Don’t Shoot Me! I’m Just the Oysterman.

For starters, the person who invented the oyster shooter should be shot! After that, off the guy who first suggested eating a Rocky Mountain oyster. There, I said it, and I digressed from the opening shot.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch: it’s been a tough day. On the ride home from Sagamore late yesterday afternoon, I got a call from my neighbor, who said that a mutual friend in Chatham had discovered a hidden oyster bed in Stage Harbor. The oysters, he said, were big and they were plentiful. So, we knew what was going to be on today’s agenda.

Low tide in Stage Harbor was at 11:53 this morning, and when we left West Dennis around 10:30, the temperature was only 31. Yes, it IS spring on the Cape, but that’s a lot of crap. Add the reported winds at 9k out of the WNW, and the temp reportedly felt like 29. Yeah, right. Sure didn’t feel like the sweltering 31 that the lying thermometer claimed. Definitely felt two degrees effin’ colder. But then, the wind was more like 20k than 9. Bottom line: COLD! EFFIN’ COLD.

As we drove down to Stage Harbor, I told my friend that I’d take him to the Red Nun for a cold beer afterward ($2 for a 16-oz draft). That was enough to see us through the cold.

The fact that I am telling you that we went to Battlefield Road means one of two things: either I am lying, or there were not any oysters to be found. Believe me, the Town of Chatham has one of the best shellfisheries around. We out-of-towners pay $80 for a shellfish license, but that is one of the best deals anywhere. It’s year-round and seven-days-a-week. Our Town of Dennis, on the other hand, is a joke, and not a very funny one at that. As a native-born Wharf Rat, I love Dennis; however, that does not mean life here is perfect. (Dennis: Far from perfect, close to normal.)

Where was I? Oh, yes.

Layer upon layer of clothing, then a hoodie, then a jacket, then the waders, then the shoulder-length gloves (accented by a single strand of pearls) and a ten-gallon bucket with a flotation collar. Finally, my beloved Ribb Rake. (Not just Made in the USofA, but on Cape Cod. Thanks, Ron.)

Two hours later. Maybe a dozen oysters, but fully a bucket of kwayhogz. Spelled just the way that it sounds. (NOT!)

We took a side trip over to the Morris Island causeway, but there weren’t more than a handful of oysters there, either. Whatever. The rest of the season has been bountiful, so I am not complaining.

Let’s get a beer.

So, we finally got to the Red Nun. Grabbed a bowl of free popcorn on our way through the front door, ordered a round of beer, along with a couple of the Nun’s great burgers.

We bemoaned the fact that our hunt for the wicked oysters had proven to be fruitless, and we both agreed that oyster shooters we just plain dumb.

And while we sat there quacking about all things dumb, my friend related his tale of how he had visited with friends the night before, because their oldest boy was shipping out to Kabul. He had joined the Guard, and not he found himself headed to Iraq via Indiana, where he was being versed in how to deal with people in the Middle East, friend and foe alike. We recalled how it used to be that the National Guard served right here at home, and we bitched how they were being deployed (more than once) to faraway places with strange-sounding names. Moreover, we bitched that few folks in the news business bother to remind us of the thousands of American men and women serving overseas. Do we really need to hear any more of Charlie Sheen or Lindsay Lohan or Michael Jackson’s doctor going on trial?

You know the answer to that one. So, drink up and let’s go home. The tab’s already been paid.

Payday = the Café

This is one of those days when it’s most appropriate to say a few words about Barfly Etiquette, both a term AND a category that I've just invented as I typed this out. [Note: Just can’t wait for the day when this category first appears on Jeopardy! “I’ll take Barfly Etiquette for 500, Alex.” DAILY DOUBLE!]

I digress, sorry.

As I was saying, this is one of those days: the calendar claims that it’s spring, but the thermometer insists that it’s winter. Surely, it must be four o’clock somewhere, and I am thinking that this afternoon would be a good day to hit someplace subtle, like the Canal Café.

Time was when Yolanda Sorrenti would tend to her little bar, where Adams Street meets the Cranberry Highway in Sagamore. With her gray hair pinned up in a tight bun, she'd perch herself upon a vinyl-cushioned kitchen chair, sit patiently, and tend to your every order. In between, she’d tell you stories, like when the Sagamore Bridge was being erected. God bless her soul, as well as all the souls that went into the digging of the Canal and the construction of the bridges, as well as into the ebb and flow of the relentless current. (Had the Belzikians conceived of that ghastly windmill any earlier than they did, then the toll of souls most certainly would have been even greater!)

Since the passing of that beloved proprietor, the Canal Café has still hung onto its charm (yes, it IS charm). For starters, there’s not only a jukebox, BUT you get four songs played for a dollar. And there is bumper pool. It remains the sort of place that Jack’s Lounge in Hyannis and The Yardarm in Orleans once had been: a local bar. In this case, local CORNER bar.
 
Moreover, the beer is cold, the barshelves are well-stocked, and the prices are very good. The menu is more expanded than Yolanda Sorrenti ever might have imagined or could have handled, but the place is still small and cozy. By five o’clock today, it will start to become crowded; by six, be crowded.

Thus, this afternoon’s a good one for a little road trip. Put on my heavy jacket, drive the Jeep to the corner of Adams, and sit myself down at Yolanda's place. As I await the arrival of Harvey, the barkeep will probably ask, “What can I get you?” Or something to that effect.

Barfly Etiquette Rule #1: Your response to any bartender’s opening question should always be (with a smile): “I want it all, and I want it now.” The expression on the bartender’s face will reveal just how good (or bad) your next hour or so is going to be.

And if you really want it all and want it now, then you’ve got to find yourself a stool at the Canal Café. Grab yourself a Quick Pick for tonight's MegaMillions, but consider yourself lucky if you can find a seat at the bar. (Even luckier if you could get a Pickwick Ale, but that's a story for another day of Ale Tales.)

Gotta scoot.

(Goodnight, Yolanda, wherever you are.)