Bike Trip Continued

Since my last post I've been to the edge and back.

We slept in yesterday morning and I barely made it to the free continental breakfast in time. As Paul put it, "The grasshoppers have picked it clean." They were still buzzing around when I stumbled in for my cup of coffee, which, thankfully, was very hot and very good.

Since John wasn't going to be singing until 8:00 pm Paul and I decided to go see Captain America and relax for the day. It was gray and cloudy but no rain. It was a different story when we exited the theater.

We donned our rain suits and attempted to find an easy way to get to New Holland where the concert in the park was happening. Turns out there is no such thing as an easy way to get there. There might not be ANY way to get there. I have decided Lititz is one of the most secure locations in the country since entering or exiting is a challenge, at least for the navigationally-impaired, which I'm thinking we are.

We picked the busiest, most congested, road in the state and optimistically assumed we would be there in less than half an hour as our gps predicted. Not so. Traffic stretched as far as the eye could see ahead and behind and we moved forward at a slow crawl. That's not a relaxing thing on a motorcycle. The rain was steady, but light and in an hour or so we managed to escape route 30 for a smaller country road. Behind two motor homes. And a buggy. For some reason the aforementioned RVs refused to pass the buggy, so we all followed, once again at a slow crawl. And we picked up quite a few vehicles in our train.

At some point we turned onto another side road, once again escaping the congestion. I had decided there may not actually BE a New Holland. We picked up speed, almost hitting the heady rate of 40mph when Paul turned into a paved area at an intersection with another road. I pulled up, thinking he may want to check his map. No such luck. His bike died. Yes. Dead as a doornail. The upside? No traffic at our current location.

"Well," Paul said, "we have roadside assistance with our insurance." So he pulled out his handy dandy card and dialed the number. After several automated routings and a lengthy wait he got a live person. A person totally unable to find us on any map anywhere. When I heard Paul say, "The road name is Hershey. Like the chocolate bar. No we are not IN Hershey. The ROAD name is Hershey!" I got a sinking feeling and hoped we would make it to the mystical New Holland before nightfall.

A young Amish man was passing, pushing along on a scooter. He was barefoot and balancing a large box marked "eggs" on the handlebars. I tried to squelch my sudden desire to break into hysterical laughter and stopped him long enough to ask where New Holland might be. "About six miles up this road," he said. He offered us his sympathy at our plight, said he would help if he could, then merrily proceeded on his way balancing his eggs most impressively.

Paul was still pacing along the road while attempting to explain to the voice on the phone where exactly to send the Harley repairman. He was not having much success. And then Keith arrived. In a pick-up truck. He pulled alongside and stuck a cigarette in his mouth, asked if we are OK and said he never passes stopped motorcycles without stopping to see if they need help. Either he thinks bikers are mentally challenged or he is one of us. It turns out the latter is true.

Well, Keith tells me he has a friend that fixes bikes and is only a few blocks from New Holland. He offers to call. After a few more minutes of pacing, Paul tells the insurance guy to give it up, he'll arrange his own help. We give Keith the go-ahead and he calls his friend Earl. As soon as I heard that name, I knew we were in good hands. According to Keith, Earl fixes bikes in his spare time after ten-hour shifts at the trailer factory. It turns out Earl can come with a trailer and load up Paul's bike and his bike trailer and take them to his shop. And when I saw the custom-built bikes at Earl's place, I knew our trust in the man was well-placed. Orange County Choppers, eat your hearts out.

Meanwhile, Keith led me to the New Holland (amazingly there IS such a place) park where I had just pulled to a stop when who pulls up beside me but my brother Sam and his wife Sarah from WV. They are in Lancaster to visit her parents and decided to come to the park to hear the concert.

We looked around and wondered why the park was virtually deserted. Yep, we are in the wrong park. After a few phone calls and some more directions we plan to meet up with Paul and Earl at Earl's shop, so Paul can ride with me to our destination. Keith says we can follow him to the shop but it turns out Earl has moved. Uhuh, no longer where Keith thought he was.

By this time I can distinctly hear the Twilight Zone music. Which is better than banjos.

We pulled up to the park with thirty minutes to spare before Paul was to play. The concert went well and while the skies were cloudy and heavy with the promise of rain at any moment, it did little more than mist until the music was almost finished. Then it started to rain in earnest. With that, the audience disappeared and we packed up to head out.

Paul drove my Honda ACE while I hung on for dear life, since there is no back rest on my bike. I love my motorcycle and it's plenty big enough for me, but the poor baby was chugging with both of us piled on. When I remarked that we had, years ago, both tooled around on a much smaller bike, Paul pointed out the obvious fact that we were also packing around a lot more weight since then. Add depression to the list of hurdles to overcome.

With the rain and the darkness and the slippery seat, it's a ride I will never forget. We both prayed, enthusiastically, and aloud, as we drove. And God heard and answered. I told Paul if I would not be too stiff and sore I would get down and kiss the ground in the hotel parking lot. Paul decided maybe we should start acting like grandparents and stay home. We thought about that for a few seconds and decided, nah that's not the way to go.

So, this morning we faced a few decisions. If we check out of our hotel how do we transport our luggage since Paul's bike and his trailer are in a hard-to-reach town in Earl's locked garage? Will Earl have the bike ready today so we can head home this afternoon? Should we stay in our depressing hotel, if we are stuck here for a day or two? And then I realized something.

Coming from a family larger than some villages has its advantages. My nephew lives near here. He and his wife are picking up our luggage and transferring us to their house where an empty guest room awaits. Life is good. Time to visit family and in all likelihood, gain some more weight.

Bike Trip Continued

Last night we pulled in to our hotel in Lititz and learned a lesson in using the hotel bidding system on the web. Actually, the place is clean, so the 70s decor shouldn't bother me. After my irrevocable bid went out into cyberspace, I discovered the same room was being offered for less than my bid by the same company I was bidding with, had I simply purchased the room outright, rather than bidding on it. Needless to say, they snatched up my offer with smiles on their faces. I accept the blame though. I should have checked that angle first, rather than being gullible and believing my room would be worth the $120.00 they implied it would be.

It could have been much worse. Like the time years ago when we walked into our "smoke-free" room and found cigarette burns on the furniture; I won't even discuss what we found on the bathroom floor. We went across the street to see if the hotel there had availability. It was much nicer, and smelled good. The man behind the desk was booking a room for us when I told him we needed to be sure we could get our money back from the nasty hole across the street. He said not to worry. Same people own both of them. He called over to The Hole and arranged everything.

Tonight we are meeting our friend John Schmid, who also happens to be family since he married my cousin Lydia. By now you are asking if there is anyone east of the Mississippi to whom I am not related. Very few, very few.

Paul has been playing bass for John lately, something he enjoys very much. They are playing tonight in New Holland at the park. John has been singing and playing for years and has a sizable following. His Johnny Cash tribute programs, since the release of his CD of the same, are very popular. His unique voice is well-suited for it and his laid-back style of interacting with his audiences is always well-received. It promises to be a fun evening and yes, I hope to see some relatives there.

Several nights ago we enjoyed a country music show in Ekins, WV at a family-run theater. Not only did they claim to own the building, but they did the singing, comedy, performing, made the items sold in the gift shop, worked the gift shop, and very likely did the cleaning up as well. Two brothers who claimed to be twins, the wife of one, the ex-wife of another, a son, a daughter, and various other cousins, in-laws and who knows what else. And this is just what, in all their tall tales and jokes, I actually believed might be true. It was an entertaining two hours by a group of hard-working and talented people. I wonder how anyone really makes it to the big-time when there is so much talent out there most of us never hear about. Either it's who you know, great marketing or dumb luck. Maybe sometimes all three. At any rate they made us laugh till we cried.

Yesterday, on our drive to Lancaster, PA, we took the scenic route and what incredible scenery it was! It would be hard to top the roadways of WV. And thankfully the people who drove out in front of us, gave us time to hit our brakes.

It's not hard to tell which cars are driven by people who have never been on a motorcycle. Bikers, when they are driving their cars, do not tend to tail-gate bikes, drive out in front of bikes, or cut bikes off in traffic. Automobile drivers who have never enjoyed the freedom of alternative modes of travel are another story. Just before the motorists mentioned above pulled across the busy four-lane highway (incidentally, one of them was completely blocking the left lane when we passed, while he waited for an opening to cross the median and pull into the oncoming lanes), we had passed the scene of an accident. A motorcycle on its side, and a car with a big dent in the front fender.

I realize motorcycles are not as visible as larger vehicles. I realize accidents happen. I realize if you are driving a licensed vehicle, you have paid for the right to be there. And so have I. Some people ridicule loud bikes, but maybe if they hear us coming they won't run over us. Motorcycling has been a good motivator to pray without ceasing. And I mean that with all sincerity.

Bike Trip Continued

I'm sitting in the most idyllic spot imaginable. Well, close to it anyway. My sister Barbara's porch. White rockers surrounded by potted plants with a gurgling fountain, birds singing, cicada's buzzing, the warm breeze wafting through - what more could I ask for? Flower beds in front of the porch are filled with a riotous perfusion of colors. And I'm looking through the trees to mountains just over the ridge. Yes, idyllic is the word.

Since everyone else left to go shopping, or some such thing, I decided to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee in solitude. I need that every once in awhile. Probably because I spent a lot of my childhood alone. Yes, I had ten brothers and sisters, but as the tag-along baby of the family, I was raised more like an only child than as part of a boisterous brood of siblings. While I was often lonely and I still love to have frequent interaction with friends and family, I also treasure alone time. If I don't get it when I need it, I find I get increasingly testy. So this morning Paul was more than happy to go off without me to let me transform back into the laid-back, even-tempered, happy-go-lucky woman all my friends know and love. Yes, I can hear all the snorting already.

Our vacations frequently involve visits with out-of-town relatives, most of whom expect us to take advantage of their unmatched hospitality. This is actually known as "Mennoniting your way" across the country. It's a great way to catch up with loved ones we see all too seldom, and it's also a great way to save money. Since we left home five days ago, three different families, one from WV, one from WY, and one from OH have spent a night or two at our house. Another, from SC, is arriving there tonight and all of them would gladly return the favor if we are ever in need of a place to stay.

We stopped two days ago to visit my brother Sam who lives with his lovely wife Sarah in a cabin in the mountains of WV. After feasting off a meal far better than any served in the restaurants we've sampled of late, Sam played some music for us using a common hand saw and a violin bow. Amazing! Paul pulled out his guitar and a music-fest followed.

Yesterday we arrived in Petersburg to visit my sister Barbara. Later in the evening we drove further to visit my sister Elizabeth who lives with her husband James on the top of the world. Really. We drove for quite a spell on winding blacktop, and I use that term loosely - extreme hairpin curves would be more accurate, until we came to a gravel road. Single-lane,no guard rails. Some distance further we arrived at a beautiful cottage with a view people would pay millions to have. They live off the grid but in total comfort. We were met by a friendly collie while riding horses grazed nearby and a small herd of goats kept the grass manageable. Hummingbirds virtually swarmed one of the many feeders and birdsong replaced the roar of traffic I am accustomed to.

My brother John and his wife Ruby had come from VA and all of us enjoyed yet another wonderful meal my sister Elizabeth had prepared. My niece Angela from Laos was there and it was great to hear about her life there.

If I don't get home soon I will have to buy new clothes. I'm finding it hard to close the buttons of those I packed for the trip.

Bike Trip Continued

Our ride to Blackwater Falls was everything I hoped. Warm sunshine and beautiful mountains, minimal traffic and a few hours to forget the outside world and all its politicians.

While looking for the falls we found a hiking trail that looked intriguing, so of course we followed it. It lead to an incredible overlook with mountain after mountain as far as the eye could see. Massive rocks, looking as if they could give way at any moment, jutted out beyond the safety of the rails enclosing the observation platform. So of course we clambered over for a photo op or two and to test the theory that having been there for untold centuries our meager weight would not send those mega boulders crashing to the valley below. Happily, or theory was sound.

The falls were spectacular. I couldn't help but let my mind wander to what it must have been like for the first person who saw them, hopefully not from a canoe at the top. The steps leading down (all two-hundred-plus)to enjoy the up-close view had been carefully planned and did not distract from the beauty. Complaints were overheard about the strenuous effort required to hike to and from and I contemplated the serious lack of pioneer stamina in this modern age. No way any of these present-day softies could hike ten miles to school in three feet of snow, uphill BOTH WAYS, and enjoy it like we had in our childhood.

We stopped for lunch at the Blackwater Falls Lodge and it was delicious. Admittedly, following our meal at the steakhouse from the night before, the bar was set low but even so, it was a good meal.

Riding in the mountains always brings a certain level of anxiety about hitting deer. They are quite stupid when it comes to crossing the road. Sometimes it seems they lay in wait until the last possible moment of safety has passed, making a headlong rush into the path of whatever poor hapless motorist is close at hand. I've hit two myself. Fortunately,for me, always from the relative safety of a vehicle. Not so fortunate for the deer.

We saw two on this day. One jumped across the road just a moment too soon for impact with the lead bike. The other was too busy eating grass alongside the road to bother with us. I jest about it but in truth, I pray about it more. Hitting an animal larger than a groundhog could be deadly for a biker, nevermind the animal he or she hits.

Physically tired but mentally rested, later in the evening we met at a table in the hotel lobby for a heated battle of Rook, a tradition we've carried on for over thirty years of vacations with these same friends. Rook is a card game one must learn to play, if only in self-defense, when living in Amish country. In our circle, it's always the women against the men, a non-destructive way to take out all our frustrations with the opposite sex.

One weekend that stands out in memory was a trip to Old Man's Cave in the Hocking Hills area of Ohio. It rained, torrentialy, most of the time. We played eighteen games of Rook, but most notably,in game after game, the women slaughtered the men. Our husbands do not remember the weekend with the same fondness as we wives. After our most recent game, on this most recent vacation, it appears the tables have turned.

Summer Bike Trip

We set off early Sunday morning, riding south on I77, in warm sunshine, low humidity, with clear blue skies overhead. Our adventures usually involve six of us: Paul and I, and four of our good friends. This time we were short two people since they stayed behind to deal with a last-minute family responsibility. Hoping they would be able to join us in a day or two, we started off, reluctant to leave them at home.

Traveling by motorcycle brings much more input to all the senses than traveling by car. The smell of fresh-cut grass and aromatic blooms along the road enhance what would only have been a visual pleasure if seen from inside a closed and air-conditioned automobile. The sound of the wind rushing by, an airplane overhead, a roaring truck from three feet away, bring visceral sensations not possible when insulated inside a car with the radio cranked up. Instant perception of dropping temperatures when passing under tree limbs or riding up mountains to the higher elevations yields relief from the heat on a warm day; conversely, on a cool day, riding into bright sunshine brings warmth to chilled limbs and stiff fingers. While riding in the rain can be a trying experience, smelling the fresh moisture and virtually hearing the thirsty earth drinking it in, compensates for much of the discomfort. Driving in a car is a means to an end. Riding on a bike is the end in and of itself. Every part of the journey is the experience as a whole.

We pulled into Weston, WV about 4 hours later, savoring the wonderful weather. The upside to having a lot of lousy weather, something all Ohioans can relate to, is the heightened enjoyment of those rare perfect days.

In the lobby of our hotel was a scene worthy of Norman Rockwell, with a twist. To say they were rotund would be a vast understatement, a man and a woman, sitting like motionless bookends, beside a luggage cart piled high and wide with bags, boxes, a hot pink cloth animal carrier, doggie training pads, and various and sundry other props for the tiny pooch perched atop the gentleman's ample belly. He stood there like Sir Edmond Hillary on Mt. Everest whilst his owner sat, unmoving and silent, in an easy chair strained to its limits. The female version, so like the big round man she could have been his twin, but I suspect was his wife, overflowed her own easy chair. I'm not sure what they were waiting for, but they sat unmoving, staring straight ahead, all three of them. I wanted to stare back. I wanted to photograph. I wanted to laugh hysterically. I squelched all these desires and tore myself away to the desk to wait for my room key.

There is something so satisfying about unlocking the door to a beautiful, clean hotel room and anticipating the start of a much-needed vacation. Our room looked out over the town, it's economic depression not so noticeable from this distance as it had been up close. With a picturesque view and the prospect of seven days of relaxation ahead, I breathed in a deep sigh and felt my weariness recede.

We settled in our rooms for a short rest then went in search of a place to eat supper. The clerk told us the steak house across the way was a good place to eat so off we went, trusting to her judgment. We shouldn't have. It was a buffet with steam rising above the serving areas. The food looked appetizing and was obviously hot. That, it turned out, was not enough. Everything there came straight from a can with no attempt at disguising the total lack of freshness. I‘m not convinced the green beans were real. The potatoes certainly were not. And neither of them had ever seen butter. Or salt. The mashed potatoes were like wallpaper paste. No insult intended to the paste. The macaroni and cheese were like great golden globs of molten mush. And it went downhill from there. Small wonder that people who visit Holmes County are in awe of the Amish cooking. We left feeling strange rumblings within, wondering if food poisoning had just happened and how bad the consequences might be.

One thing I've learned over the years: shady experiences lend themselves to much more mirth and memory than perfection.

Families

Between my husband, Paul, and I we have thirty siblings. And all from one set of parents each. So the annual reunion (on Paul's side) and the biennial reunion (on my side)consist of upwards of a hundred people, some of whom we can’t name. This does not include the "cousin reunion" on my mother's side which happens every three years in places as far-flung as the upper peninsula of Michigan to Arizona and Idaho.

We can usually guess at parentage, as in, "She must be a Petersheim with that nose!" or "He can't hide where he's from with all those freckles." It actually makes for an amusing game worthy of Parker Brothers themselves, trying to guess who goes where. Keeping track of birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and other milestones has become so overwhelming that we've given up on it long ago. Hopefully, with so many aunts and uncles and cousins, the kids don’t remember us either or notice our absence during their special occasions.

Since I was the youngest of eleven, and way behind the others, I had a life of luxury and ease, at least according to my brothers and sisters - all of whom had to work like dogs just to survive - again, according to my brothers and sisters. I grew up with my nieces and nephews. One of my nieces is six months older than I am. Another niece has been one of my best friends for most of my life. My kids keep wanting to call her their aunt although she's actually their cousin.

On Paul's side there were nineteen and he's number seven. His two youngest sisters were born after he was living on his own, the eldest of which he paid for. Literally. He sent money home to pay the hospital bill for her birth. He has always teased her that she belongs to him since he wrote the check. His youngest sister came to live with us when she was fifteen and we assumed legal guardianship. My kids keep wanting to call her their sister but she's actually their aunt.

It can be confusing, frustrating, and downright exhausting at times. Now that everyone on both sides is an adult, it would be fun to spend time with each one, getting to know them better and sharing common interests. But the constraints of time, distance, and religion allow for limited interaction with some and almost none with others. They are scattered from the east coast to the west, Canada, Mexico, and even as far as Laos. Their beliefs range from Amish, Mennonite, Methodist, Baptist and more, to no church at all. Education levels range from eighth-grade to masters degrees, teachers, nurses, paramedics, farmers, truckers, missionaries, builders, and two who told me they would tell me what they do but then they'd have to kill me.

With such a large population, our families have tasted joy and sorrow in many forms. Someone is always getting married or having a baby, buying a house or moving out west. A few are struggling with cancer, with addictions, with the heart weaknesses and stiff limbs that come with age. I watch the kids, whose names I can't remember, bouncing off the walls with all the energy in the world while I see my older siblings slowing down, no longer immortal in my eyes, as they seemed to be when I was a child.

Family reunions are fun-filled and chaotic, a time to reconnect with those who choose to travel the distance to spend a few days together. From softball and volleyball to card games, water-balloon fights and the mandatory pinata for the kids, it's a time to lay down our differences and just remember what it means to be a family, to have blood-ties, to share the same heritage, good or bad.

Over the years there have been times when one or two forgot what’s important. When they would try to press their religious point of view on some poor soul they viewed as a heathen and therefore in need of some righteous correction. I’ve never seen this approach met with success in any form. Instead, it strengthened the current rebel’s stand and he or she either became more flamboyant in their worldliness or they shucked off the family like old underwear and refused to grace us with their presence at the next reunion. Paul, never one to keep quiet in the face of ignorance, always met the situations head-on. He has pointed out more than once to the current pharasee-at-large, in terms easy even for the simple-minded to understand, that family get-togethers are neither the time nor the place to display closed minds. Fortunately, whether from the maturity that comes with age and experience, or from the reluctance of the judgemental to suffer the same confrontation they enjoy heaping on others, these kinds of conflicts haven’t occurred in the past few years.

One year I started a family tree for each side, but after the sagging branches threatened to break, I gave it up. The exponential growth potential from two people who have produced nineteen others is . . .well. . . staggering. Especially when some of those nineteen also have large families. One sister-in-law told me years ago she planned to have a dozen. She almost made it. Paul, on the other hand, declared zero population growth as his goal. One to replace each of us, he said, and no more. And so it is.

The downside to large clans is that there’s no way to maintain a close relationship with more than a few of them. But then, there are small families, or so I’ve heard, that all hate each other. At least with such a large group to choose from, it’s easy to find a few we like who like us back. And on the upside, if we ever find ourselves homeless we could spend two weeks with each sibling and not visit more than once a year.

Eating Out

We pulled into the parking lot of the Horry Restaurant, (yes you read it right)and wondered at the deserted surroundings. The flyer in our vacation condo promised an eatery “popular with the locals” virtually brimming with culinary treats. A large “Open Tuesday through Sunday” sign offered reassurance we hadn't missed the rapture on this beautiful warm Monday evening, the first of our three days away from obligations and hectic schedules.

Seven years ago my five sisters and I began our annual three-day holiday together always meeting somewhere new and as luck would have it we arrived in the middle of Bike Week at Myrtle Beach for our current adventure. After a full day of travel from Ohio, Virginia, West Virginia and SC we were tired, hungry and looking forward to a memorable meal to start off this year's fun. A bit let-down with our luck at the Horry, we made a u-turn and headed back toward Little River.

Mama Jean's Restaurant sported a large neon “Open” sign blazing in the window and we enthusiastically headed in. The restaurant was well-filled and a large man greeted us at the door. All the patrons looked up as one and focused in on us with a Twilight Zone quality that was, well, creepy.

“Are you here to eat or for the Bible study?” This from the large manager-looking man.

“You're kidding, right?!” I threw all my best effort into sounding like I appreciated his joke, but letting him know he wasn't fooling me.

He assured me he was not kidding whilst all the Bible scholars maintained their humorless stares in our direction. He herded us back out the door and suggested we visit the Billy the Kid place several streets away since Mama Jean was closed with the sole purpose of the spiritual enlightenment of those within. Never mind us poor hungry pilgrims from parts abroad.

Trying to follow Big Man's directions we immediately took a wrong turn at the light and found ourselves at a nondescript building boasting Caroline BBQ and another “Open” sign in the window. Next door an outdoor karaoke bar with a large sign on wheels proclaiming “Biker's Welcome” was blasting forth the non-talent of its customers. Bikes roared in and out and a man across the street was repeatedly swinging something back and forth over his shoulders, slapping his back. It was impossible to determine whether he was practicing some sort of self-flagellation or swatting flies. We backed out of the parking lot and went in search of The Kid.

I went in to scout out Billy's establishment. The stale-smelling, smoky bar with sticky oilcloth-covered tables and the promise of a brawl or two from the patrons in the not-too-distant future led me to suggest to my siblings that we head back over to Carolina BBQ.

Parking adjacent to the lot filled with rowdy bikers and thundering music we walked up the steps of what looked like a converted double-wide mobile home. Two fellows, one clean-shaven and one not, looked up from the two tables they were stacking with the six matching chairs. “You're closed?” We groaned at our poor luck.

After hearing an abbreviated version of our ill luck in finding a place to eat they assured us they would be happy to stay open and serve us. “We saw you leave a few minutes ago,” the hairy one said. “Stay and eat; I just made BBQ fresh this morning and it's always best on the first or second day. Not so much on the third.” None of us ventured to argue with this pronouncement.

My sister, Anne, usually the dignified, polite member of the group had a frantic look on her face, the kind that precedes a bout of uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. We all avoided eye contact knowing six grown women bent over in gales of mirth might cost us our last chance at a square meal in this town.

The two tables were pushed together and all available chairs were gathered for us. I was given a barstool which gave me a rather high vantage point, but my knees didn't need to be under the table to eat, I decided. Hairy Man, the chef/host/manager carried in another chair from somewhere for the last woman standing and we settled down to order. Sweet tea all around, with a squirt of lemonade, “like the hillbillies do it,” was placed before us and it was icy cold and refreshing..

Having the place to ourselves with two very bored fellows to wait on us, we ordered everything they recommended: pulled pork, “made fresh this morning,” steaming hushpuppies, coleslaw, and fries. They threw in some chicken for good measure and we ate till we hurt. All of it was served on paper plates in heaping quantities and all of it was mouth-wateringly delicious.

Obligingly our waiter snapped photos, kept our glasses refilled, brought us take-out boxes for leftovers and showed keen interest in anything we had to say. Hairy Man encouraged us to come back again when he walked us to the door.

Agreement by all confirmed it was a thoroughly successful venture in dining on our first night out.