Fine Dining

In the 1940's and 50's, when I was a youngster in New Hampshire, my family didn't have enough money to eat in restaurants very often, and when we did, it was almost always in one of two family-owned places in Lebanon, the next town north. One, called the Nubridge, was near a bridge over the Mascoma River, and the other, the Riverside Grill, was on the banks of that same river several miles upstream, just east of town. No matter which restaurant we chose, my meal would be a plate of fried clams. Both places served them in a heap, next to another heap of french fries, and a small serving of cole slaw, and a fountain coke served with lots of ice in a fluted brownish plastic glass and a straw. Occasionally, we'd eat in a similar place along the Sugar river in Claremont, but their clams were not as good as the ones in the Lebanon restaurants.

Fried clams were Mom's favorite and were not particularly expensive (the latter may explain the former, and most certainly what comes next) and on our way on Route 120, she'd comment on how good those clams were going to taste. By the time we got to the restaurant, probably because of what some scientist called a conditional response to stimuli, all I knew was that I would order fried clams. I have no recollection of ever reading the menu and I certainly don't remember ever having anything else.

To this day, I salivate at the thought of those clams and whenever I travel up to that part of New England, I make sure I get my fill of them, because in the part of Georgia where I live, the only clams you can find have been stripped of the good part, leaving only a deep fried rubbery strip with a faint taste of the sea. I wonder what they do with the bellies stolen from clam strips.

The subject of this jaunt through my memory isn't fried clams, french fries, cole slaw and coke, but rather of my introduction to finer dining.

One Sunday after church, still in our Sunday best, we drove south from home, crossed the longest covered wooden bridge in the USA into Vermont then south along a two-lane blacktop. Finally, we turned right and drove up a hill and parked in front of a large red barn that had been converted into a fancy restaurant. The sign out front even said they sold fine wine and spirits. Our normal places only sold soft drinks and weak iced tea with a slice of lemon, so I immediately knew this place was special.

While I don't remember exactly what time of year it was, it wasn't in the summer, of that I am certain, because we wore overcoats over our Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, and Dad even had on his fedora, the last time I ever remember seeing him wear one. In restaurants we usually went to, we'd just walk in, spot an empty table, and go sit down, but this place had a sign that said, "Please wait to be seated," so we waited until a lady showed us to a table. The restaurant was set up so that tables along the wall were separated by little walls, probably intended to give a feeling of intimacy and privacy, and, at that time of year, a place to hang coats and hats.

As I wrote that last sentence, it dawned on me that many would deem it odd that a man would hang his hat, but in the mid 1950's, gentlemen still tipped their hat to ladies, albeit perhaps just a slight nod and a touch of the finger to the brim. I was taught to take my hat off when I went inside and I wear one a lot, but never in a restaurant where of course there is no place to hang one, but I often see large groups of families seated at a table and all the men are wearing their hats emblazoned with their company, truck, team or saying of choice. I guess their mothers weren’t as insistent at having good manners as mine was.

We all hung our coats and over the top of his, Dad hung his fedora. To this day, I remember that the table was set before we even got to it. At each place there was already an array of forks, knives and spoons, a stemmed glass, and a delicately folded cloth napkin. Unlike in today's restaurants, the waitress didn't tell us her name and that she'd be serving us, she just handed us each a menu, from the left, thank you very much, and asked if she could get us any drinks. Another waitress filled each stemmed glass with water from a glass pitcher that had ice cubes to chill the water before serving.

While we looked at our menu, Dad said something about ordering anything we wanted. I suspect he may have recently received a tax refund, or perhaps a bonus from his job. He'd never, ever said that before. Of course, this place didn't have fried clams on the menu, either.

I think I remember my Mom ordering something like pork chops, but if I had my choice, I certainly wasn't going to waste it on something like that. I scanned the menu, perhaps not fully understanding some of the terms, but my eyes landed on rainbow trout. Now I grew up eating little brook trout we'd catch in Blood's Brook across the road from our house, but I'd never even seen a rainbow trout, and now I was going to eat one.

When the salads were served, the waitress moved around the table which, of course, was fairly close to our overcoats hanging on pegs on the little wall dividing us from the next table. She had the salads on a tray she balanced and served each of us, As she went behind Dad, her tray brushed those hanging coats. I can see it all today, as if it was in slow motion. Dad's fedora was jarred loose when the tray moved against the coats and did a perfect half-gainer, landing upside down on a salad that had well dressed with a thick, creamy roquefort dressing. The waitress gasped, Mom emitted a rather minced "Oh" and my sister and I giggled, and Dad looked around to see what was drawing our attention.

The waitress picked up the hat and immediately began to apologize, but wool felt fedoras and roquefort dressing are not bedfellows and the damage had been done. She tried wiping the dressing off with a napkin, but once the blob was gone, it was apparent that the stain was probably permanent. Dad, always a generous, forgiving soul, told her not to worry about it, or at least something to that effect. She was obviously terribly embarrassed, but regained her composure, told Dad she'd get him another salad and would get his hat cleaned at no expense to him.

She took the hat, tray, and one remaining salad with her, promising to return right away, which she did, accompanied by the manager (maître d’hôtel ?) who was effusive in his effort to ensure us that the restaurant was indeed sorry and that they insisted on paying for cleaning Dad's fedora.

My father was never extraordinarily demonstrative, so his response was something to the effect of, "OK, thank you. It's not terribly important."

Once the drama was over, we returned to our meal.   It's almost anticlimactic now, but the larger surprise was yet to come.  I grew up in the country, our home was on an a small hill completely surrounded by trees.  It has often been said that we had two views: a summer view and a winter view.  In the summer, we could see nothing but forest, but in the winter, we could see the roofs of my grandparents house and the house that was across the street from them.  You see, a lot of our trees were oaks, elms and, of course, sugar maples, so when the short days of winter took off their leaves, we had a little more view.  The two lane highway at the bottom of our driveway separated us from Blood's Brook, a trout fisherman's dream, at least after the state had released a load of hatchery trout upstream.  

Those trout, occasional perch from Mascoma Lake, and lake trout from Crystal Lake were all the fish I'd ever seen.  We cleaned them all the same.  We'd cut off the heads just behind the gills, slice open the belly and clean out the innards, and toss the fish in one bucket and the heads and innards in another.  One bucket would be carried out to the edge of the woods where its contents would be tossed, and the other into the kitchen, where the fish would be dusted with flour and pan fried in butter.  Most of the fish we cooked were less than six inches in length, and were never more than an inch and a half from top to bottom.  It would take several to make up one meal.  

I was a bit unprepared for the rainbow trout I'd ordered.  First of all, it was enormous, measuring well over fourteen inches in length and thicker and deeper than any I'd ever seen.  But it's size wasn't the major shock.  It still had it's head attached, and I'm certain the eye that was visible was focused, not on me, but on the knife and fork I held.  If I was unprepared, Mom was really unprepared.  She almost giggled, then, as if horrified, told me that if it bothered me, I could cover the head with my napkin.  

Now I'm here to tell you, there is no country kid alive, north, south, east or west, that is going to let his mother and little sister know that the staring eye of a dead, pan fried rainbow trout is going to bother him.  I ate that fish, right down to the bone on one side, flipped it over, and ate down to the bone until all that was left was the head, a skeleton, and a tail.  The coup de grace I guess you'd say, came when I deftly snapped off that crisp little tail and ate it.

The trip home had more comments about my fish head than any other subject, including the weather, how the covered bridge had held up for so long, and Dad's fedora.  I don't know if Dad ever got it cleaned, and if he did, if he sent the bill to the restaurant, but, as I said earlier, I don't remember him ever wearing one since that day.  As for me, I do eat fish, no matter where their heads are.