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DAY
FOURTEEN COMMENTARY
Forget about the map for this one, folks.
You ever walk
into a restaurant you’ve never been to before, and
the moment you walk through the door, you just know
you’re in the right place?
Let’s hit
“Rewind” for a moment here.
Awaking at 4 AM,
just three hours after having turned in, I began
to load almost everything I’ve got onto either the bike or the trailer,
carrying just a handful of things with me...to wear to
a wedding I was to attend later
that same day, in northeastern New Jersey!
I
completed the loading process efficiently, getting only a little of the
filthy
grease from the trailer hitch ball onto my hands, and headed to the
hotel lobby
in time for the first airport shuttle of the day at 5 AM. Another group
was
heading there this morning as well, hoping to be able to catch a
standby flight
to Las Vegas. As their “real” flight was not until 10:30 PM, and since
they
were traveling with a youngster, I hope they were able to get on an
earlier one
and minimize the time spent at the airport that day.
DFW is gigantic
in sheer size, and aside from the risk that the
garage may have chosen not to let me park the rig had I attempted to
get there
on my own, the truth is I doubt I ever would have been able to find
where I was
going. After a medium-length wait to get to the security screening
area, I was
delighted to be waved through in probably the least amount of time I
have ever
experienced. I mean, I was through there in about two seconds, having
caught no
heat about the laptop, or my toothpaste/etc. not being in its own
“sealed
plastic bag”, or any of that other ridiculous, contrived garbage that
help make
it look as if the screeners would actually catch anyone who would be
determined
to bring illegal items onto a plane.
The other good
news about the free shuttle is that, as of now,
I’ve spent a total of two (2) dollars, for a housekeeping tip, on
non-fuel
purchases in the past thirty-six hours.
Once on the
packed plane, I’m fearing that this may turn into the
Screaming Baby Express…but not because of any infants on board. No, the
screaming baby may in fact be me,
because the drone of the engines just a yard behind my seat threatens
to be
worse than anything I’ve endured recently -- and since by now you know
I’ve
spent much of the last two weeks astride a fourteen year-old
motorcycle, this
is really saying something.
Sitting in the
rear of the long, narrow MD-80, highlighting the fact that I am
basically looking
down a cylindrical metal tube, makes me think of what an absolute
coffin this
thing would be if it ever went down someplace other than a on runway.
Wheels up right
on time, and the glacier-looking clouds over
Dallas have disappeared. I am just now passing back over the
Mississippi, this
time in a plane! We’re low enough that a rather handsome-looking
suspension
bridge is easily visible below, carrying across the river a road that
seems to
lead mostly to nowhere on either side.
Forgoing
much-needed sleep to use the flight time for web page
updating, I crank out a few pages of narratives. I hear an announcement
we are
passing over Washington, DC, but it is on the other side of the plane
so my
view is of the bridge crossings over the Delaware and Potomac Rivers
instead.
On final descent outside of Newark, the weather looks gorgeous and we
are low
enough to see the shops
and restaurants
of what I am sure is the revitalized city’s Ironbound
District,
a
once-primarily Italian section of town which more recently morphed into
a
Portuguese/Brazilian enclave of culture and dining.
My father
has
popped over from NYC to meet me for lunch and
partake of Ironbound for the first time as well. Alas, our plane lands
on time,
but rounds the corner only to find another airliner already sitting at
our
intended arrival gate (BTW how does that happen?)
By the time it is sorted out and I am finally hustling through the
terminal, it
is forty minutes later than the original ETA, which will limit our
lunching time
before I need to head further north to the wedding.
Easily
locating
the District -- it is less than five
miles from the airport -- we park and, noting what appears to be a
reasonably
safe dining possibility right nearby, we allow a few minutes to canvass
the
area.
Coming across nothing any more compelling, we head back to the parking
space
and to the Iberia Tavern
&
Restaurant across the street. The
moment I
walked in the door I knew we had happened into the right place;
sunlight
through the front window illuminates a long, zinc-topped bar down the
entire
length of the room on the left, with white-tablecloth dining tables on
the
right, floor waiters dressed in black jackets and bow-ties, and a staff
of
about fifteen gentlemen on shift here for a Friday lunch. In short,
pure
continental-style décor
and dining. Customers are clearly regulars and
speak
Portuguese to the four (!) barmen on duty. Scanning the lengthy menu,
plus the
specials list, my thought is that it is the establishment’s game to win
or lose;
if the food is even passable,
the place is an absolute find.
Menu
selections
are made and, in the event, are fantastic
-- pork,
sausage, fish soup. The beers and sangria flow, and putting to good use
the precious few minutes before we need to depart, The Chief (tm) even
enjoys an
espresso with Licor Cuaranta Tres as a sweetener. Total cost: thirty five dollars.
Are you
kidding
me?
Buoyed by
our
wonderful luck here, we head north to the hotel to
rendez-vous with the clowns coming down from the Boston area (although
one had
flown in a few days earlier from the West Coast). Coming from 1,400
miles away and having
already
enjoyed lunch, I nevertheless arrive far earlier than they do, owing to
a slight
misunderstanding on the part of the driver of
exactly when
the wedding was slated to begin. When they
pull into
the hotel lobby at 2:50 -- or, just ten minutes before kickoff, in a
church
several towns away -- there is little surprise. Turnaround is quick
enough, the
GPS somehow does not mis-direct
us,
and we sneak in to the back of the church with no fanfare. Missing some
of the
prelims but taking in all the important
segments, the ceremony
goes
swimmingly,
and our friend Jim and new wife Terra are married. Smiles and
handshakes all around!
In
the few hours afterwards, before the reception, an ad hoc reunion with
several college chums from decades ago takes place in the day’s second
dining-related stroke of good fortune, as the nearest bar/saloon that
the GPS
identifies turns out to be yet another gem. Appetizers and beers for
six guys
over the stretch of two hours somehow sets us back just $65, and even
better, I
am able to convince one of the others to pick up my share of the tab.
The best
is yet to come, however, as we pile back into various rental cars and
head to
the reception hall.
The place
is
elegant looking, but that doesn’t stop our driver
from whipping straight past the “Valet Only” signs and dropping anchor
in one
of the primo parking spots -- followed immediately in the maneuver by
the second
car. Fortunately the valets are barely fazed and we are only mildly
busted for
the stunt. There is at least one other function occurring within the
facility,
and naturally we offer a litany of stupid jokes about switching parties
to the
hostess at the door. We are soon to learn that crashing any of the
other
parties would have been a BIG mistake.
The food at
our
reception is incredible. More choices in every
part of the room than imaginable -- seafood, meats, sushi, everything. Open bar beginning with the
better brands -- Maker’s
Mark bourbon, for instance, which fuel several bourbon & sours
subsequently
taken down by The Chief (tm). Mercifully not having eaten much of what
we
ordered at the saloon, I am able to enjoy plenty of the sushi, and a
few of the
other items offered by the roving waiters, but I’ve probably not had about 80% of the possible
options.
Of course,
it’s
not even close to being over, with a three-course
dinner, plus a sorbet, awaiting us inside the ballroom. More drinks gratis, wine, champagne, dessert,
espresso, and holy mackerel I’ve
probably just put back on all the weight that I’d lost over the course
of the
two weeks on the road.
I just hope
the
bike is still there when I get back.
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