Having pie in Pie Town

Somewhere between nowhere and forget-about-it, on a stretch of asphalt called US Route 60, lies Pie Town. The name isn’t ironic. It’s not a failed hipster rebranding project. It’s a town named for what it actually does: pie.

After taking a “shortcut” through New Mexico along dirt roads with cattle guards, I arrive in Pie Town. A former frontier stop turned carbohydrate shrine. It sounds like a place invented by Jack Kerouac during a particularly hungry bender, but it’s real. It was established in 1927, but today it’s sort of a ghost town with a population of 180 souls.

The road to Pie Town.

Abandoned gas stations and wooden signs with faded paint line up the road. A friend who used to work in the area had recommended a place called Pie-O-Neer, which wasn’t exactly hard to find as the town only has a handful of houses.

Pie-O-Neer in Pie Town, New Mexico.

Inside, it smells like cinnamon and melted butter and distant dreams. It feels like stumbling into an episode of Twin Peaks, where I wouldn’t be surprised to find the the log lady sitting in a corner.

I think to myself, what would Dale Cooper do, so I sit down and order a cup of black coffee together with homemade blueberry pie. As Cooper would say, this is where pies go when they die. It’s not just food. It’s therapy wrapped in pastry. One of the few remaining altars to this carbohydrate faith.

Having blueberry pie at Pie-O-Neer.

Out the window, time stands still. A battered truck slowly rolls by. Nobody’s in a hurry here. In a world that won’t stop screaming, Pie Town gently whispers, “Sit down, shut up, have some pie.”