August 1, 2007--Talking to Strangers
“Are you familiar with The Soo”?
We had just finished breakfast at Ernie’s, a joint on Queen Street that serves, it would appear, a clientele of regulars since the waitress knew everyone by name and just how they liked their eggs.
He had been in a booth with a friend and since all them were occupied, we climbed onto stools at the scarred-up Formica counter. I ordered two scrambled eggs with “peameal” bacon, thinking it would be the vegetarian kind. When it came time to pay he needed to come to the counter to do that and a faux ruckus erupted—he had a twenty and the waitress didn’t have enough change. She needed to get some from Ernie who was in the kitchen frying up the bacon. When she returned, he told her that she didn’t give him enough since he had given her a “C note.” She gave it back as good to him as he gave it to her.
And as inveterate New Yorkers we couldn’t resist joining in. Rona said that he in fact was right—“He didn’t give you a hundred. He gave you a five.” By then the whole place had joined in. Lots of joshing back and forth–a typical morning at Ernie’s
We paid up and wouldn’t you know it, there he was out on the street clearly waiting for us. To tell you the truth, my heart skipped a quick beat thinking who knows what. But approaching us with a smile, calming me down, he said, “Are you familiar with The Soo?”
From the waitress at dinner the night before we had learned that’s what longtime residents call Sault Ste. Marie. We got the “Ste. Marie” part but not the “Sault” (Soo). From something we read in the hotel we knew that the city is strategically situated on the St. Mary River which connects Lakes Superior and Huron. But there was nothing about the Sault part of the city’s name. In the old days, we also learned, all the big boats (Lakers) hauling iron ore from points west toward the steel mills in the east would have to use the locks to avoid the rapids on the river.
So there were things about the city about which we were unfamiliar—“The Soo” itself, for example.
We caught ourselves about to say back to him, “Actually, there are lots of things about The Soo with which we are not familiar. You see [here’s where we about to go wrong] we’re from New York City.”
For sure he then would’ve said, “Oh, New York. I was there eight years ago. It’s a hellova place. Where do you guys live? I bet in Manhattan.”
And we would have said, “Yeah. Downtown. In the Village. When you were there did you get down there?” Then all three of us would have gone on talking about New York and we would have walked away from Ernie’s and him not any the wiser about his town.
But fortunately, we said, “We’re passing through but this place seems very interesting.”
“Well it is. Did you know that more than half the folks living here are Italians? That’s why there are so many good restaurants. Like Ernie’s.”
“Yes, we liked it very much.”
“It’s been here more than 50 years and old Ernie’s still in the kitchen. How did you find out about it anyway? It’s not in any books about The Soo.”
“We drove by it last night and liked the neon sign. You know, the one with the big coffee cup. And when we came by this morning at 7:30 it was the only place in town that had a lot of cars parked out front.”
“Funny, when I’m travelin’ that’s how I pick places to eat. Never fails. And he cooks good dinners too. If you have the time, stop by tonight because for eight bucks he puts out a rack of short ribs that are the best ever. There’s enough for two.”
We had plans to leave right after breakfast with a host of hotel and lodge reservations stacked up for the next six days, but from what he was telling us about those ribs we looked at each other tempted to change our plans.
“And if you need the best pizza in Canada . . . you like pies I bet . . . well if you do, there’s Giovanni’s up on East Street. But if you don’t like that, Muio’s got broasted chicken that folks will drive a hundred miles to get their hands on.”
“How did you know—that’s where we went last night. It is amazing.”
“Did you have it with the homemade ravioli or the gnocchi?
“Actually, both! When she brought the plates the waitress said, ‘Good luck.’”
“And I know why? Bet neither of you finished. Am I right?” We smiled and nodded, giving our stomachs a rub for good measure.
“This is one good eatin’ town.” Still not a word about New York. “But you just had a big breakfast so why’re we talkin’ about food?”
“Actually, there’s one thing I’m wondering about--why do they call the bacon I had ‘peameal’? I’m not a vegetarian but ordered it because I never heard of it, and it turned out to be meat. Sort of like a ham steak.”
“It’s pork all right, a specialty of this area. Tasted real good and sweet too I’ll bet?” I nodded again. “That’s because after it’s sweet-pickle cured these days it’s days coated in yellow cornmeal but in the past peameal was used.” He chuckled, “I bet you’d like to take some home with you.” He
“You’re right,” I said, and then almost added, “I wish we could get it in New York,” but was able to restrain myself and instead asked, “There’s another thing we’re puzzling about. We asked the waitress at Muio’s, but she didn’t know, what’s ‘The Soo’”?
“He snorted, “No surprise. I bet she was a kid.” She was very nice and looked to us to be about twenty. “You see, none of them know anything anymore ‘bout anything. I don’t know what they teach ‘em in school these days. ‘The Soo,’ I’m sure you figured this out already, is what natives call this city. I mean folks born here not the Indians. We have a lot of those too. Mainly Chippewa. ‘Sault’ is the ancient French word for waterfalls or rapids, pronounced then and now sort of like the girl’s name ‘Sue.’”
And that led to a whole conversation about the first settlers—the ancestors of today’s Indians. He told us the first people arrived here more than 9,000 years ago and remained because the fish and game were so plentiful. And then much later the fur trappers arrived, French and English, who worked out a system to get pelts down from northwestern Canada by using voyageurs who transported them in long 8-12 man canoes across the Great Lakes and on out to Montreal. Most amazing was that when they got to the frequent rapids connecting the network of lakes the voyageurs miles of land in some cases. An extraordinary effort—all to make felt out of beaver fur for hatneeded to carry the pelts, about 9,000 pound per boat, and the boats themselves over land. Manys for the rich and fashionable in Europe. And then, he told us, the whole trade collapsed when the King of England decided he preferred silk to felt! “Not much changes if you ask me.”
Once more I almost blurted out, “You know, downtown, where we live in New York, they made felt hats from the furs brought to America by John Jacob Astor who actually lived just three blocks from us. . . .” But fortunately I managed to keep my mouth shut.
We had just finished breakfast at Ernie’s, a joint on Queen Street that serves, it would appear, a clientele of regulars since the waitress knew everyone by name and just how they liked their eggs.
He had been in a booth with a friend and since all them were occupied, we climbed onto stools at the scarred-up Formica counter. I ordered two scrambled eggs with “peameal” bacon, thinking it would be the vegetarian kind. When it came time to pay he needed to come to the counter to do that and a faux ruckus erupted—he had a twenty and the waitress didn’t have enough change. She needed to get some from Ernie who was in the kitchen frying up the bacon. When she returned, he told her that she didn’t give him enough since he had given her a “C note.” She gave it back as good to him as he gave it to her.
And as inveterate New Yorkers we couldn’t resist joining in. Rona said that he in fact was right—“He didn’t give you a hundred. He gave you a five.” By then the whole place had joined in. Lots of joshing back and forth–a typical morning at Ernie’s
We paid up and wouldn’t you know it, there he was out on the street clearly waiting for us. To tell you the truth, my heart skipped a quick beat thinking who knows what. But approaching us with a smile, calming me down, he said, “Are you familiar with The Soo?”
From the waitress at dinner the night before we had learned that’s what longtime residents call Sault Ste. Marie. We got the “Ste. Marie” part but not the “Sault” (Soo). From something we read in the hotel we knew that the city is strategically situated on the St. Mary River which connects Lakes Superior and Huron. But there was nothing about the Sault part of the city’s name. In the old days, we also learned, all the big boats (Lakers) hauling iron ore from points west toward the steel mills in the east would have to use the locks to avoid the rapids on the river.
So there were things about the city about which we were unfamiliar—“The Soo” itself, for example.
We caught ourselves about to say back to him, “Actually, there are lots of things about The Soo with which we are not familiar. You see [here’s where we about to go wrong] we’re from New York City.”
For sure he then would’ve said, “Oh, New York. I was there eight years ago. It’s a hellova place. Where do you guys live? I bet in Manhattan.”
And we would have said, “Yeah. Downtown. In the Village. When you were there did you get down there?” Then all three of us would have gone on talking about New York and we would have walked away from Ernie’s and him not any the wiser about his town.
But fortunately, we said, “We’re passing through but this place seems very interesting.”
“Well it is. Did you know that more than half the folks living here are Italians? That’s why there are so many good restaurants. Like Ernie’s.”
“Yes, we liked it very much.”
“It’s been here more than 50 years and old Ernie’s still in the kitchen. How did you find out about it anyway? It’s not in any books about The Soo.”
“We drove by it last night and liked the neon sign. You know, the one with the big coffee cup. And when we came by this morning at 7:30 it was the only place in town that had a lot of cars parked out front.”
“Funny, when I’m travelin’ that’s how I pick places to eat. Never fails. And he cooks good dinners too. If you have the time, stop by tonight because for eight bucks he puts out a rack of short ribs that are the best ever. There’s enough for two.”
We had plans to leave right after breakfast with a host of hotel and lodge reservations stacked up for the next six days, but from what he was telling us about those ribs we looked at each other tempted to change our plans.
“And if you need the best pizza in Canada . . . you like pies I bet . . . well if you do, there’s Giovanni’s up on East Street. But if you don’t like that, Muio’s got broasted chicken that folks will drive a hundred miles to get their hands on.”
“How did you know—that’s where we went last night. It is amazing.”
“Did you have it with the homemade ravioli or the gnocchi?
“Actually, both! When she brought the plates the waitress said, ‘Good luck.’”
“And I know why? Bet neither of you finished. Am I right?” We smiled and nodded, giving our stomachs a rub for good measure.
“This is one good eatin’ town.” Still not a word about New York. “But you just had a big breakfast so why’re we talkin’ about food?”
“Actually, there’s one thing I’m wondering about--why do they call the bacon I had ‘peameal’? I’m not a vegetarian but ordered it because I never heard of it, and it turned out to be meat. Sort of like a ham steak.”
“It’s pork all right, a specialty of this area. Tasted real good and sweet too I’ll bet?” I nodded again. “That’s because after it’s sweet-pickle cured these days it’s days coated in yellow cornmeal but in the past peameal was used.” He chuckled, “I bet you’d like to take some home with you.” He
“You’re right,” I said, and then almost added, “I wish we could get it in New York,” but was able to restrain myself and instead asked, “There’s another thing we’re puzzling about. We asked the waitress at Muio’s, but she didn’t know, what’s ‘The Soo’”?
“He snorted, “No surprise. I bet she was a kid.” She was very nice and looked to us to be about twenty. “You see, none of them know anything anymore ‘bout anything. I don’t know what they teach ‘em in school these days. ‘The Soo,’ I’m sure you figured this out already, is what natives call this city. I mean folks born here not the Indians. We have a lot of those too. Mainly Chippewa. ‘Sault’ is the ancient French word for waterfalls or rapids, pronounced then and now sort of like the girl’s name ‘Sue.’”
And that led to a whole conversation about the first settlers—the ancestors of today’s Indians. He told us the first people arrived here more than 9,000 years ago and remained because the fish and game were so plentiful. And then much later the fur trappers arrived, French and English, who worked out a system to get pelts down from northwestern Canada by using voyageurs who transported them in long 8-12 man canoes across the Great Lakes and on out to Montreal. Most amazing was that when they got to the frequent rapids connecting the network of lakes the voyageurs miles of land in some cases. An extraordinary effort—all to make felt out of beaver fur for hatneeded to carry the pelts, about 9,000 pound per boat, and the boats themselves over land. Manys for the rich and fashionable in Europe. And then, he told us, the whole trade collapsed when the King of England decided he preferred silk to felt! “Not much changes if you ask me.”
Once more I almost blurted out, “You know, downtown, where we live in New York, they made felt hats from the furs brought to America by John Jacob Astor who actually lived just three blocks from us. . . .” But fortunately I managed to keep my mouth shut.
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