One of my lunch experiences from last summer stands in stark contrast to my usual Mediterranean fare, both in atmosphere and in gustation. When my mom invited me to eat lunch with her friend from work I was eager to join them. We made the eighty minute journey to Greenville, New Hampshire by car, passing aromatic pines and radiant lakes; I felt like we were in one of those "VisitNH" commercials. As we approached the restaurant (I use the term leniently) via a steep, unpaved road, I spotted cows grazing in distant farms, and red pick-up trucks lining the horizon. I was enjoying the idyllic rugged-pastoral environment, and I expected my meal to be of the same nature. We turned left at a sign that said "Pickity Place" (which upon leaving seemed to say "PICKity Place" but that could have been my mind) and a small red cottage came into sight. "Cute," I thought, but what awaited me was far from charming. Everything that this place stands for is a contradiction of my food beliefs. You don't eat when you see fit, rather, there are three seatings at 11:30, 12:45, and 2:00. We arrived at half-past twelve and there was already a mass of diners crowding the entrance, ready to gormandize. Hold on, gormandize is too harsh a verb for this mass of seventy-plus year-old, denture-wearing grandmothers and their daughters. I was probably the only person there that didn't dye my hair or sport white locks. My hunt for any men or people that were pre-midlife-crisis was comparable to my experiences with "Where's Waldo?" books: futile.
Startled by the piercing clanging of a bell, (they probably made it louder for the ninety percent of the crowd that was hard of hearing) I jumped back, striking my foot against a tacky garden fairy decoration. Hopefully the skewed age-range and my sore ankle would not detract from what I was anticipating would be a pleasant lunch. The three of us joined in the cue to enter the dining room: I'll spare you the gruesome details of the décor (dried flowers and herbs hanging from every place possible, pictures of fairies and story book characters, etc.) and move onto "lunch." Waiting at the table was a basket of individually wrapped Pepperidge Farm™ crackers and Danish lemon dill dip: the "first course." After sampling the dip I found my throat to be parched, and my only relief was water infused with sprigs of herbs. As I inhaled, the smell of herbs with a hint of estrogen invaded my lungs. There was no escape. A waitress (there were no waiters, obviously) crossed the room carrying a stack of clanging plates and my jaw dropped: she was dressed like some sort of fairy princess, complete with puerile braids and a crown of tacky plastic flowers. After making it through the soup and salad courses (not up to par), and a bread course (?), another waitress came out of the kitchen (or was it some sort of fairy abode?) balancing the next course: an overcooked chicken appendage on a bed, excuse me, sloppy pile, of "plantain wild rice" infused with, you guessed it, more herbs. What I wouldn't do for my mom's paella, which started to seem rather "masculine" now, or a medium-raw cut of solomillo, dripping with blood. I was engrossed with the imagery of meat sputtering on a skillet when the host rushed through the room, encouraging the waitresses to hurry because they were behind schedule; the 2:00 seating would be starting soon, and another mass of people of the same gender and age structure were impatiently waiting. I gulped down some sort of herbal tea concoction, scorching my tongue in the process, and quickly finished the summer berry pie. As soon as we paid for the "five-course gourmet herbal luncheon," as advertised on the website that I should have visited prior to coming here, a fairy-waitress hybrid escorted us out and chimed, "Have a pickity day!"
It pained me to follow the ideals of this eating establishment, and furthermore, the dining dogmas of a culture that stands in stark contrast to the Mediterranean style. However, I did so out of respect for my mom's friend who was so eager to show us her favorite place. I wanted to refuse the poorly prepared chicken or start tearing down sprigs of herbs from the over-decorated fairy tale walls, but I resisted. The dining environment was not tasteful and the wait staff pranced around with forced smiles that I could taste in my soup (the "chefs" seemed to throw together various components on a plate without taking the recipient into consideration); I took this rebellious tension, masked it with good manners, and realized that while some people don't want anything more from a meal than protein, Vitamin C, and polite conversation, I never wanted to have a lunch like this again.
Do come here if you like fairies and gardens more than great food and a relaxed ambiance... read more