice to meet you." Cars stream by, north and south.
The sidewalk is empty.
"This place hasn’t changed at all," Wade says.