Once upon a time, I lived in an eastern state that is known for its greenness. A student with limited means, any meal out was a treat. Ice cream at Friendly's was a treat (black raspberry with jimmies, thank you very much). But the ever so slightly hippie-dippie restaurant the next town over was the jam, the place to go for a delicious and comforting meal. It's aligned with fall in my mind's eye, thinking of sitting at the big round table in the front window, ordering 'soup, salad, and bread' and just tucking into their warm, fresh slightly brown-ish bread with a little metal tin of butter. And the soup, different every day, the potato herb being my all-time favorite. And salad, crafted simply with mesclun greens on glass plates with their amazing dressing (tomato vin.)...
The tempeh reubens and grilled cheese sandwiches were also so, so good.
One of the greater cooking compliments of my life was from the owner/chef of this magical restaurant, when he praised a vegan pot pie I made for a community meeting.
I love where I live and have places to go for good meals, extra good meals, truly favorite meals, and once a year meals... but that place has never quite been replicated. Maybe it was simply bound with time and space and place in life, inevitably linked to that age and those people and who I was then and there, but I don't think it's that simple. I think there is more to it, a unique spice of synergy where someone truly loved what they were doing and loved the place they had to do it in.
It ended with sorrow and loss, and that is sad to recall. But it was special and beautiful and a key part of why my memories of that time in my life are good ones.
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