Read Time: 02:02
An anomaly to regular statistical incidence, this town has had three contestants on the show “Worst Cooks in America,” though its population is a modest 34,000.
When I Google “restaurants,” what comes up is a picture of a UPS Store, noted for having a casual atmosphere that’s good for kids.
The whole coastal town is dated. You can tell some of the homes still have shag carpets, wallpaper, and a can of spam tucked back in the pantry. You can tell.
I’m just looking for a decent restaurant, but in this town, dropping the name James Beard makes people respond with the sound a pirate might make. And that’s confusing for everyone.
The list of eating establishments seems to have interchanged and reiterated all possible nautical terms, the way Mexican Food restaurants can take four food items and make an entire menu.
Chart House, Harbor House, Harpoon House. Good God.
“Beach Fare,” I say to my companion, wondering if that means there’s just sand on your food when it comes to the table.
“This other place has ‘area sourced’ Mahe.”
“‘Area sourced’ probably means it’s from the Costco up the street.”
“Is there actually a Costco up the street? Should we just do that?”
“Is Mexican food too pedestrian?” We look at the reviews on a tiny screen. The reviews are good. We scroll through pictures of the restaurant and see a picture with the owner standing next to Vice President Mike Pence, and my companion says, “The Mexican looks so confused.”
“He does look confused. Like he’s asking his staff, ‘You guys served this asshole?’ ”
We continue our search:
The Waterman’s Harpoon. The Longboard Chart Harbor House View. Mike and Ted’s Charter House View at the Harbor Lighthouse. The Harbor Grill Restaurant. Harpoon Henry’s. Waterman’s Harbor.
I would trade every harpoon, harbor and chart in a 10 mile radius for and anything involving kale, but do not say this aloud.
“These places all look like they serve fried calamari with a side of ranch.”
We capitulate and decide on Mike and Ted’s Charter House View at the Harbor Lighthouse. As we slide into the wicker seats and take in the view of overweight and oddly-shaped people lumbering about outside on the harbor, a young and overly-eyemakeuped woman brings us water in plastic cups and asks, “How y’all doin?”
My companion wastes no time in ordering the fried calamari as an appetizer, and asks, “Does that happen to come with a side of ranch?”
“Everything here with comes with a side of ranch, sir.”
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