The Forks Were Wired To The Table

When I moved to London to live on the GI Bill, I wasn’t quite prepared for the class divisions in Britain.

I knew that the best way to experience local life was to visit a pub. 

When I visited my first pub, I had a dilemma: the pub had two doors.  One door was marked LOUNGE, and the other door was marked PUBLIC.  I wasn’t sure which door I should enter; I decided to go in the PUBLIC door since I was a member of the public.  Once inside, I ordered a pint and noticed that the floor was uncarpeted and the chairs had no cushions.  I could peek into the LOUNGE side of the pub: over there, it looked cozy, with carpets and cushions.

I learned that the PUBLIC side was designed for the working class --- blue collar workers who had just gotten off of work, wearing grimy work clothes and dirty boots.  Hence, no carpets and no cushions.  But a pint on the PUBLIC side of the pub cost less than the same pint on the LOUNGE side of the pub --- so I often drank on the PUBLIC side to help my GI Bill go further.

I also noticed that all pubs closed at 11 PM. 

For transportation, I took the London Underground, where the last trains left around midnight.

These hours seemed restrictive for a major city like London.  

Then I heard a theory: these hours were designed to get the working class back home and in bed at a reasonable hour.  The middle-class and upper-class did not depend on public transit; they had cars, and also had private drinking clubs which stayed open into the wee hours of the morning.

Made sense to me, but it was only a theory.

During my time in Britain, nothing said class division like my visit to Longleat House, a stately home in Horningsham, Wiltshire.  Longleat was the seat of the Marquess of Bath.

Longleat was an enormous house with an enormous lawn.  I liked the way the nearby woods created a dark backdrop that intensified the grandeur of the house's exterior.  I paid the entrance fee, and stepped into the interior of Longleat House; I felt like I was stepping back in time.

This was the first stately home in Britain ever to be opened to the public.  Apparently the Marquess of Bath could not afford the upkeep.  

This made me wonder about the flock of sheep I had seen cropping the enormous lawn.  I could not tell if the sheep were a recent economic measure, or if sheep had been maintaining the lawn since 1579.

Inside Longleat, I walked through rooms full of elegant furniture; I looked at lots of paintings on the walls; I gazed up at intriguing ceilings.

The dining room slowed me down because the table was set.  I imagined being invited to dinner by the Marquess of Bath.  The elegant place settings glinted at me.  I looked closely: the knives, forks, and spoons were gold.  Looking closer, I could see that they were wired to the table.

Ah, yes, you don’t want the entrance-fee-paying public to pocket your expensive silverware.  I was digesting this thought when I overheard two women next to me discussing the china pattern.

“This china is not as colorful as Lady Caroline’s china.”

“I know, but I like this pattern better than Lady Elizabeth’s china.”

I realized that I was standing next to two women who were in the nobility, peeresses of the realm.  

The general public comes to Longleet House to marvel at the elegant building and to be impressed by its glorious interior.  These two peeresses had come to Longleet House to get some home decorating ideas.

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A 2-minute video of a trip through Longleat's hedge maze, said to be the most difficult in the world.  The goal is to get to the tower...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZzMV-piZPk

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Send an email to ParadiseDouglas at gmail.com to find out how to purchase a copy by mail.

In Search Of A Roll Like Mabel's Roll

Even though Missouri is in the middle of the continent, I was hoping for a roll just like Mabel's roll on my 71st birthday.

Mabel is the namesake of  Mabel's Lobster Claw restaurant at 124 Ocean Avenue in Kennebunkport, Maine.

My history with lobster rolls goes back to the time I moved to New England, and I was in a seafood restaurant with some New England friends.  My friends asked me if I was going to order lobster---actually, my friends asked me if I was going to order lobsta.

I said, "No, it is too arduous to get the meat out of a lobster." 

  

(My history with lobsters goes back to my childhood when my mother ordered a lobster in a New York restaurant.  Much fanfare ensued.  The waiter put a plastic bib on my mother; then brought her a bunch of tools to attack the lobster with.  The whole lobster was served and Mom attacked.  It seemed like a lot of fuss.)

My New England friends immediately suggested that I get a lobster roll.  No plastic bib, no extra tools, no attacking, no fuss.  To make a lobster roll, someone in the kitchen takes the meat out of the lobster shell, adds a touch of mayo, and puts it in a split-top white-bread bun.  The waiter brings you the roll; all you do is pick it up and eat.

I ordered a lobster roll that night, and enjoyed it.  During my years in New England, I decided my favorite lobster roll was at Mabel's in Kennebunkport.

I now live 1,300 miles from Maine, but I have lobster roll dreams.  I dream of finding someplace in St. Louis that can replicate Mabel's roll.

I first went across the Missouri River to a restaurant that served me a lobster roll where the lobster had been doused in mayo (thumbs down), and celery was added (thumbs down), and it was served in a split-side hoagie roll (thumbs way down).

Then I tried a restaurant on this side of the Missouri River.  They served me a lobster roll where the lobster had a touch of mayo (thumbs up), and celery was added (thumbs down), and corn kernels were added (ditto).

But it was served on a split-top bun (thumbs up).  In fact, the bun was like the ones in Maine: it resembled a hot dog bun except it had flat sides, so it could be toasted on a griddle before the lobster meat was added.

For my 71st birthday, we tried the new seafood restaurant run by one of St. Louis' celebrity chefs.  The chef had gone to Maine and had made friends with lobstermen there.  Photos of the lobstermen are displayed on the restaurant walls.  The restaurant is designed to look rustic, almost as if you were at a seafood shack in New England: exposed cement floor, stressed wood on the walls, metal furniture that makes noise when it scrapes against the floor.

I ordered a lobster roll.  The waiter served me my 71st-birthday lobster roll.  The lobster had a touch of mayo (thumbs up), no celery had been added (another thumbs up), no corn kernels had been added (thumbs up again), and it was served on a flat-sided split-top bun (thumbs up).  But wait - it was a brioche bun!

Definitely not a tradtional roll like Mabel makes.  I wonder if Mabel can even pronounce or spell brioche.

So, I have not found a roll in St. Louis that matches Mabel’s.  

This means I need to travel 1,300 miles to Kennebunkport to get the real deal.  But I am worried.  What if I go all the way to Kennebunkport, order a lobster roll and find celery in my roll?  What if I get to Kennebunkport, and my lobster roll is slathered with mayo?  What if the lobster roll comes, heaven forbid, in a brioche bun? 

Nah, Mabel would serve me the same lobster roll she served me many years ago.

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A 3-minute tour of Mabel's lobster claw:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3O-XyifV16k

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Find out more at http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

The Advantage Of Turkey In Winter

I did not go to Turkey because it was winter; I went to Turkey because the government had just devalued the currency --- and my dollars were suddenly worth twice as much as they used to be.

When I arrived in Turkey, I discovered the advantage of Turkey in winter: no other tourists.  I did not have to wait in line to get into any of the big tourist attractions.  I did not have to fight for a seat on a train or a bus, or for a berth on an overnight ferry.  It was delightful.

I was the only tourist in Denizli, in southwestern Turkey.  Denizli was my jumping off point for one of the highlights of my time in Turkey: Pamukkale.

I went to Pamukkale by minibus and was dropped off at the bottom of a hillside, and I immediately looked up: travertine cliffs loomed above me, formed by centuries of deposits of calcium carbonate from the water that cascaded down from a hot spring at the top of the hill.  The calcium carbonate had formed lacy terraces; many of which were filled with brilliant blue water.

I walked up the hill, past one terrace after another.  As I approached the top of the hill, I saw ruins off to my left.  The Turks call this hill Pamukkale, but it used to be called Hierapolis, back in Roman times.  The Romans had built a city here because of the hot spring.  Most of Hierapolis was gone, but its amphitheater was amazingly intact --- it once sat 12,000 spectators.

My goal at Pamukkale was off to my right, at the top of the hill: the Roman bathing pool.  The pool was abandoned; it had even become a dumping ground for broken Roman columns.  When I reached the pool, I saw the columns down at the bottom.  The water was clear.  I dipped my hand in it.  The water was clear and warm --- very warm.

I yearned to swim where the ancient Romans swam.

But there was a problem: I had not brought a bathing suit with me.

Wait, that’s not a problem --- it was winter, and there were no other tourists.  I piled my shoes and my clothes next to a tree and entered the pool.  I proceeded to swim where the ancient Romans swam.  I went underwater, and felt the texture of the columns.

I felt like I owned this pool. 

And I felt close.  I felt close to the Romans who bathed here.  I felt close to the Romans who once filled a 12,000 seat amphitheater.  I felt close to the Romans who built a city so they could be near this hot spring.

I put my clothes and shoes back on and picked my way down the travertine hillside to flag down a minibus to take me back to Denizli. 

On the bus, my first thought was that I needed to take a shower at my hotel to wash off the calcium carbonate.  But then I started to think about my experience at the Roman bathing pool.  This never could have happened in summer; it happened in winter in Turkey, when there were no other tourists.

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Here is a 4-minute YouTube video about Roman bath houses:     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GC1K_ulow7U

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com