That Distant Smile

October 8

Hitting the street around the crack of noon, we were headed for the Louvre.

We stopped for a bite up the street at Cafe Parisien. I was able to order two coffees and a cup of hot water from a waitress who spoke no English. I felt good about that.

The food selection, except for the salads, was kind of heavy for lunch, and we didn’t want just salad for breakfast. We ordered quiche of the day with salad on the side. OK, that should be balanced.

When quiche was a rage in the States at least 30 years ago, there was a book that was a mild sensation for a week or two, “Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche.” It’s where all the “Real Men” this and “Real Women” that came from. I guess it sort of peaked and died when somebody published, “Real Mean Eat Anything They Want.”

So we shared a salmon quiche and green salad. Since we were headed for a museum, I wanted to have a clear head—don’t know why, maybe so I could feel that I was getting my euro’s worth. So anyway, I wimped out and didn’t order wine. And that was approriate enough: after all, I was eating quiche.

I tried to figure out how to use the Metro. After a few minutes trying and failing to find our local station, Censier Daubenton, on the map, I gave up and we took a cab. It was only later that I realized my folding map had diagrams of two different public transit systems and I had been studying the wrong one.

We’ll try the Metro another time.

The Louvre is downright daunting. It has that ugly glass pyramid with the exposed trusswork in the middle of a huge courtyard surrounded by monumental apartment blocks that only kings in high heels could call home.

Imagine having a piece of Laguardia airport stuck onto the Statue of Liberty.

They got us in quick enough. After you get tickets you have to decide which wing you want to try. Joanna wanted to see the Mona Lisa.

So we went to the Renaissance. I like the Renaissance almost as much as I like the Dutch masters. There is a Vermeer, the Lacemaker, somewhere in the museum, and I may get to see it if we get back to the Louvre again. But it is in an entirely different wing, which would put it about a two- or three-mile walk from where we were.

The Mona Lisa has a wall to herself. The painting is small and is kept behind what appears to be bullet-proof glass. It has been stolen at least once before, I believe. If I remember right, it was replaced with a great fake and either nobody knew the real one was gone, or the few who did kept it a secret. The original turned up some time later. Or maybe it is the fake on the wall. Who can tell? You can’t get within 10 feet of it.

And still, the people were packed in there shoving and desperately trying to snap amateur photos of a painting dimly visible under glass. Everywhere you look there was the light of a smart phone, and some people came armed with iPads.

And I mean really shoving. A tiny Asian lady was pushing people out of her way so she could hold her cell phone up. I heard Joanna say, “Wait your turn.” But the lady snapped a shot and was gone.

It may be the most famous picture in the world. Certainly it is one of the top three holdings of the museum. I forget what the other two are. They may be the Winged Victory of Samothrace and the Venus de Milo. Didn’t Art Buchwald once brag that he was so efficient finding his way through the Louvre that he was able to see all three within five minutes?

Maybe that lady was trying to beat Buchwald’s time.

Joanna took the photo of the day. It’s “Harry Visits Mona Lisa.”

I have never been a big fan of Mona Lisa, but everything else was terrific—one after another, all these world treasures. By the time we were half-way through, I got the feeling that I was actually personally acquainted with John the Baptist and Hercules.

We must have covered four galleries at most before we were chased out at 6 p.m.

We strolled back along the river toward Notre Dame. My cousin Bill had written to recommend a restaurant near the cathedral, so we decided to go there.

We crossed a wonderful footbridge not far from the Louvre. Couples put padlocks on the fencing of the bridge. Hawkers on the banks sell the locks. Some people clearly bring their own because they are engraved with names and dates, like the couple who became engaged on Sept. 9. When you see it in the distance, the bridge glitters with white and yellow metal.

We strolled on the quay past the houseboats on the left bank and then found ourselves drifting up a ramp toward the street. I don’t know why we chose that ramp, but I was eager to get up to the street. I mean, here I was. Somebody else was doing the driving. The clock was pushing seven—well, over here, nineteen—and I hadn’t had a drink all day.

So we came up to street level and I realized the angels were still watching over me. There was not just a bar on the corner, but a Belle Epoque survival.

The lounge was filled with plush chairs and sofas covered in whorehouse-red velvet. They had wine. Upstairs a hallway was lined with private dining rooms. One of the rooms seemed to have one big table and three waiters. This was the big time in the old-fashioned style—right out of a Victorian porn novel. They even had a special menu of cocktails pour deux.

We sat at the bar where I took a couple of verres of pinot noir. Once I had been properly nourished, I was ready to lead Joanna to the restaurant that Bill mentioned. It is on the Rue Petit Pont and the restaurant is called le Petit Pont.

The Petit Pont itself is the bridge from the Left Bank over the river that takes you to the front of the cathedral. You know, where Charles Laughton swung down on a rope.

Sometime in the 9th century a bunch of aristocrats, now buried in the crypt under the church, fought at the Petit Pont against a group of storming Normans. I read that on a sign somewhere.

We had snails, of course, and fried frogs’ legs, and followed that with duck breast in a pepper sauce with mashed potatoes.

Our server was having troubles, though. We had just sat down when he brought us two glasses of wine, before we had ordered anything. We were pretty sure the drinks weren’t compliments of the house so we suggested they might be for someone else. We were right.

Next he comes out with a tray of desserts decorated with sparklers. He takes those to another wrong table, turns around and promptly launches a parfait onto an empty chair and then to the floor.

I ordered two glasses of different wines. The kid puts them on the table and runs off, not telling me which is which.

Service aside, the food was fantastic—thank you, Bill—and so was the wine, a Bordeaux and something else (I forget).

We passed the Pantheon on the way back to the hotel. The neighborhood is named for it, but I didn’t know the significance. The signs there say it was begun as a church—maybe by the last Louis while he was still king. After the Revolution it was converted into a secular temple honoring prominent citizens. Voltaire, Rousseau, and Victor Hugo are buried there.

We stopped for an apple tart and a white Sancerre at the restaurant called Village Monge, up the street from the hotel.

Then we packed it in.

Be well all. More nonsense to come.

 October 8

It sounds like you are having a wonderful time.

I need to make a slight correction.

I was recommending the "Le Petit Pontoise" not the "Le Petit Pont." I have never been to the latter. If the food was good, which is the most important thing, than no harm, no foul.

Apparently they are both by Notre Dame. Le Petit Pont is on the southwest side and Le Petit Pontoise is on the southeast side.

Bill

October 8

Snails, frogs' legs and duck breast. Now we're talking!

Sancerre with apple tart? Doesn't the wine taste a bit sour with dessert? To each his own.

And you survived the Louvre. I agree, the Mona Lisa is probably the most overrated piece of art I've ever seen. Are you going back?

The Rodin Museum is great and worth checking out if you like modern (as opposed to contemporary) sculpture.

Larry

Church and Somebody’s Idea of Heaven

October 7

I’ve heard that, if you sit long enough in any of the cafes along the Champs Elysees, you’ll eventually see everyone you’ve ever known walk by. The logic behind this idea has always escaped me. It’s probably an advertising gimmick so people will try it and buy more coffee and wine from restaurants.

In any case, today Joanna and I gave everybody a chance to see us.

But that was after dark.

While we were walking around Notre Dame last night, we found that the 10 a.m. Sunday service is Gregorian. Had to do that.

According to my bio clock, that's 4 in the morning. So I was feeling strange when we set out—not bad, only strange.

We passed the Arenes de Lutece on the way, and there was a soccer team warming up. Dozens of scouts were also assembling there. These were “Scouts Marins” according to their hats. They were dressed in shades of blue and wore scout-like bandanas.

Closer to the church, we passed a couple of women who were clearly wrapping up a night of hard partying. They looked a little the worse for wear and one was heroin-thin. They were with one man, who may have been the pimp. That or they were aspiring fashion models who had stayed out too late.

The experience of the church is also very strange. Sort of like holding a service in a public park. The place after all is a world cultural landmark. Where else do you have a deformed bell-ringer swing down from the belfry to sweep up Maureen O'Hara and then somehow—get this—swing all the way back up? We all remember that, I hope. Any church where you can do that is deservedly special.

To this day, I can't hear the phrase "Notre Dame" without hearing Charles Laughton cry "sanctuary" in that tongue-tied way.

There is a large bronze on a marble pedestal outside the cathedral. The statue represents one of the great medieval German heroes, Charlemagne. France, after all, is named for a German tribe, the Franks. Charlemagne was one of them.

Damn. I like France. I hope they’ll let me back into the country after I publish this.

The center of the nave in Notre Dame is reserved for services. There are two lines when you go in: Messe and Visite.

We were in the congregation this time, and all around us there were tourists going up and down the side aisles, outside the columns. It was pretty well packed.

I haven't seen so many people together at one church service since Jimmy Swaggart got caught with the hooker. Actually, there weren't really as many as Swaggart used to draw. More like a few hundred at Notre Dame.

On the way back we stopped for breakfast at place called the Cardinal. Bird or archbishop, I’m not sure, but it was on Rue Monge not far from the Boulevard St. Germain.

I had to get some coffee to ward off caffeine withdrawal. Joanna, who has to stay away from caffeine, ordered the warm milk. I don’t think I’ve ever seen warm milk on a menu before. We had crepes and I had a glass of an almost sweet white called Sancerre, which went really well with the bite of Grand Marnier in my pancakes.

We passed a staircase with flowers that I later learned is Rue Rollin. the map shows the Rue Rollin meeting Rue Monge. It does, but only for pedestrians. At the top is a narrow street made to look like a medieval lane, with the gutter in the middle.

Back at the hotel, Joanna needed a nap, and so I went for a walk. I stopped as I often do at a bar named for a church. It’s the St. Medard, around the corner from the hotel.

When I got there, a street market was breaking up and a chanteuse was finishing her set. People were dancing in the street. So the French don’t dance only on the bridge at Avignon.

There is a photo on the wall inside the bar that may have been taken for Life Magazine decades ago. It shows a bride—veil, flowers, and all—walking past the fountain outside, and you can clearly read the name of the cafe on the awning.

I had two more coffees with Bordeaux chasers and was ready for a stroll.

Rue Mouffetard climbs a hill from the square. This is one of those ancient tourist streets that you find in Europe. In the U.S. they are usually new streets made to look old, or highways like the one through Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

This one was like some of the streets in the Old City of Prague. the rue is narrow and full of tourists and places that cater to them, but many of the shops—a butcher, baker, fishmonger, for instance—looked like they served local trade. There’s a street in Amsterdam—maybe the Nieuwendijk—that is almost like that, but the locals stay away.

I got back to the hotel and took a short nap myself.

When we got out it was past four, so we took a cab to Les Invalides, because it looked like an easy matter to stroll from there to the Eiffel Tower.

We did that, although I led us the long way because I took a wrong turn.

Not entirely lost time, though, because it took us past a green wall—an entire garden growing vertically up the side of a building that faces the Seine.

The Eiffel Tower is impressive. We walked under it, photographed each other standing in front of it. We got there at the last light, so we watched it switch from day to night mode. The truss work is lighted from below, so there is a kind of golden glow to the entire structure.

We crossed the river on a bridge and were on the steps of the Palais de Chaillot when the real light show came on. We heard a woman nearby gasp in surprise, turned, and saw the whole thing covered with sparklers.

On the far side of the palais is a traffic circle with a statue of Marshall Foch.

One of the roads coming into the circle is the Avenue du President-Wilson.

We took Avenue Kleber, because that took us to l’Etoile, the big traffic circle where the Arc de Triomphe is. That’s the top of the Champs Elysees, the high rent district modestly named for the old Roman heaven.

We strolled the boulevard and stopped at a restaurant called the Clement, which was celebrating its 20 years in business. It was on our side of the street and had sidewalk tables. We ordered a rose and a white from Cave du Clement, which I took for the house wine.

They were good, refreshing, lighter than reds, and went perfectly with the snails. We were given English-language menus and I saw “coquille of winkles.” Wow. What is that? I have no idea. I didn’t look any farther.

I wondered if they would be clam served in a milky broth, like the scallops in milk of coquilles St. Jacques. No. They were tiny black snails served cold in the shell on a bed of crushed ice. We had to pick the meat out with needles.

I say “we” because this is the way the Chinese serve snails. Most of my experience has been with escargots, which are bigger and easier to manipulate, in or out of the shell.

I usually have trouble getting the meat out of the little snails. This time, I got the first winkle out all right, which was just enough to give me a false sense of confidence and increase my frustration with the second one.

Joanna took over. She coaxed the meat halfway out of each shell for me so I would have chance to do the rest. She claimed that she was eating her share of the snails, but I’m not sure. I don’t see when she would have had time.

After snails and vin we walked the rest of the way down the Champs Elysees. We hailed a cab and went to the hotel. It was around 11 when we got back and as it turns out, that’s closing time for most of the local bistros. We found one, Verse Toujours, a couple of blocks from the hotel.

We had tapas, three spreads served with toast and bread. One was avocado, another salmon tartare, and the third egg plant with basil. Very good.

The wine list included one called Irancy, something I’d never heard of. The menu said it was from Domaine Heimbourger, which for all I know could be a joke. Maybe it’s recommended to go with ground beef, right? It was billed as the winner of the gold medal at Borgondia 2012. Not being an insider to the wine world, I couldn’t tell if that was a real contest or maybe a bunch of winos out back.

So with all those doubts, I had to try it. It was fruity, smooth, and full of flavor.

When the chicken satay arrived, I played it safer. I ordered to St. Nicholas de Bourgueil. It was “cuvee du vieux pressoir.” I remembered Larry telling me what “cuvee” meant. It isn’t an official designation like “cru” or “grand cru,” which are government controlled, Instead it’s the vintner’s term for his best grapes.

Didn‘t know anything about that one, either, but hey, what wine named for Santa Claus could be all bad. That had a bit more acidic bite, but I enjoyed it as much as I did the Irancy. Joanna preferred the first one.

After that, it was time to give up. We stumbled back to the Hotel de France Quartier Latin and called it a night and a day.

Luck still holding, gang. More later.

October 7

A few thoughts:

1) You've been in Paris two days and haven't eaten a proper meal? Quite odd. Snacks are for Spain. You're in the City of Light! Please correct this.

2) Sancerre sweet? I can't imagine. Generally a bone dry white (they also make a red and rose). There is a lot of low-quality stuff they can label as Sancerre, unfortunately, but they usually taste like battery acid. A sweet Sancerre? I'm almost as taken back by that as the fact you haven't eaten a real meal in Paris yet.

3) Nicholas de Bourgueil: very similar to the Chinon I wrote about. A Cabernet Franc red from the Loire Valley, from the area around Tours.

4) Irancy: a red from, I believe, Northern Burgundy, not far from Chablis, which is an area more known for whites. (I'm trying to exercise my brain to see how much I remember from my wine trade days.) My best guess is it's a pinot noir. I seem to remember drinking one in Paris at the someone's home (remind me to tell you about this Parisian dinner party I got myself invited to).

Otherwise, sounds like you're having a great time!

Now please, help me with some vicarious thrills and find a place for a proper dinner with a good bottle of wine. I trust you found at least one dining destination during your pre-trip planning. And details, please!

Thanks.

Larry

So This Is Paris

October 5, 2013

Right now, I'm in the 5th Arrondissement at a tiny hole-in-the-wall hotel on Rue Monge. (Not Morgue, as in Edgar Allen Poe and as I first thought when I booked the room through Agoda.com, but Monge. Not sure what it means.)

The Hotel de France Quartier Latin is very cute. It has the tiniest elevator we have ever seen. Each of us has one large bag on wheels and one carry-on. The elevator couldn’t fit both of us with our suitcases, so we had to make two trips.

We got here a little after 11, took a nap, and then went to a café, Dans Les Landes, across the street for breakfast—duck hearts, sardine rillettes (a kind of spreadable paste), some coffee, and a glass of Bordeaux. About a month ago, I had a Bordeaux at Artisanal, a restaurant on 32nd Street in the same building as my office, that was very smokey and wonderful. This was almost as good.

So far we visited the local mosque and a church dedicated to St. Medard (whom I had never heard of) dating to the 15th century. Stones in the floor are worn from so many years of people walking on them.

Wow, you don’t often see that at home. I am some place else.

It's a pretty great neighborhood—good-looking bistros and brasseries on nearly every corner.

I have read that there are several museums in the area, including one that includes the ruins of the old Roman baths. Tomorrow, though, we are going to head for landmarks. We are not too far from the Champs Elysees, Notre Dame, and the Louvre, which I hope to take in over the next few days before we go to Avignon.

We stopped in the Arenes de Lutece, a Roman amphitheater that is not a museum but a city park. Kids play ball there. Grown-ups play bocce. We saw an iron grate in the wall sticking up from the sand. Maybe that lighted the room where gladiators put their armor on. Who knows?

If gladiators get into knife fights there now, it’s probably only late at night. The place was kind of laid back when I saw it.

We got to Notre Dame a short time before night fall. We sheltered from rain on the way at a bistro where we had a fruit tart ( I have always been fond of tarts) and wine.

It’s late now and a lot of glasses of wine later, so I have to sign off.

As Santa Claus says, Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night.

October 5

An excellent time of year to be in Paris, Grasshopper.

I wasn't sure when you were going. This is very big news. You finally made it there.

I can tell by the tone of your note that you are getting into the spirit of the place. 

Duck hearts? I've had chicken hearts and beef heart, but I don't think I've had duck hearts before. I'm sure they were great. I've had rillettes of pork, rabbit, and duck, but not sardines. Sounds like you're off to a good culinary start. 

Many French people are convinced Bordeaux is the best wine in the world. I often prefer the whites, believe it or not.

A wine that's a darling of Parisian bistros is a red called Chinon, from the Loire. Generally not as rich or complex as Bordeaux, but a less tannic and fruity number that goes well with those "in-between" foods that are not obvious matches for white or red: pork, chicken, rabbit, and even salmon and oilier fish. I've grown quite fond of the stuff, served ever-so-slightly chilled.

Cru Beaujolais can also be good—look for the villages of St. Amour, Moulin-au-Vent, and Morgon, in particular. A little less serious than the Chinon—fruitier and less tannic—but fun with a slight chill. Another good "in-between" choice you'll see in Parisian bistros.

For whites, it might be a good chance to check out some interesting things from the Loire Valley. Chenin blancs: Vouvray (make sure it's sec) and Savennieres (bone dry, age worthy and often fabulous); sauvignon blancs: Sancerre (of course, but overpriced), Pouilly Fume (very similar and usually a better deal) and, if you can find one, Menetou Salon (the best value of the bunch, but often not as complex, unless it's from a good producer).

There's your wine lesson for today.

Larry

October 5

Harry,

I wondered what you were up to, and kind of thought you had another trip up your sleeve. I'm glad I was right.

You are in my mother's favorite city—she was a real Francophile. I've been there a number of times, including on my honeymoon. Certainly a fabulous city. Have a great time.

Eat as much pastry as you can. No one has better pastry than the French.

Peter

October 7

Delighted you’re in Paris!

Fouquet for elegant, fantastically delicious food and an interesting history.

Deux Magots for frivolity and a sense of the 1920s.

Hotel de Ville—history!!

Enjoy!

Beatrice

ISO More Americana

Sept. 1

We left the Dutch in the morning, pausing for a moment to get a shot of the horses in the field down the road and the stone house behind them. I didn’t get any of it very well. This is here just for the record:

The house doesn't really lean like that. I was balancing the camera on the frame of the car window. It must not have been level.

We went to Harrisburg and picked up U.S. 322 West, which took us to Clearfield.

First stop on the way was a little town, a few blocks wide and maybe a mile long, called Dauphin, like the bad guy in Henry VI, Part I. Only Shakespeare spelled it “Dolphin.” The reason to leave the highway there is that the Susquehanna broadens into a shallow lake full of little islands, some of them just stones above the current.

I think all the miniatures yesterday at Roadside America infected my brain. I took one look at the rocks in the river and all I could see was a reproduction in miniature of the St. Laurence at the Thousand Islands.

But this one had something different. In the middle is a fairly prominent rock some feet above the water with a replica of the Statue of Liberty on it. Nobody’s gonna stop for that, right?

We tried to jockey our way up a hill to get an overview, but that failed when the road ended.

We drove around the little town and almost got back onto the highway. But we turned back and worked our way down to a small public space by the water. It may be an access for fisherman. But down a steep and narrow trail we found a rock to stand on.

I shot some video, which I hope will turn out all right. Today’s photo, though, is Joanna at the Thousand Islands of Pennsylvania.

We saw a large black butterfly, waved to some kayakers, watched a train across the river.

Next stop was Little Buffalo State Park. We climbed steps to the top of an earth dam. Not as many steps as climbing to see the Big Buddha on Lantau Island, but enough. A group went up a few minutes before we did, and they carried a bicycle. I was appropriately humbled.

On top there is a gravel road that goes around the reservoir, and there were some other bikes up there, but most of them probably came up the gentle rise from the parking lot by the boat slip.

Anyhow, it wasn’t too bad, so we climbed a few more stairs to a trail that followed the hillside. These steps, a plaque told us, were built in the 1990s as an Eagle Scout project by Troop 92. Scouts built some steps outside the Crockett Tavern Museum in Morristown, Tenn., if I remember right.

There may be more steps built by Scouts. I will try to note any steps that I see in the future that were built by Scouts — Boy, Cub, Girl, U.S. Cavalry, Talent, or any other kinds.

On the road above the reservoir we came to a dead tree with the bark peeled off the trunk from the root to about 5 or 6 feet above the ground. It was clawed off, not peeled or carved with a tool. I immediately thought of a black bear. Maybe it was a lion. Could be just some kid with hellacious fingernails, but I doubt it.

The park contains a covered bridge that used to span the Little Buffalo Creek not far away. The original was moved to the site and at some time a few years ago collapsed under a load of ice and snow. It appears that the remade bridge is not a replica, but uses many of the original materials.

As usual, there were numerous mud wasps’ nests in the rafters.

A short walk from the bridge is Shoaff’s Mill. It is powered by an overshot water wheel and was commercially active until the 1940s. The family sold the mill to the state, but still lives in the old house across the road.

Joanna has developed a taste for waffles made at roadside establishments — the Waffle House, the Columbus Diner, and JP’s Pancake House. 

We got off the exit for the Pancake House and didn’t know which way to go, so we guessed wrong, but what was OK. 

We wound up on a road with a sign warning about buggy traffic. OK, pancakes can wait.

We wandered around some back roads but the only buggy we saw was parked in a yard near a pickup truck. Not very traditional. We were looking for houses that weren’t connected to the electricity lines. After a few turns, we came to the end of Trower Road and agreed that it was time to backtrack.

We started back and then took another detour to see the Mennonite Church. This brought us past the intersection with Trower Road, where we turned around before.

We found the church, but everybody had left by this time — maybe a little after one. So we went past that and down a narrow road between cornfields. We have all read Stephen King’s “Children of the Corn,” so you know I was on the lookout for kids in black.

Two buggies passed us going the opposite way. It seemed to be one family, Mom and Pop with two daughters in the covered buggy, and the adolescent son by himself in the buggy with the top down. Wow, this is what we were looking for, to get stuck doing 10 miles an hour behind a couple of horses.

I turned around at the next intersection and without pushing hard caught up to the buggies in a little while. It was interesting to follow them. When horses trot — about 15 mph or so, I’d guess — they place their feet in a line, so the hoofs are clopping in and out. They may do that all the time, but I have never seen it from this perspective before. It’s very interesting to watch.

The wheels looked like they were wobbling on the carriages, but that may have been normal tolerance for parts made by hand.

We followed them home, as it turns out. They pulled into the driveway of the house on the corner of Trower Road.

We found JP’s by passing under U.S. 322. It was about 3 in the afternoon and time for some lunch.

Once we got to Clearfield, around 5, I missed the sign for the turn and we wound up about 6 miles out of town. We caught Pa. 879, the Clearfield-Shawville Highway, on the way back. Of course, I took it in the wrong direction and had to make a U-turn at the top of the mountain.

I also took a wrong turns a couple of times earlier in the day coming out of Little Buffalo State Park. But we did get to see a great Civil War memorial in New Bloomfield. I knew it was the wrong direction because this was the first Union soldier on an obelisk that I had seen all day.

These wrong turns were all very reassuring. After all, if you don’t get lost, you’re not traveling hard enough.

Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub has a sign outside that welcomes bikers but permits “absolutely no M.C. inside.” Could it be that the Pagans and Hells Angels had a row there at one time?

Some people wearing Harley shirts came in while we were there. A few bikes were parked outside when we arrived. Most of the bikers I’ve seen out here this weekend are gray. I take this as an indicator of excellent road safety.

Food safety is another matter. You have to order 72 hours in advance, but you can buy a 16-pound hamburger at Denny’s.

They have a series of challenges. They sell a 2-pound burger, and if you can eat it in an hour, along with all the go-withs, you get a T-shirt, a certificate, half price off, and your name on the wall. A guy named Regec finished one in 19 minutes. I wonder if he claws trees, or maybe wrestles bears (or lions) for exercise.

Anyhow, as I was saying, this violates the first rule of food safety, which is don’t eat anything bigger than your head.

There are larger challenges. A couple of the challenges require two people to polish off some astonishing quantity of ground beef in two or three hours.

With the really big ones, 50 and 96 ounces, the establishment doesn’t accept challenges at all. It’s probably too dangerous. They’re for parties.

I was thinking about it: 50 pounds of beef split among two dozen people leaves two pounds each. I couldn’t eat that much anything in a single sitting.

I had a 1/3 pound elk burger and that with the fries was all I could handle.

I had Otto’s red ale, of course. It is made in State College, Pa. We saw a sign for the brewery and pub when we passed through town earlier in the day.

It was the first red ale that I ever tasted. It still holds up, but green Flash Brewing Co.’s Hop Head Red IPA is probably better.

Elk Creek IPA, made in Milheim, Pa., seemed appropriate with an elk burger. It was OK. On reflection, I think my taste buds were off because everything, even the burger, seemed weaker than I expected.

Much of the food at Denny’s is fried. We ordered a side of green vegetables, but the closest we could get was deep-fried green beans. Joanna said they reminded her of hush puppies.

I had remarked to Joanna on Saturday that Haag’s Hotel in Shartlesville reminded me in some ways of the Three Bear Inn in Marathon, N.Y. It had a small barroom full of locals, and there was a similar shape and appearance to the town. It was in an old building by the highway and across the side street we could see the old outbuildings. A couple of them were garages that clearly used to be carriage houses. 

Denny’s, too, has something in common with Marathon and the Three Bear Inn. They have a bench carved with their own three black bears. On the wall behind it is part of the Honor Roll listing people who have finished oversize hamburgers in a specified time.

I tried to retrace my route from Denny’s to the hotel, and so got onto the Clearfield-Shawville Highway in the wrong direction again. So I did another possibly felonious U-turn and got us back to the Comfort Inn.

So far, so good. Can’t ask for better than that, right? 

Sept. 3

Hi!

Are you still on the road, or back at work?

Last e-mail dated Sept. 1.

Hope all is OK.

P.S — Is Joanna wearing your hat again, or did you get her one?

Larry

Sept. 4

I'm at the office now.

Joanna has a white straw hat, but the one in the photo is mine.

Sept. 2

Labor Day and cloudy. The trek was abbreviated today when we got chased out of bear country by approaching thunder.

The way back from Clearfield is practically a bee line. It’s about two-thirds of the way across Pennsylvania on I-80 from Clearfield to the Delaware Water Gap. Then about 60 more miles gets us to the neighborhood of home.

One of the things I had promised Joanna was a serving of some of the best chicken pot pie I have ever tasted. You can get it at the Village Farmer and Bakery on Broad Street in Delaware Water Gap, Pa.

The place has a concrete floor and a few tables in one corner, and a larger picnic area outside. The rest of the place is filled with long tables covered with pies—fruit pies, custard pies, pudding pies. The savory meat pies are refrigerated. They probably sell other stuff inside, but I didn’t notice.

They were selling hot dogs and farm produce outside on Labor Day.

So after we had chicken pot pie, we crossed the river through the Water Gap itself and parked near the trout stream by the trail. Very picturesque, of course, a falling stream, fallen trees, here and there some kids romping in the water. We climb up the hillside probably less than a quarter of a mile when the first peal comes rolling. Damn, it’s close and it sounds big, so we head back downhill.

The rain hit us a few times on the way back. Nothing too heavy, but enough that I was glad that I wasn’t standing in it.

We made it back home around five. Another great trip.