As I waited for a host, I mused over the various signage that adorned the staging area of the quaint restaurant. First was the rather large mirror with an ornate gold frame, perched on an easel as if it were a fine painting. The edges of the mirror were frosted with some sort of art work, and the words “Wine by the Glass” were printed at the top, except that the word “Wine” had been blackened out with permanent marker, and a bold, handwritten note below the first statement read, “NO ALCOHOL.” I wasn’t sure if this meant they had something by the glass, but it didn’t contain alcohol, or if they were fundamentally against the concept—on a grander scale. Conflicting with the “NO ALCOHOL” statement was a folded cardboard sign at each table promoting the local microbrewery. So, I was then left to wonder if they only had disagreements with alcoholic wine, but not beer, or if perhaps locally made products were an exception.

St Paul Harbor Looking Southwest

"Pointing to the mirror, I asked if it were really true that no alcohol was available."

The second sign of interest was that of a handwritten sheet of school writing paper taped to the host’s counter indicating no credit could be accepted—cash or checks only—nor billing to one’s room. Being that no one was yet available to act as host, and I sensed no fear of losing my place in line, I ventured back to the front desk to ask a few more questions. As much as I was looking for specific information, such as “They really only take cash?” and “Can’t one even get a beer?,” I was looking for hidden indications that I really shouldn’t risk eating there, and that perhaps I might be better off getting a cab into town for a pizza. What I received instead was an assurance that they could take credit cards, and even bill to my room if I preferred.

Now armed with approval from the front desk, I marched back to the restaurant, prepared to use my trump card if needed. I forgot to ask about the beer, but thought I would save that for the next battle. There was still no one to greet customers, so I shuffled a bit, coughed a few times, and finally the hostess appeared.

Yes, the hostess … a weathered woman of late years with long, graying hair, held back with a black bandanna to match her black t-shirt, black apron, black denim pants, and black shoes, who could have benefited greatly from an orthodontist as a child, but such was not her fate. She asked rather hesitantly if I were there for dinner, and how many would be eating. I looked over my shoulder to ensure no one had followed me, and replied, “One, please.” Pointing to the mirror, I asked if it were really true that no alcohol was available. Again, rather hesitantly, she replied that since the lounge was no longer in operation she could serve alcohol, but not their “girls” who work some shifts. But, all she could offer was their “batter beer,” made by the local brewery. Not having heard of batter beer, I decided it was worth the risk, given my current state of parchment.

The room was surprisingly pleasant, with contemporary wood furniture, and large windows overlooking a lawn surrounded by pine trees. She sat me near an open window that graced me with an occasional fresh breeze. Unfortunately I was poised to look almost directly into the open kitchen door, which also availed me of the night’s entertainment highlight—country/western music blaring from a shelf radio at the back of the kitchen. I also, to my chagrin, was witness to some of the cook’s meanderings as he passed by the kitchen door. It really is never a good idea to see the kitchen of a restaurant, no matter how good the food. Preparation and presentation are wholly different affairs which are better kept separate. From what little I could see under the baseball cap and scruffy beard, he appeared to be on the younger side. If you can picture a construction or factory worker who leaves his day job, puts on a white chef’s coat while smoking a cigarette, and walks into the back of a kitchen, then you have my vision.

On my way to the table I inquired about the method of payment, given that I had brought with me a finite amount of cash that was to last the week. I had anticipated purchasing lunches and sundry items with cash, but not dinners, as they are typically charged to the company credit card. She indicated, hesitantly, that I could indeed pay with credit, but they did not have a credit card machine, so she would need to ring it up at the front desk of the hotel. However, she didn’t have a way of adding tips to the bill, or if she could, they would be put on regular payroll. I didn’t quite understand about the payroll part, but I did understand that money was tight, and tips would be preferred in cash. Ok, I could deal with that, as long as I got my “batter beer.”

I picked up the menu, hoping to find something that wasn’t deep fried or otherwise dangerous. To my surprise the standard fare, such as hamburgers and French fries, was strangely absent. Instead there were dishes such as prime rib, braised lamb with asparagus, grilled chicken breast with red pepper sauce and garlic potatoes, and cedar plank salmon with balsamic black cherry sauce. The menu also revealed the beer mystery in the form of lightly breaded beer batter fish and chips. I decided on the salmon, the special of the day, banking on the hope that it would be their best effort of the day, and would most likely be available.

My mystery beer arrived shortly thereafter (I was the only customer, after all) and only a few sips made me wonder if I should have opted for fish and chips rather than salmon, because it was quite good; a light lager with a nice bite of hops on the way down. While enjoying this local brew another party entered the room and I watched with amusement as my own experience from a few moments ago replayed itself like a second showing at the theater, only with new players and a different ending. Either they weren’t offered the batter beer or couldn’t accept it as the only offering, so they left to quench their thirst elsewhere. I had the distinct impression that the restaurant didn’t have proper licensing to serve alcohol, so the hesitant hostess was in the uncomfortable position of passing judgment on each customer as to their trustworthiness regarding the little secret at hand. I guess I was considered safe.

The surprisingly good beer was followed by an equally good salad. Many restaurants have wonderful entrees, but salads can separate the real players from the hopefuls. This went well beyond iceberg lettuce and barely red tomato wedges, having fresh greens and real tomatoes (which could very well have been picked that day from a local garden), mango slices, nuts, and raspberry dressing. Something was just not right with this picture; nothing fit properly. I decided to hold final judgment until after the main course, because maybe the chef’s specialty was salad.

Perhaps they were overwhelmed with the dinner rush (the table count was now 2, as another party had joined the little adventure) or they were just being very meticulous with dinner preparations, but I nearly finished the beer by the time the main course arrived. It was worth the wait. The salmon had been pulled from the grill with precision timing, leaving just a hint of translucence in the center so it remained tender. The contrasting sensations of sweet and tangy in the sauce balanced themselves perfectly. Even the buttery vegetables held some snap, rather than being soggy afterthoughts.

You will have to pardon my lapse into food critic mode, but after many, many meals on the road, restaurant food just doesn’t make my mouth water anymore, unless there’s something distinctive to raise it above the general haze of meal memory. This one stood out not only for its quality and flavor, but for the utter contrast with my first impressions. Chicken-fried steak with an abundance of gristle would have made much more sense under the circumstances.

My curiosity needle had now reached the red zone, so I had to inquire. The waitress made a pass by my table to see how I was doing (she really was trying her best to pour on the uptown style), and I let her know how much I enjoyed it, with just a hint of a question lingering at the end of my sentence, hoping she would catch the note of pleasant surprise. She caught the hint and related a bit of the story.

Her husband, the chef, was trained at the San Francisco Culinary Institute, and had worked in restaurants in France and New York. They had just re-opened this restaurant three weeks prior to my arrival, along with a business partner who was to provide the financing. The partner, however, had bailed out just prior to opening. They decided to make a go of it anyway. Consequently, each day’s earnings and tips barely covered the cost of food for the next day, and often didn’t cover at all. A local rancher on the island provided the specialty Angus beef, and much of the fish was caught by local fisherman. The waitress was originally from Alaska, and while I didn’t talk long enough to get the full story, I gathered it was somewhat of a homecoming for her.

After having my first impressions pleasantly dashed at dinner, I returned for breakfast the next morning. Contrasts were once again the highlight of the menu. I again had a view into the kitchen, and noticed that the San Francisco-trained truck driver/chef wasn’t present. I realized this could be a completely different experience. To make matters worse, they were out of most everything.

“Orange juice?”

“Sorry, we’re out of that today.”

“Sausage?”

“We have bacon.”

“Skim milk?” (which was there on the menu)

“No, sorry.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, we have coffee.”

“Oh, thank heaven!”

I ended up taking the healthy route and ordered some yogurt, granola, and whole wheat toast. “Sorry, we’re out of wheat, but we have rye.”

“Fine, that’ll do. Just bring the coffee.”

The simple granola/yogurt mixture ended up being the delight of my day. I don’t know what type of yogurt they used, but it was the smoothest I have ever experienced. As for the honey whipped into the yogurt, it must have come straight from a hive on the same ranch where they picked the raspberries and other fruits that accompanied the homemade granola. I had to go back the next day to experience it again, and was sorely disappointed on the last day of my trip when I discovered the restaurant was closed for breakfast, except for some muffins and yogurt purchased at a local supermarket.

I suppose there are a few lessons to be learned in this story, the easiest being not to judge a book by its cover, but you already figured that one out. ‘Things are not always as they seem’ is a close second, but still the low fruit hanging from the tree. Reaching a bit higher I find one about not always playing it safe. Playing it safe that first night would have found me eating pizza in my hotel room, counting the days until I could go home. Playing it safe would have kept me from going for a walk along the mountain trail that began across the street and wound its way over streams and along meadows to views overlooking the bay. (Upon inquiring about the relative safety of the area, the hotel clerk had advised me just to make noise as I went, by whistling or singing, so as to scare away any potential bears. I’m not much of a whistler, and I can never remember all the words to a song, so I talked to myself loudly instead.) Playing it safe would have kept me sensibly inside, out of the rain, but would have caused me to miss one of this country’s most beautiful parks, and my first sight of whales dancing not far offshore. Such adventurous thoughts don’t always turn out pleasant—sometimes you just get chicken-fried steak—but once in a while you turn over an ordinary rock and find gold.

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