Operation Mop-Up, Part II

Oh, hello there! And how are you this fine summer afternoon?

Your timing is excellent - I'm just taking a break from stuffing all of my possessions into boxes (truck-loading commences tomorrow), so I've got a little time to tell you about the rest of my adventures around the Valley over the past week or so. You'll recall that I've been trying to get in a little more sightseeing before I point the wagons southward. Well, I'm happy to say that I've crossed most of the important things off the list, although a few items - the Hadley Farm Museum, the Amherst Historical Society - will have to wait until another day. I'll discuss the recent adventures in ascending order of humorousness.

Historic Northampton
I have walked, biked, or driven by this place about two hundred thousand times, but I never got around to visiting it until last week. No, that's not quite true. Back in early June, Kate, Meagan, and I tried to pop by after breakfast one morning, but they were opening late that day and we didn't manage to fit it into our schedule. And then a few weeks ago Kate and I tried again, but it was closed, for reasons that were - and remain - mysterious.

So I was quite excited when we finally caught the place during opening hours this past week. Something this hard to get into must be spectacular, I thought, like a really exclusive nightclub or a Mormon temple. I'm sorry to report, however, that my excitement was somewhat premature. It was a perfectly nice little museum - a room showing artifacts from Northampton's history, arranged chronologically and in narrative form, with lots and lots of text glued to the cases and walls, plus a small gift shop - but it was distinctly lacking in the interactive bells and whistles I've come to expect from modern museums. C'mon, Historic Northampton! Step into the twenty-first century! Give me an animatronic. pulpit-pounding, firebreathing Jonathan Edwards that I can scare the kids with. Give me a "What Would Sylvester Graham Do?" interactive computer game featuring a series of moral dilemmas and engaging (if slightly lewd) sound effects. Give me a life-size Snuffaluffagus that I can climb on - who cares if Snuffaluffagus wasn't from Northampton? But don't expect me to read. Sheesh. History can be so boring.

The Student Prince
I don't often make it down to Springfield, even though it boasts both the Basketball Hall of Fame and a Dr. Seuss sculpture garden. When I do find myself in this, the regional metropolis, it doesn't take me long to remember why I rarely go there - if you're ever feeling like there just aren't enough scary drug dealers in your life, spend half an hour in the Springfield bus station and tell me if that doesn't solve the problem. A once prosperous city that fell on hard times quite a while ago, Springfield has made some efforts at urban renewal - it's certainly a much more appealing place to spend an afternoon than nearby Holyoke (the birthplace, incidentally, of Volleyball) - but it's clearly got a long way to go before it becomes the next Pittsburgh or Providence.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I wandered into the Student Prince, an old fashioned German restaurant founded in 1935 that I learned about while reading Brock Clarke's An Arsonist's Guide to Writers Homes in New England. Just down the street from the prison-like train station, around the corner from the Payday Cash Advance shops, the pawn shops, and the nail salons, the Student Prince can be found serving pot roast, bratwurst, and sauerkraut to the largest crowd of well-dressed old white people you've ever seen. By old, I don't mean spry-retiree, denture-cream-commercial old. I mean nursing-home old, one-foot-in-the-grave old, really-too-old-to-be-eating-bratwurst old. Really, really old. And when I say well-dressed, I mean suits and ties. On a Tuesday. At lunchtime. It was like stepping back in time, to a time when everybody was really old and white and knew everybody who walked through the door, a time when well-dressed old men with mustaches and slick black hair walked from table to table shaking hands with other patrons and asking after their grandkids, a time when everything was decorated in what can only be described as High German Hunting Lodge Kitsch (lamps made of antlers, one of the largest stein collections in the USA, etc.). Outside, it was all dusty urban despair; inside, it was a Bavarian spa town circa 1937.





The food, I must say, was excellent. I had homemade sausages with apple sauce, sauerkraut, and German potato salad. I am a sucker for hearty German fare, after all, to say nothing of hearty German kitsch. So it's probably a good thing that I only discovered how incredibly wonderful the Student Prince is at this late date - otherwise I'd probably have spent much more of my valuable time there, dining on sausage and cabbage at least often enough to get the old folks to start greeting me by name.

The Calvin Coolidge Presidential Library and Museum
Now I really have no excuse for not having visited this one earlier, since it's literally right next door to my house. The Forbes Library began collecting Calvin Coolidge's papers in 1920, around the time he was making a name for himself in Massachusetts politics after serving as mayor of Northampton, where he was also a successful lawyer, from 1909-11. The museum isn't open as often as the rest of the library, but it's open often enough - I live right next door - that I really should have peeked in before now. As it happens, I almost missed it entirely. As with Historic Northampton, I had two recent false starts, finding the doors locked during times I expected them to be open, but I did finally manage to visit yesterday afternoon.

And what I learned was nothing short of astonishing. What I learned was this: Calvin Coolidge was the most boring man in American history. Yes, you read that right - not the most boring president, but the most boring man. Think of the dullest person you know. Form a good mental image: what they sound like, what they smell like, what they look like. Got it? Okay, Calvin Coolidge was three times more boring than that person.

It must be a very difficult thing to build a Presidential Library and Museum for the most boring person in American history, and I feel awfully sympathetic for the poor curators and librarians who have the task of looking after this man's legacy. Clearly, they know what they're up against. Here's what it says in one of the early display cases:



How's that for hedging your bets?

Calvin Coolidge was president from 1923 to 1929, taking over after Warren G. Harding's mysterious death in office and proceeding to do absolutely nothing at all while America enjoyed one of the most debauched periods of its history. Here's what I learned about Calvin Coolidge's time in office: he was the first president whose inaugural address was broadcast by radio (big whoop: anybody inaugurated in 1923 would have enjoyed the same honor - it wasn't him, it was the technology); he signed a few treaties, none of them of any lasting importance; his wife wore lots of dresses at White House events; his son John died after getting blood poisoning from an injury sustained on the White House tennis courts; he installed the first White House Christmas tree (yawn); he was, for reasons that are never explained, named chief of the Sioux (the photo below shows how Coolidge could make even an exciting event like this look utterly and completely boring - the Indian behind him to the left is saying, "Oh, god, when will this be over?"); and he presided at the opening of Mt Rushmore. This latter must have been especially humiliating, insofar as the looming faces of those far more important presidents inevitably brought his own boringness into even sharper relief.





Interspersed amongst the images of Coolidge and his wife not doing anything are some excerpts from his autobiography, boringly titled The Autobiography of Calvin Coolidge. Here's a representative quote:

When we first went to Washington Mrs. Coolidge and I quite enjoyed the social dinners. As we were always the ranking guests we had the privilege of arriving last and leaving first, so that we were usually home by ten o'clock. It will be seen that this was far from burdensome. We found it a most enjoyable opportunity for getting acquainted and could scarcely comprehend how anyone who had the privilege of sitting at a table surrounded by representatives of the Cabinet, the Congress, the Diplomatic Corps, and the Army and Navy would not find it interesting.

Wow, I almost fell asleep just typing that. And this was the stuff the curators thought was good enough to extract! One can only imagine what the rest of the Autobiography is like.

Despite all this, there is one thing about Coolidge that almost redeems him in my eyes, and that proves nobody can be 100% boring all the time. Sitting under a pair of elephant tusks given to Coolidge by Theodore Roosevelt (a president who lived at the opposite end of the boring meter from Coolidge) there sits a large, black electric horse that Coolidge kept in his White House dressing room. I have no idea why he had it or what he did with it, but I like to imagine him coming home after a long day of ribbon-cuttings before crowds of listless onlookers, kicking off his sensible loafers, donning his ceremonial Sioux headdress, and riding that electric horse with all his might, one hand waving free, whooping silently.



And now I'm going back to pack some more. When next we meet, I'll be in Nashville.

The Search for the Perfect French Toast - The Coolidge Park Cafe

The search is over.

After an intense and, at times, harrowing survey of every single breakfast-serving establishment in the greater NoHo/Amherst area, after eating sixteen(!) different orders of french toast (plus a handful of repeats, in addition to some recreational french toast consumed in Okla. City and Madison, WI), I am prepared to award the title of The Perfect French Toast to...

Ah ah ah - not so fast. First I need to tell you about my visit to the Coolidge Park Cafe, a visit that damn near queered the pitch.

The Coolidge Park Cafe is part of the Hotel Northampton, a massive 1927 building that looms over NoHo like a slumbering beast. I had never been inside the place but had long admired the audacity of it, the way it crawls right up to the edge of King Street and dwarfs the people below, seeming to say, "You are in Northampton, people, and don't forget it!" It's an appropriately grand structure for a town that likes to see itself as much more than a simple New England village, with sturdy brick and a neo-colonial facade that hint at a sort of old-fashioned luxury within. It looks, in short, very expensive.

If you want to have breakfast at the Coolidge Park Cafe at the Hotel Northampton, you should get there early. The first time Kate and I tried to go, about 10:15 on a Friday morning, they had already stopped serving breakfast at 10:00. So we went back the next morning (time is short: I'm leaving town this Friday, so I really don't have time to monkey around) and tried again. The hotel lobby was traditional but tasteful - there was the black-framed portrait above the fireplace, here were the striped, upholstered chairs - and the cafe was largely empty. I had the impression that the cafe doesn't cater much to people who aren't staying at the hotel - more locals may go to the Wiggins Tavern, a reconstructed 18th-century tavern annexed to the back of the hotel, but it wasn't open during our visit - and I deduced that the current recession must have severely cut down on the number of tourists willing to shell out the however-much it costs to stay there, but I may be wrong about that.

In any event, the lack of people meant we got a good seat - facing a window facing down King Street, even if this also had us facing into the (pre-10am) sun - although it didn't ensure terribly prompt service. When we got the chance to order I asked for the "Texas Size French Toast," despite not having an entirely positive experience of similarly-designated french toasts elsewhere. Sure enough, when the toast arrived it was neither "Texas Size" nor made of "texas toast," the latter being an especially delicious, butter-and-garlic delicacy found in places in and around Texas that would, nevertheless, probably not be very good in french form. Instead, it looked like regular old triangle-cut bread with a sprinking of powdered sugar and a bit of fruit garnish.



But my god was it good. The bread was crisp on the outside and grainy and hearty on the inside. The maple syrup was real and delightful. And the whole thing was overpoweringly, almost scandalously, cinnamony. Reader, if you love cinnamon, I suggest you drop what you're doing right now and get thee to the Hotel Northampton immediately (just be sure to arrive between the hours of 7am and 10am, Eastern Time). If it wasn't nearly 8pm here, I think I'd go back right now.

This french toast was so good, in fact, that it put me in a bit of a pickle. See, I was hoping that it'd be terrible or at least bland or even merely good, so that I could declare a clear winner - that'd be the Lone Wolf - and get on with my life. But it'd been so long since I'd had the Lone Wolf's french toast that I found myself in a state of deep uncertainty. Was the Lone Wolf's french toast as tender and tasty as this one? Had I overestimated the Lone Wolf's french toast because it came after a string of substandard varieties? Was I looking back at the Lone Wolf through rose-colored glasses?

There was only one way to answer these questions: a Toast-Off.

Well, okay, so it wasn't exactly a Toast-Off. I simply decided that I needed to go back to the Lone Wolf and settle things once and for all. And so, early this morning, Kate and I made the long drive over to Amherst - a drive that's actually not that long but that seems endless when you haven't had breakfast yet (as was the case for Kate) or have only had one breakfast and really need a second one (as was the case with me).

When the toast arrived, it was just as I remembered it. Pretty triangles of thickly sliced challah bread artistically arranged in a circular pattern around the plate, dusted with powdered sugar and lightly browned. Actually, it was a bit more lightly browned than my last serving, but one has to allow for the occasional inconsistency when dealing with something as mercurial as french toast. Eating it was like visiting an old friend: all the old elements of enjoyment were still there, and this encouraged lingering and savoring. As before, I found the inside of the toast refreshingly free of mush (even the Coolidge Park's french toast had been a tad mushy, though not, it must be noted, eggy). As before, it held the syrup well and was even a bit chewy. And, as before, it was almost more than I could eat - this is the only french toast of the sixteen that has been almost more than I could eat - but I still managed to power through to the end.

And the verdict? I'm very pleased, after a hard-fought, last-minute battle, to award the title of The Perfect French Toast to the challah french toast at the Lone Wolf in Amherst, MA. Ding ding ding ding!

Coming in at a very close second place: The Coolidge Park Cafe

Third place goes to: Cafe Esselon.

Honorable mentions: The Green Street Cafe, Amanouz Cafe, and the Haymarket.

In the category of Best Diner French Toast: Look Restaurant.

And coming in dead last, in a category all by itself, a french toast that is almost sublime in its awfulness: Kathy's Diner.

Thank you for accompanying me on this journey. It's been fun for me and, I hope, educational for you. And in case you're wondering - yes, I never want to have french toast again.

Oink Oink

I must have finally recovered from the butter burgers and fried cheese curds, because this sounds really, really good. A reason for me to hightail it to Nashville ASAP:



Read the description at the Nashville Scene's food blog, and you'll understand. (If you don't understand, I'm afraid we can't be friends.)

The Search for the Perfect French Toast - Sylvester's

Of all the Valley's famous residents, Sylvester Graham is probably the least-remembered and the most intriguing. Most people know at least a little bit about Calvin Coolidge, Sojourner Truth, Robert Frost, and Emily Dickinson, but very few people know about old Sylvester - or, if they do, they don't know that they do. This is because the graham cracker was named after him. There is some dispute as to whether Sylvester actually invented the graham cracker or if it was simply given his name because it was originally made using the "graham flour" that he helped to popularize in the nineteenth century, but in either case his is a significant contribution to the annals of American food culture for that reason alone.

But that's not why he's intriguing. He's intriguing because he was the first American dietary guru, and because he was among the first to adopt that oh-so-American habit of equating dietary choices with moral choices (anyone who has ever heard a dessert described as "decadent" or "sinful" has Graham to thank). For Graham, good health depended on curbing appetites, whether digestive or sexual, and adhering to a strict, ascetic lifestyle. Meat, he felt, inflamed the stomach as well as the carnal passions, and thus should be avoided entirely (late in life he helped found one of the country's earliest vegetarian societies). For the same reasons condiments were to be shunned, as were tight corsets, feather beds, enriched flour (hence his development of unenriched "graham flour"), and, of course, masturbation (the ill effects of the latter could clearly be seen in outbreaks of acne among adolescents). Many of his prescriptions were, in fact, quite healthful, though often not for the reasons he thought. He promoted regular exercise, for instance, believing that it would prevent nocturnal emissions, and many a modern-day nutritionist would endorse his advocacy of a meat-free diet rich in whole grains, even if they might be a bit more lenient when it came to feather beds.

Graham emerged during a period of intense reforming zeal in American history, preaching his food gospel (he was, fittingly, a Presbyterian minister) during the 1820s and 1830s, during the so-called Second Great Awakening. Just to the west of here, in the "burned-over district" of upstate New York, Joseph Smith was founding the Latter Day Saints after being visited by the angel Moroni, who showed him golden plates detailing Christ's visits to the ancient Israelite inhabitants of the Americas. Also among Graham's neighbors were the Shakers, who first started getting the shakes around this time; the Fox sisters, whose seances became national sensations; and John Noyes, who founded the utopian commune at Oneida, NY, where residents simultaneously practiced group marriage and discouraged male ejaculation - no mean feat, that, but one of which Graham must surely have approved.

Graham's legacy, apart from the eponymous cracker, is primarily felt today in the breakfast cereal aisle of your local grocery store. James Caleb Jackson, a Graham disciple, developed the first breakfast cereal, called Granula, from his teacher's whole-grain principles. John Harvey Kellogg, brother of W. K. Kellogg (whose signature, found on millions of cereal boxes worldwide, is second only to John Hancock's as the most famous in America), was another Graham follower, and his famous sanatorium in Battle Creek, Michigan (the setting of T.C. Boyle's book The Road to Wellville and the film of the same name) updated and popularized Graham's teaching in the late 19th century. Kellogg developed his own cereal (the first of which he named Granola, after a court battle deprived him of the name Granula), and he and his brother went on to build a breakfast cereal empire that, over time, came to have only a tenuous connection to Graham's original principles.

It's fitting, therefore, that Graham's Northampton home, where he died in 1851, should now be one of the Valley's most popular brunch destinations. Until very recently the servers' t-shirts said, on the back, "Rain or Shine, There's Always a Line," and it's true, especially on weekends - if you're trying to get into Sylvester's on a sunny Sunday morning, you'd better bring a book and prepare to wait a while. In many ways, however, Graham would be thoroughly appalled by what's become of his former home. Not only does the restaurant serve bread baked with enriched flour (Graham famously clashed with Boston bakers in 1837 over his opposition to their industrially manufactured bread), it also serves coffee and tea (Graham was opposed to all stimulants), as well as meat of every kind. The place might as well be filled with masturbating teenagers in corsets.



Still, it's a pretty good brunch spot, although one sometimes gets the feeling that they're coasting on their reputation. The food is good, but it's not outstanding, and the menu is seldom innovative like it is at, say, the Green Bean or the Lone Wolf. They do, however, offer a range of french toasts - in addition to the usual choice of white or wheat, there is also banana bread, cinnamon raisin, and apple. On a recent visit, in the spirit of Sylvester Graham, I opted for the most whole-grain french toast I could find - the kind made with Oatmeal Sunflower Seed Bread. My expectations were high, given the popularity of the restaurant and the karmic appropriateness of eating this specific variety of french toast in Graham's own house, but I'm afraid it wasn't the transcendent experience I was expecting. Mind you, it was perfectly serviceable french toast - nicely crisp on the outside, a little cinnamony, the scattered sunflower seeds enlivening the task of masticating - but it was eggy and mushy inside, and it lacked powdered sugar. It certainly didn't inflame my passions - which, I suppose, would have suited the original Sylvester just fine.

Operation Mop-Up

The countdown has begun. In exactly two weeks I'll be hitting the road with all my stuff in a big truck (a truck so big, in fact, that it may not fit through the narrow passage into my driveway, which would make loading it more than a little difficult), bidding a fond TTFN to the Valley, and directing my gaze with hawk-like intensity toward the future - a future of fightin', cheatin', and drinkin', if the old country songs are anything to go by (and they are). This means that there's lots to do in the next couple of weeks. I'm not talking about boring stuff like packing, closing my bank account, contacting the electric company (hey you guys!!), submitting a change of address form to the post office, or any of that. These things will more or less take care of themselves. No, I'm talking about running through the list of things I still need to see and do before leaving the Valley - a project I'm calling Operation Mop-Up.

What, you're wondering, could I possibly be talking about? Well let me give you a for instance, as some of my less grammatically astute high school teachers would say.

I happen to live within a very short distance of the Yankee Candle Company. No, not one of those tiny, intensely pungent shopping mall stores - this is the factory, where they actually churn out all those multicolored wax cylinders that get shoved, each holiday season, into the gift bags of great-aunts everywhere. The factory, unfortunately, is not open to the public - which is probably a good thing, considering the severe olfactory (no pun intended) assault any visitors to the place would undergo - but the factory store absolutely is open to the public. Nay, more: it sprawls at the side of Route 5 and screams at the public to come inside. And so the other day, after months of procrastination, come inside I did.




Having been trained by the YCC's mall stores to expect a ruthless nasal pummeling as soon as I stepped across the threshold of this self-proclaimed Scenter of the Universe, I was pleasantly surprised to find the place smelling only slightly of chemical foodstuffs and summer breezes. Instead, I found a vast compound full of toys, home accents, cheap New England souvenirs, a fudge shop, a bakery, a medieval castle, and, of course, an extensive Christmas village, complete with model trains, spinning trees, and fake snow falling from the ceiling every four minutes. This last was quite a hit amongst the schoolbusload of teenage girls who had arrived before me. There was also a make-your-own-candle station that included a display on the science of scent-mixing as well as a person-sized candle named King Candle, though which king it was named for is a mystery to me.





There were also, of course, lots and lots of candles spread throughout the place, but the ambient odors were diluted in the vast space of the building. I was, therefore, obliged to pop the lids off of more than a few and give them a good sniff. And as I made my way through candles with names like Egg Nog, Frosted Pumpkin, Vanilla Lime, Juicy Peach, and Candied Apple, I became profoundly, uncomfortably hungry. Just as I was about to take a bite out of Almond Cookie, I snapped out of it and beat a hasty retreat for the door, vowing never to return (on an empty stomach, at least).

Another item I've managed to cross off the Operation Mop-Up list is a visit to UMass Stonehenge. What's UMass Stonehenge? Well, from the road it looks like a diminutive neolithic site that somehow survived the construction of the adjacent UMass football stadium. It's always intrigued me - ever since Spinal Tap, miniature Stonehenges have been cool - so I stopped by the other day while out riding my bike. It was a bit disappointing. Turns out UMass Stonehenge is actually a "sunwheel" used by the Astronomy Department to teach about sun and moon cycles. It's the site of solstice gatherings, when the sun aligns with several of the larger rocks, and it's also used for moon tracking. So, in short, it's about science. Bah. I took a photo, but I wasn't happy about it.



Also crossed off the list: a climb up Mt. Sugarloaf, about which I'll say nothing except that I think maybe I saw John Hodgman up on the summit. And I took a witty photograph up there (not of John Hodgman).



So stay tuned for more highlights from Operation Mop-Up and, of course, for the last two french toast posts. Just two more toasts to go! Whee!

Some Superlatives from a Visit to the Upper Midwest

I've just returned from a 10-day ramble through Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Illinois, during which I was accompanied, at various times, by my brother, his girlfriend, my girlfriend, and several bouts of indigestion. I've broken the elements of the trip down into several helpful categories in order to convey the experience to you.

Largest Ball of Twine Seen:


Francis A. Johnson's famous twine ball in Darwin, MN. At one time the largest twine ball in the world, Johnson's ball, constructed between 1950 and 1979, has since been surpassed by several others, but it remains the largest twine ball ever rolled by one man. It is also, as yet, the only twine ball about which Weird Al Yankovic has written a song.



Largest Orange Moose Seen:


The gigantic fiberglass moose in Black River Falls, WI. I have no idea why this was here.

Largest Spoon Seen:


"Spoonbridge and Cherry," a sculpture in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden created by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje Van Bruggen.

Largest Cherry Seen:
See above.

Largest American Gothic Homage Seen:


J. Seward Johnson's "God Bless America" statue on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.

Largest Frozen Custard Serving Consumed:


A single scoop of regular old vanilla custard at Kopp's, in Milwaukee.

Largest Carousel in the World:


The carousel at the House on the Rock in Milwaukee.

Minimum Number of Outlandishly Large Objects Seen:
Eight.

Happiest Barn in which Apple-Pie-Baked-In-a-Paper-Sack Was Purchased:


The Elegant Farmer, outside Milwaukee.

Stinkiest Sausage Bought and Consumed:
Landjaeger from the Elegant Farmer.

Maximum Number of Enclosed Spaces Rendered Almost Completely Unusable by the Landjaeger:
Three.

Drunkest Tour Guide:
The guy giving the Lakefront Brewery tour in Milwaukee.

Tour Guide Most Clearly Infatuated by a Deceased Brewery Proprietor:
The lady who showed us around the Pabst Mansion in Milwaukee.

Most Dangerous Chandelier Seen:


Captain Pabst's antler chandelier in Milwaukee.

Deadliest Hamburger Consumed:


The butter burger at Solly's in Milwaukee.

Most Dangerous Burger Consumed:


The Jucy Lucy at Matt's Bar in Minneapolis. This burger consists of two patties of meat surrounding molten cheese - servers warn customers to wait a few minutes for the cheese to cool before biting into it. This makes the Jucy Lucy more dangerous than Solly's butter burger, but it remains considerably less deadly.

Deadliest Item(s) Consumed:


Fried cheese curds at the Old Fashioned in Madison. (This was a closely contested category, but the inclusion of a side of garlic mayonnaise for dipping put the cheese curds over the top).

Most Rapidly Devoured Pie:


The caramel-apple pie at Solly's.

Most Calories Consumed at One Sitting:


Hopple Popple at Benji's Deli in Milwaukee.

Most Ridiculous Item Consumed:


Pie Shakes at Betty's Pies in Minneapolis.

Prettiest Sunset:


Over the lake at the Union Terrace at the University of Wisconsin, Madison.

Biggest Surprise:


Minneapolis. Turns out it's gorgeous! And exciting! There are lakes and parkways everywhere, wonderful restaurants, lots of bookshops, friendly people... and it has easy access to the Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota! I wonder if it's sunny and warm like that all year long.

Gayest Thai Food Consumed:
Dinner at Pingpong in Boystown, Chicago.

Gayest Everything Else:
Everything in Boystown, Chicago.

Creepiest House in America:


The House on the Rock in Spring Green, WI. I don't even know how to describe this place. You'll just have to look at the photos.

Most Active Photographer:
Me. Here.

The Search for the Perfect French Toast - Look Restaurant

I know, I know. You thought I'd forgotten about this little quest, right? Indeed, you were probably hoping I'd forgotten about it, huh? (I'm looking at you, Dr C.) Well I hate to ruin your morning, but it's just not my way to leave a task undone. Especially when that task involves bread and syrup and eggs and sometimes powdered sugar and cinnamon.

Am I getting tired of french toast? You bet your life I am. But am I going to let that deter me from fighting this fight through to the final round? No, I am not.

The good news for all of you haters out there is that we are, indeed, quickly reaching said final round. According to my calculations, there are only three establishments within the vague geographic range that I've set for myself that I've yet to talk about - one of which I'll dispose of presently, and quite succinctly at that. The other two are Valley institutions that I've been needing to talk about anyway, and then we'll be done. And, as God is my witness, I'll never have to eat french toast again.

The Look Restaurant is itself something of a Valley institution. It's located just north of the entrance to Look Park, named after Frank Newhall Look, whose wife, Fannie, donated the land to the city of Northampton in his honor. Frank was the chief executive of the Prophylactic Brush Company from 1877 to 1911, and, before you all start tittering, you should know that the Prophylactic Brush Company was one of the first (if not the first) mass producers of plastic toothbrushes in the nation. They also made hair brushes and other brushy things. The company was bought by the Lambert Company in 1930, the same year Fannie donated the land for the park to honor her husband, and subsequently became a division of Standard Oil, as most things did at that time. The park itself is one of the loveliest around - there are walking and biking paths, a serene pond surrounded by groves of tall evergreens, a miniature train, and even a small zoo, though if you go there expecting giraffes and elephants you're going to be sorely disappointed (as I was). Similarly, if you go to Look Park without first obtaining a permit for your picnic, you're likely to be chucked into the pond. Ah well - we live in a society, after all, and societies have their rules. More pleasantly, the park also has an amphitheater and a summer concert series, whose performers this year have included Gordon Lightfoot, Joan Baez, and Tom Jones. It's not unusual, if you'll pardon my saying so, to wish you'd actually made it to see Tom Jones.

This is what the Look Park looks (excuse the pun) like:



The best thing about the Look Restaurant, which you spot as you drive along Route 9 past the park, is that, as you pass it, you can say, "Look! Restaurant!" In fact, you can say this every time you pass it, in the same exact way, to the same exact person, and it will always be funny. Trust me.



The least good thing about the Look Restaurant is that the interior looks like a hospital commissary. The pastel colors and fluorescent lights give the place a sickly, washed-out look, and this effect is only slightly overcome by the several pleasant pieces of art that hang on the walls, including one large, framed photograph of a serving of french toast.

"Aha!" I thought, as I spied this piece of vernacular art. "Any place that has a large, framed photograph of french toast hanging on its walls must have good french toast!"

On examining the photograph further, I noted that the toast in the picture appeared to be coated in lacquer. It was probably supposed to be butter, but this toast was far to glistening to be covered in actual butter, which, as we all know, seeps into french toast fairly quickly and doesn't exactly shimmer in the light of a flashbulb. Or maybe it was laminated. Whatever it was, it was very shiny, and I began to have my doubts.

I was also surprised to find that the Look Restaurant, despite its name, is, in fact, a diner. There's a long counter with stools, behind which the cooks do their thing amidst their cooking equipment, and there were some benches along the walls. The customers were of the sort typically found in the area's diners - elderly folks, families, casually dressed businessmen, the sorts of people Tracy Kidder, in Home Town, describes as natives, and whom I've been less charitably referring to as townies. Indeed, the Look Restaurant plays a considerable role in Kidder's book as the favorite dining establishment of Tommy, the cop who's the principal subject of the book.

That's how I know the Look Restaurant is a Valley institution.

In any case, the folks at the Look were certainly friendly. I had a brief conversation with an older gentleman sitting beside me about the economy (he wasn't optimistic), flipped through the morning's Daily Hampshire Gazette, which someone had kindly left on the counter for me, and noted that most of the folks in there clearly came by quite a bit - they knew the servers, and they knew one another. Indeed, so locals-down-at-the-diner was the place that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a presidential candidate, with entourage, sweep into the place and start shaking hands and taking pictures. If we had been in New Hampshire, I'm pretty sure that would have happened.




As for the french toast, it was not bad. It certainly could have been a lot worse - at least it wasn't coated in poisonous chemicals, like the one on the wall. They offered a choice of white, wheat, cinnamon raisin, or banana bread, as well as real maple syrup for an extra $1.50. I went with the wheat, with the real maple syrup. The slices were nice and thick, cooked just right with a thin, crisp crust on both sides, and the syrup gave it plenty of sweetness to make up for the absence of powdered sugar. In all, it was probably the best diner french toast I've had in the area.

Which isn't saying much, but it is saying something.

Look! French toast!