June 4, 2015--Midcoast: The Latest

The hot topic of conversation when the seasonal people arrive is what's new on the restaurant front. Of course updates about houses for sale and who died during the winter are also on everyone's mind.

So as to be able to join in the restaurant talk, the first night we arrived we went to a place that is under new ownership and from what we had been hearing was already being touted as a welcome addition to the local culinary scene.

Things are still quiet around here so reservations weren't necessary, in fact there were fewer than ten dining and drinking at the bar when we showed up.

True to what we had been hearing, it is very good, with a beautifully redone bar area that will, I am certain, be lively. Maybe a bit to lively for me but many times a boisterous bar crowd helps assure that the restaurant is making money and everyone from the staff to the customers benefit.

It was so good in fact that we returned for a second visit and were just as happy with what the kitchen turned out the first time. And we picked up from the new owners enough restaurant gossip of the sort that friends are eager to hear about. Among many other things much more profound it is yet another way we feel welcomed--having some harmless gossip to share.

The first night the waitress we had was clearly a rookie. She was lovely and attentive but still needed to learn a few things in order to be able to keep up the pace and service when the crowds begin to arrive in a few weeks.

She told us this was her first waitressing job and wanted to know what we thought of how well she was doing. This seemed genuine enough and so we shared a few suggestions like saving a trip from the kitchen by clearing empty dishes from tables in her station after bringing out other customers' orders and to be sure to check regularly to see if people need more water. With so many these days paying attention to hydration good service suggests checking often is a good idea and will be appreciated.

Since it wasn't crowded and she was eager to get as much feedback as we were willing to offer we began to learn more about her.

"I'm just 17," she told us, "Not in school at the moment though at the end of the summer I plan to go to college in Bangor and study to become a nurse."

"That's great," Rona said, "Nurses are in demand in Maine, what with the population aging, and there should be plenty of jobs available after you graduate."

"I really love taking care of people," she said, her face lighting up, "I've already been doing quite a lot of that at home. Anytime anyone's laid up they turn to me and I always do wherever I can to make things better for them."

"That doesn't surprise me," I said. "I pick up from you that you're a caring person. So," I said, shifting the subject, "You must be about to graduate from high school."

"Not yet," she said, "I need some more courses because I didn't take a full load."

"Because . . .?" Rona asked.

"I was working with my father."

"Oh, doing what if I may ask?"

"Lobstering. Pulling traps."

I looked at her more carefully since pulling traps requires great strength and stamina, not so say considerable skill to avoid getting seriously injured. Though she appeared to be just a bit over 5 feet tall she was sturdy looking and even muscular. Like a well-trained athlete.

"Wow," I said, "How long did you do that?"

"Since I was 14," she said. "Not every day because I had school and all that. But we worked it out with the school. I took some courses by independent study. There are lots of kids here who work boats with their dads. Even a few with their moms. The high school here is used to that and makes provisions for sternmen and women. I guess we're really more boys and girls than sternmen and women." She chuckled. "That's why I'm a little behind."

"That's very impressive," Rona said. "When you work with your father what's your day like? I mean, when do you go out?"

"We lobster out of Friendship and I wake up a three."

"Three!" I said, "And I thought I was an early riser. What time do you go out?"

"By four I'm already pulling traps," she shrugged as if the apologize.

"And you get back to the dock?"

"Depends, but most days by four or five."

"That's a very long day," Rona said.

She shrugged again. "That's what it is. I admit I get tired and it's hard then to do any school work, but I'm doing OK. By the end of the summer I should be able to graduate and be ready for nursing school."

"That'll feel like a vacation," Rona said.

"Can I get you some more water?" she asked, showing off that she had heard our suggestions. "Folks need to hydrate."

She spun on her heel and went off to get the water pitcher.

"I wonder what our friends back in New York would say about her," I mused.

"Especially those who have nothing but complaints about what they claim to be a spoiled younger generation."

"It would be good for them to meet her and hear her story. And all the other ones we learn about when we're here."

"By the example of these kids we don't have anything to worry about," Rona said. "As soon as possible we should turn the world over to them."

September 9, 2014--Midcoast: Post-Season

The Tuesday evening after Labor Day with friends we went for dinner to our favorite waterside restaurant--Coveside.

As we pulled up the parking lot was unusually empty. Always, one is fortunate to find a spot near the place, often having to settle to park precariously half-on, half-off the narrow road.

"Not really surprising," Rona said, "The day after holidays it's often quiet at restaurants."

"But this looks more than quiet," one of our friends said. "It looks to me as if there's no one here. Let's check to see what the sign on the door says."

We were close enough so I could read it--

New Hours 

Open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Dinner Only.

Thank you for helping us have such a good season!

"Didn't they switch to limited hours last year the first of October?"

"That's what I recall," I said. "I wonder what's going on."

"Let's try the Contented Sole," Rona said. "I can go for one of their duck-fat pizzas." Immediately, in anticipation, my mouth began to water as I turned around to get us there as quickly as possible.

 But we found that it too was closed, also with a new post-season schedule on the door.

"It looks as if all our places are in a race to close," our friend said, "What's the rush? It's only September 2nd. Still technically summer."

So Rona called the Anchor Inn, our third choice--though a fine place--to see if they too were closed. They were happily open and Rona asked if we could get a table for four in about 20, 25 minutes. "No problem," they said.

So we took off for Round Pond. "We can still catch the sunset," I said, thinking about their London broil with caramelized onions.

But when we got there there were at least 30 people waiting for tables. "What happened to 'no problem?'" Rona asked the hostess.

"Well," she said with unusual attitude, "I didn't speak with you and since you don't have a reservation it will be about 45 minutes before we can accommodate you. Wait in the bar and I'll come for you when there's a table available."

"What's going on?" our friend asked, attempting to calm Rona down. She was upset to have gotten a double message.

"I think," the hostess said, "everybody else is closed and so we have everyone--including you--who couldn't get into Coveside or Contented Sole." She rushed away to help clear a table.

Dinner eventually was fine. I did have my London broil and was not disappointed; helped, I suspected, by the two gin and tonics I had at the bar while waiting.

The next morning, as usual, we headed out for breakfast at the Bristol Diner. As we approached, we again noticed there were no cars parked out front and the Open flag wasn't flying.

"What's going on?" Rona asked, sounding immediately almost as frustrated as the night before. "There's a sign on the door, but without reading it I think I know what it says."

And indeed it too said they would now be closed two days a week. "I guess the summer's officially over," I sighed as we turned back home where we had a sweet breakfast on our back deck at Cafe Rona.

In the days following we asked our restaurant friends if it was true that this year they were scaling back their hours earlier than usual.

"Yes," we heard. "We had such a good season that we pretty much already made our money for the year."

But to one restaurant owner who we know very well, I asked, "But if you follow your usual schedule, since you've done so well so far, why not stay open more--at least through leaf-peeping season--and really have a good financial year?"

"We made enough already," we heard. "You have to know when enough's enough. "It's all about living, isn't it?"

"Ture enough," Rona said. "That's one reason we like being here. People like you have the right values. You know what's important. Having more and more isn't necessarily the meaning of life."

"I suspect you'll hear different," our friend tweaked us, "once you get back to New York."

"Indeed we will," Rona said, sounding a bit blue about that time approaching.

May 2, 2013--New New York

Since we try to catch up on trends while in New York City, it was fortuitous that a double issue of New York Magazine--"The Best of New York"-- awaited us in our mailbox.

They do this every year and, as usual, the first article was about restaurants, because everything new and trendy gets played out more than anywhere else in the city's restaurant scene. 

For example, I learned that during the time we had been out of town, "Asian fusion" cuisine has been replaced by "Asian hipster" cuisine. So to get with things we had to figure out the difference--what is the meaning of hipster when applied to food? Where do we go to find the best of it? And what now constitutes hipster dress since I didn't want to look like a lapsed snowbird when sampling some?

New York Magazine food critic Adam Platt, tries to help--

Long ago, Asian fusion was the all the rage in trendy culinary circles, but these days Asian Hipster is the fashionable phrase on many jaded Manhattan chowhounds’ lips. At his eponymous West Village restaurant, Wong, on Cornelia Street, the talented Simpson Wong dresses his light, temperate Southeast Asian creations with sunflower sprouts (on shrimp fritters) and shiitake mushrooms (over rice noodles), but if you’re in the market for a stout Chang-style feast, try the appropriately named typhoon lobster, which Wong and his chefs toss, in grand neo-Cantonese style, with curry leaves, crispy garlic, and industrial amounts of ground pork.

Get it?

And, I learned, that in order to blend in, a hipster jacket from Rag & Bone would be a good idea. As incredible as it may seem, since a friend works for R&B, I already have one in my closet and so I am all set. Rona, on the other hand, is not so uptight; and whenever we head out for typhoon lobster she’ll be just fine.

More striking is Platt’s list of the best restaurants in the city. To me this usually means in Manhattan.

Technically, the “City” consists of all five boroughs—but what could possible be best in a place like the Bronx much less Staten Island? A ride on the ferry? And Brooklyn? That’s where Rona and I were born and raised; and we spent decades—like millions of ambitious others—desperately trying to figure out how to get out and find our way to the City—the real city, Manhattan--across the East River. That, after all, is why more than 100 years ago they built the Brooklyn Bridge. 

But fully half the restaurants Platt listed as New York’s best are in Brooklyn. Most of those in Williamsburg. Where, New York tells us, are found the best real hipster and “indie rockers.” It’s also where the hottest of hot HBO series is based—Girls. Lena Dunham’s creation that captures depressingly well the vacuous lives of her generation of young people. Especially those from over-privileged backgrounds who are being subsidized by their parents. How else can these under-employed 20-somethings afford $7.50 lattes and apartments that begin at a million-two?

The Brooklyn I remember had a few local Chinese restaurants like the Golden Ox and Italian places such the Tower of Pisa. Shrimp with lobster sauce was featured on Kings Highway and spaghetti and meatballs at the Tower in East Flatbush.

But at Parish Hall in the new Williamsburg, where the Satmar Hasids and old Polish immigrants are being squeezed out by soaring real estate prices, you can order grass-fed lamb tartare, steamy bowls of Cayuga-flour dumplings threaded with turnips and Swiss chard, and wedges of a classic French pear tart for dessert, which the kitchen tops with scoops of vanilla ice cream flavored with the faintest hint of blue cheese.

Suddenly ravenous, I asked Rona, "Do you know anything about Cayuga flour?"

Ruefully, she said, "I think we've been out of town too long."

"Though I don't know," I said, "about ice cream with blue cheese."