The Rye Tavern

By Richmond Talbot

The September sunshine on the meadow was descending into beautiful twilight.  The setting, which had been rural in my youth, has been grudgingly set aside by developers and is surrounded by golf courses and condos. Even the dusty road had been preserved like an artifact in a museum.

The hostess at the Rye Tavern inquired whether I would like to eat indoors or dine al fresco.  It was a decision I was certain to get wrong.  The air conditioning inside the historic eatery, a godsend perhaps on sultry nights, gave the place a dank atmosphere evoking dripping stalactites and fluttering bats. I made my doomed choice, and Annette and I were seated on the patio.  The gentle breeze that fluttered our menus foreshadowed a night wind.  I was comfortable in a suit jacket and tie, but Annette was cold, and we moved inside.

When reviewing Stone Soup, the restaurant that previously occupied the space, I wrote, “You may notice a slight ripple in the space-time continuum when a server moves from (the modern kitchen) into the dining room, which has wide floorboards, hewn beams, a tin ceiling, and a fireplace.”  Changes have been made.  The kitchen is no longer so plainly in view, but behind a bar a huge TV displayed a golf game so despite the surrounding shrubbery the true atmosphere of The Pine Hills prevailed.

As the restaurant filled, the warmth of humanity displaced the chill, but the sound of voices became defining.  Women exhilarated by cocktails and wine squealed with laughter, and assertive men raised their voices to be heard over the din. Relaxed dining and civilized conversation were impossible.

As for the meal, my martini was perfect and the service was excellent. I began with clam chowder, which turned out to be a base of cream and potatoes topped with fragments of fried clams.  It was better than it sounds, but it won’t replace the traditional version on chilly nights.  My pork chop was done exactly as I had requested.  This is something achieved these days in only the better restaurants, and I offer my compliments to whoever cooked it.  The topping of pepper jelly isn’t something I’ll imitate at home, but it did no harm.

You may find this report a bit scanty but I’m basing it on one visit.  I think you’ll find the food innovative and good.  The atmosphere is such that we skipped dessert, and won’t be back.  I recommend thick carpets and heavy drapes to deaden the sound.  My daughter the museum curator will skin me if she reads this, but they might even replace the vintage ceiling with acoustical tile.  I’m with Aesop who wrote, “A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety.”

Working the Phones

By Richmond Talbot

My father, who passed away last week at the age of 97, taught me to mow tall grass with a scythe. You don’t swing it with your arms; you hold the blade at the proper height and twist from the waist with a smooth, easy motion.  You conserve energy because the tool was perfected before the invention of the mowing machine, and a man might have to use it all day.

Someone taught my father the skill, and he passed it on to me as something I should not grow to manhood without. I’m thinking of this because today I had to program a new telephone.  Being a fogey I didn’t find it easy, but I read the instructions carefully and set out early in the morning when I was rested and calm.

I’d done this before, but telephones are not the durable instruments they were in the days when I learned to mow.  You lifted the receiver, and the operator said, “Number please.”  You told her the number, and she got it for you.  When the dial system came in, my grandmother read the instructions.  They didn’t make a lot of sense, and when she wanted to make a call she walked over to my house. I went back with her and dialed the number, and she paid me a dime.  I offered to teach her the technique, but she felt it was beyond her abilities.  She made a superb apple pie but dialing was not for her.

What she lacked was confidence, and I tried to be confident when I programmed the phone.  The instructions were sketchy.  There was something about telling the phone your area code so it could recognize local calls. I thought that might be a good thing, but when I put down the booklet I lost the place and decided it wasn’t necessary.

I entered the date and time.  I’m good at that.  Even my camera knows the date and time.  I made what the booklet called an announcement telling people that I was out and they could leave a message.  I had to press 5 to indicate the announcement was complete.  I had to check the booklet because I couldn’t remember what number to use, and there was too long a pause before the beep.

OK, I could delete the announcement and leave another.  The second time there was an audible intake of breath before the announcement, and I sounded anxious and tired, which by then I was.  Someday I’ll leave another message that sounds jaunty and casual, but for now this one works just fine.

Besides recognizing calls from my area code, there are a lot of things my new phone can do that I haven’t taken advantage of.  It can remember numbers I often call and dial them when I select them from a list.  My oldest grandchild is six and a little shaky in her spelling so it’s too soon for her to program it for me, but there’s hope for the years ahead.  For now I’ll do things the old fashioned way.

I thought I’d get the car washed so it wouldn’t disgrace me in my father’s funeral procession.  The gas pump offered me a discount if I had the car washed, and I told it I’d like that.  The screen at the car wash asked me for a code, which it turned out was on the receipt I got at the pump.  I was glad there was no impatient customer waiting behind me as I figured out what to do.

I seem to be spending more and more time communicating with machines, and each new encounter involves something to be learned.  I remember my grandmother and try to brace up.  I wonder what skills my grandchildren will need to learn when their hair is gray and fogiedom is upon them.

The scythe I used hangs upon a wall.  It is really a beautiful object, although a little frightening with its long curved blade.  I think it belonged to my great grandfather, although that is one of the many things I never asked my father when he was alive.  A few swipes with a sharpening stone and it might mow again, but actually it’s just a relic of the past as obsolete as a rotary phone.