The Captain's Wharf
I miss, miss, miss food writing. *sigh* Here is a piece that aired--*laughs* like I'm on TV or something--in my journal a while back. At least part of it. Thing is, it was on filter so only a handful of you saw it. It was/is from a contemporary romance I was working on where the main character is a restaurant critic. Excerpts from the reviewer's column appear italicized in the text. The idea was to incorporate my own recipes as part of the book.
******************
The restaurant sat lonely and desolate, like a neglected wife resigned to a loveless marriage. Except for a few late model sedans and one battered pick-up truck tucked along the back, the Captain's Wharf parking lot was empty. Approaching the building, a stray flyer crumpled into a tight ball scudded past the three of us. The wind tumbled it haphazardly against the asphalt, the sound of rolling paper amplified in the vacant space.
The exterior of the restaurant looked worn, I noted. Paint, faded by the sun, peeled in chalky flakes. Irregular pilings stood on either side of the pitted concrete entrance ramp, thick nautical rope sashed between them. Beds of white, decorative rock flanked the front doors, threatened to be overtaken by sprawling weeds. Bushes, if you could call them that, clumped sparsely, cowering down around the sides, like a mange-ravaged dog. The small eatery looked so deteriorated that a passerby might have easily mistaken it for being abandoned.
Edging in the door, Josie leaned forward. She was an always enthusiastic lunch volunteer and a contributing editor in the Lifestyles section. "Are you sure?"
“I'm sure," I replied, determined not to let me own reluctance to show. "How bad could it be?"
"Famous last words," intoned the reluctant Brenda.
Entering the main dining area, the room was dank and depressing. Gritty panes of glass were framed in limp, faded curtains. Stuffed trophy fish and life preservers decorated the oak paneled walls. Glass buoys dangled at random intervals. Cast nets were tacked to the ceiling, their sagging swells littered with an assortment of starfish, bits of driftwood and large plugs of fake grey-green sea kelp. Anyone that thought my job was glamorous or exciting should go on assignments like this.
A craggy faced woman reluctantly pulled herself from a conversation with one of the cooks. Gathering up two laminated menus, she began toward us, her face twisted in to scowl. Immediately, I got the sense that we were intruding. It didn't matter that we were much needed business.
"Welcome to the Wharf," came the requisite greeting, the cigarette-graveled rasp of her words were rough-chiseled.
Madge, according to her name tag, was a thin woman, her arms lean and sinewy from years of carrying food trays. Her teased, brittle hair was an impossibly bright red, her eyes painted garishly in robins-egg blue and lined with heavy black kohl. "Three?”
"Yes," I finally managed, our group momentarily startled into silence.
Madge, predictably, seemed not to notice. Or care. "Non smoking?"
“Please.”
“Right this way.”
We were marched past an empty bar area, lined with black-capped stools. Past the banquettes with their chipped Formica tops and single wilted stems of carnations. Past newspaper clippings tacked to the walls, the headlines now yellowed and tattered with time.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Madge offered, once she'd deposited us at our tottering table.
"Tea for me." I pushed myself sideways, hoping to dig out of the jagged gash in the vinyl seat. It bit painfully into the back of my thigh.
"Yes, tea," echoed my first dinner companion, as our menus were doled out.
"Diet Coke, please," came a third reply.
Madge looked at Brenda’s slight frame, giving a derisive snort at her selection. Without another word, she left, order pad in hand. "Service leaves a little something to be desired, huh?" Josie asked, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"Let's just see how things are. Give the place a chance." So, the wait staff was admittedly less than stellar. That didn't mean that the food might not be good. As it turns out, the food was atrocious.
First arrived the basket of cheddar biscuits, so dense and leaden that had I lobbed one at a passerby, they could've easily turned lethal. The salads were generic--unmanageable hunks of iceberg lettuce with the obligatory cucumber slice and a pale tomato wedge. Following that, our appetizers: rubbery shrimp cocktails, baked oysters desiccated almost beyond recognition and....
Brenda dipped a tentative spoon into her bowl.
“Let me have a taste,” I insisted.
The lobster bisque, normally a rich, creamy soup, was grainy.
***************
I've omitted part of the chapter because it needs to be read in context, but here is a little bit later, when the main character is observing the reactions of her dinner companions:
***************
Josie looked disdainfully down at her steak. Charred to a deep-black on one side, it was trimmed in thick gristle. Brenda, trying to make the best of her entrée, had scraped most of her dinner aside and was concentrating on the edible bits. Spearing a limp broccoli spear, she gave a fleeting smile. I doubted that either would volunteer themselves again, at least not any time soon.
Most depressing are the disastrous main courses. Catfish comes sporting a brittle mantle of crust. The petite sirloin, characterized as flame-kissed on the menu, arrives nearly incinerated. Crab cakes, while marginally better, are nothing to write home about. The roster of side dishes includes a heap of oily, listless fries, gelatinous macaroni and cheese, a sodden vegetable medley, double stuffed potatoes and corn on the cob. So far, the only redemption to the meal is the coleslaw. Creamy, sweet and slightly tart, it is very near perfect.
An affable college aged kid comes to collect our plates. “All done with that?” he asks. Is it me or does he sound slightly apologetic?
“Yes,” Josie is quick to reply.
“Can I get you any coffee? Dessert, maybe?”
I can’t help but imagine Madge reappearing with a scalding cup of bitter, black coffee and a mutinous glare, deliberately slopping the cups. “No, thanks. Just the check, please.”
******************
The restaurant sat lonely and desolate, like a neglected wife resigned to a loveless marriage. Except for a few late model sedans and one battered pick-up truck tucked along the back, the Captain's Wharf parking lot was empty. Approaching the building, a stray flyer crumpled into a tight ball scudded past the three of us. The wind tumbled it haphazardly against the asphalt, the sound of rolling paper amplified in the vacant space.
The exterior of the restaurant looked worn, I noted. Paint, faded by the sun, peeled in chalky flakes. Irregular pilings stood on either side of the pitted concrete entrance ramp, thick nautical rope sashed between them. Beds of white, decorative rock flanked the front doors, threatened to be overtaken by sprawling weeds. Bushes, if you could call them that, clumped sparsely, cowering down around the sides, like a mange-ravaged dog. The small eatery looked so deteriorated that a passerby might have easily mistaken it for being abandoned.
Edging in the door, Josie leaned forward. She was an always enthusiastic lunch volunteer and a contributing editor in the Lifestyles section. "Are you sure?"
“I'm sure," I replied, determined not to let me own reluctance to show. "How bad could it be?"
"Famous last words," intoned the reluctant Brenda.
Entering the main dining area, the room was dank and depressing. Gritty panes of glass were framed in limp, faded curtains. Stuffed trophy fish and life preservers decorated the oak paneled walls. Glass buoys dangled at random intervals. Cast nets were tacked to the ceiling, their sagging swells littered with an assortment of starfish, bits of driftwood and large plugs of fake grey-green sea kelp. Anyone that thought my job was glamorous or exciting should go on assignments like this.
A craggy faced woman reluctantly pulled herself from a conversation with one of the cooks. Gathering up two laminated menus, she began toward us, her face twisted in to scowl. Immediately, I got the sense that we were intruding. It didn't matter that we were much needed business.
"Welcome to the Wharf," came the requisite greeting, the cigarette-graveled rasp of her words were rough-chiseled.
Madge, according to her name tag, was a thin woman, her arms lean and sinewy from years of carrying food trays. Her teased, brittle hair was an impossibly bright red, her eyes painted garishly in robins-egg blue and lined with heavy black kohl. "Three?”
"Yes," I finally managed, our group momentarily startled into silence.
Madge, predictably, seemed not to notice. Or care. "Non smoking?"
“Please.”
“Right this way.”
We were marched past an empty bar area, lined with black-capped stools. Past the banquettes with their chipped Formica tops and single wilted stems of carnations. Past newspaper clippings tacked to the walls, the headlines now yellowed and tattered with time.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Madge offered, once she'd deposited us at our tottering table.
"Tea for me." I pushed myself sideways, hoping to dig out of the jagged gash in the vinyl seat. It bit painfully into the back of my thigh.
"Yes, tea," echoed my first dinner companion, as our menus were doled out.
"Diet Coke, please," came a third reply.
Madge looked at Brenda’s slight frame, giving a derisive snort at her selection. Without another word, she left, order pad in hand. "Service leaves a little something to be desired, huh?" Josie asked, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"Let's just see how things are. Give the place a chance." So, the wait staff was admittedly less than stellar. That didn't mean that the food might not be good. As it turns out, the food was atrocious.
First arrived the basket of cheddar biscuits, so dense and leaden that had I lobbed one at a passerby, they could've easily turned lethal. The salads were generic--unmanageable hunks of iceberg lettuce with the obligatory cucumber slice and a pale tomato wedge. Following that, our appetizers: rubbery shrimp cocktails, baked oysters desiccated almost beyond recognition and....
Brenda dipped a tentative spoon into her bowl.
“Let me have a taste,” I insisted.
The lobster bisque, normally a rich, creamy soup, was grainy.
***************
I've omitted part of the chapter because it needs to be read in context, but here is a little bit later, when the main character is observing the reactions of her dinner companions:
***************
Josie looked disdainfully down at her steak. Charred to a deep-black on one side, it was trimmed in thick gristle. Brenda, trying to make the best of her entrée, had scraped most of her dinner aside and was concentrating on the edible bits. Spearing a limp broccoli spear, she gave a fleeting smile. I doubted that either would volunteer themselves again, at least not any time soon.
Most depressing are the disastrous main courses. Catfish comes sporting a brittle mantle of crust. The petite sirloin, characterized as flame-kissed on the menu, arrives nearly incinerated. Crab cakes, while marginally better, are nothing to write home about. The roster of side dishes includes a heap of oily, listless fries, gelatinous macaroni and cheese, a sodden vegetable medley, double stuffed potatoes and corn on the cob. So far, the only redemption to the meal is the coleslaw. Creamy, sweet and slightly tart, it is very near perfect.
An affable college aged kid comes to collect our plates. “All done with that?” he asks. Is it me or does he sound slightly apologetic?
“Yes,” Josie is quick to reply.
“Can I get you any coffee? Dessert, maybe?”
I can’t help but imagine Madge reappearing with a scalding cup of bitter, black coffee and a mutinous glare, deliberately slopping the cups. “No, thanks. Just the check, please.”