If the Conoco Tower is the crown, the U-Drop Inn is the heartbeat. The two rose together in 1936, a proud Art Deco pairing along the new spine of America—Route 66. The name itself came from a schoolboy, or so the story goes. U-Drop Inn—a pun that sounds like something your uncle might say with a wink, but etched in neon, it becomes gospel. Travelers did drop in, and found more than just food. They found pause.
It’s still here. Still beautiful. Restored with the kind of care small towns sometimes give their memory. Curved counters, green tiles, the scent of something sweet. The café doesn’t serve meals anymore, not full ones at least, but it hasn’t gone quiet. Today, it serves only dessert—milkshakes spun to order and homemade pie that would make your grandmother nod in approval.
There was a chocolate pie in the case when we walked in. Not one of those over-staged, picture-perfect things. No, this was the real kind: slightly uneven, piled high, the crust just imperfect enough to tell you it was made by hand. It was calling my name. And for a moment, I almost answered. But the road was nudging me forward—always is—and so I passed this time.
Instead, I picked out a magnet. Silver wings spread across a shield, the kind of design that belongs on a gas station patch or the side of a tailfin. It promised a centennial—100 years of Route 66, just over the next hill. A century of travel, dust, and story.
Outside, the Conoco Tower still shimmered in the late afternoon sun, humming with the memory of long-gone Buicks and Fords. A few other travelers milled around, taking photos, pointing. Kids laughed, someone revved an engine a little too loud, and somewhere in all of it, I felt the rhythm of the road again.
This wasn’t just a stop. It was a slice of time, served à la mode. And next time—next time I won’t skip the pie.