In the shadow of the Metroplex lies the little town of Rice.
The town's namesake is the same William Marsh Rice that the university in Houston was named after. He was later murdered in New York City (the Valet did it). Rice came to Houston in 1837 nearly penniless and by 1860 was the second richest man in Texas. One of his major interests was railroading and when the Houston and Texas Central ran a line to Dallas, he gave the land for the town's church and cemetery.
Being this close to Dallas doesn't help Rice's economy at all. People en route to Houston don't need to stop this soon, and travelers from Houston figure they can wait. If they can't, then they'll more than likely stop at Corsicana or Ennis.
We stopped because that's what we do. We saw the water tower and the silver dome that suggested a pocket-courthouse. We weren't hungry, but we were curious.
The street where you eat
Downtown" Rice lost nearly half of its buildings in a devastating fire in 1901. What remains is a picturesque row of brick buildings with a few scattered around the immediate area. From the raised brick sidewalk on the north side, you can look over a lush Spring landscape where the other half of the main street once was.
Midway in the block is a small and charming business open only since December 1999. The darkened storefronts on either side might make it resemble a bar, but it's actually an ice-cream emporium/grill. This is The Rice City Grill. The sign mounted in the back of a truck will make sure you don't miss it.
The front door was propped open with a twelve-pound pipe wrench and the door's hardware had the unnecessary elegance of the early 1900s. The proprietress was a gamin-like young woman named Raina Clawson. Husband Rodney was busy in the back. At the time of our visit we thought he might've been "the hired man." People often mistake busy husbands for hired help. Even wives. Maybe he was busy looking for his wrench.
"The Regulars"
As we entered, a brother-sister team was spooning vanilla ice cream into their mouths as fast as they could without getting "an ice-cream headache." As young as they were, they knew that if it's a beautiful Spring day, then Summer will be here tomorrow. We had assumed they were Clawson children, and they're certainly polite enough that anyone would want to claim them, but a later phone call to Rodney identified them as "regular customers."
If you're lamenting the passing of places like this, then stop lamenting and pay them a visit. You can show your kids what small towns were like while you remember what it was like with brick sidewalks, screen doors, and ice cream that needed to be eaten before summer.
The front door was propped open with a twelve-pound pipe wrench and the door's hardware had the unnecessary elegance of the early 1900s. The proprietress was a gamin-like young woman named Raina Clawson. Husband Rodney was busy in the back. At the time of our visit we thought he might've been "the hired man." People often mistake busy husbands for hired help. Even wives. Maybe he was busy looking for his wrench. 
As we entered, a brother-sister team was spooning vanilla ice cream into their mouths as fast as they could without getting "an ice-cream headache." As young as they were, they knew that if it's a beautiful Spring day, then Summer will be here tomorrow. We had assumed they were Clawson children, and they're certainly polite enough that anyone would want to claim them, but a later phone call to Rodney identified them as "regular customers."