A Voice From the Past

 

Recently I had to call my financial institution to resolve an online banking issue. These types of calls are usually about as fun as getting hit in the kneecap with a sock full of nickels. So, as I made my way through the dozens of automated prompts to get to an actual living, breathing human, I was experiencing a fair amount of anxiety. Eventually, I pressed the right sequence of buttons and a representative got on the line and said: “Hello, this is John. I’m going to be your banking concierge today. How can I help you?” Right away I smiled.

You see, as soon as John started talking, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he must have grown up very close to where I grew up. In fact, the more he talked, the more convinced I was that not only was this guy originally from Brooklyn, but quite likely grew up in the very same neighborhood as me, so specific was his accent. The more he spoke, the more nostalgic I became.

John was tenacious in trying to resolve my issue. In fact, he said, “I’m not going to get off the phone with you until we get this fixed. I don’t give up.” I found his persistence reassuring and his accent comforting. There were moments of downtime while he was waiting for something to update on his end. During these silences, I wondered if I should ask him where he was from. I was conflicted, because asking this question could go one of two ways: 1) he happily tells me where he’s from and we start having a conversation about the old country, or 2) he gets annoyed that I’m crossing a personal line during a business call and is less inclined to help me.

People have varying reactions to being called out for their accent. The truth is that many times, people don't think that they have much of an accent since everyone they grew up with talked the exact same way; so if it’s called out, they may get annoyed. I certainly wasn’t aware that I had a Brooklyn accent until I moved away from Brooklyn. The first couple of years that I lived in Arizona it was very common for people who I just met to ask me where from New York, or where from “back East” I was from. This rubbed me the wrong way at first—like a secret part of me was discovered. But soon I owned it, and was happy to reveal my background, which many people seemed to find exciting or exotic. The longer I have lived away from Brooklyn, the more subtle my accent has become, so these days it is rare that any new person that I meet asks me about it anymore. If they did, though, I would be fine with it. But how would John react?

Eventually, John reached a point while working on my issue where he said it could take up to 15 minutes for the online platform to be updated, but he would stay on the line with me to make sure it worked. Fifteen minutes is a long time, so I decided to go for broke.

“John, I’ve got to ask what part of the world you’re from, because I’m pretty sure we grew up in the same neck of the woods,” I said, holding my breath.

“I’m from Brooklyn,” he said, with a chuckle.

“Me too,” I said. “Bensonhurst.” Mentioning my specific neighborhood opened the floodgates.

“I’m from Gravesend. I grew up on East 3rd and Avenue U during the disco era, when everybody wore chains, and all your friends were named Tony.”

I told him where I grew up, which was about two miles from him. For the next few minutes, we waxed nostalgic about the old neighborhood. We talked about going to rival high schools—Lafayette for me, Lincoln for him—and about how cool it was that we could walk to anything we wanted or needed when we were kids. He told me that he loves it in Arizona, but he misses being in a place where he knows everyone in the neighborhood. I was just about to turn the conversation to the virtues of a good slice of pizza when he said, “Okay update your screen and I think you’ll see what you need to.”

I updated my screen and saw that my issue had been resolved. I was grateful for that but was a little bit sad that this conversation was about to come to an end. It was a Saturday morning and I had nowhere to be, so I could have talked to John for hours, but he was at work, so I’m sure he had to help more customers. I thanked him profusely and told him I enjoyed talking to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “We did some banking; we did some bonding. It was fun.”

It was, indeed, fun. It kind of makes me want to grow my Brooklyn accent back, because not once has anyone ever called me out on my Chandler, Arizona accent.

 

A Tale of Two Concerts

The first concert I ever went to was when I was 16 years and 6 months old. This was way back…way, way, way back in 1986 when the price of a floor seat ticket to see Rush at Meadowlands Arena was $15.50. Yes, there is indeed a dot between those two fives. That’s right, I paid less than twenty bucks to go to that show and sit in the 40^th row.

The monetary cost of the tickets was not, however, the only price I paid to go to that concert 37 years ago. That concert also cost me my integrity. Knowing that my overprotective parents would never let me go to a rock concert in a million years, what with the loud noises and alcohol consumption and people wearing leather, I lied and said I was going to the movies and then sleeping over at my friend Chris’s house. The second part was actually true—I did sleep over at my friend Chris’s house that night, but we did not, in fact, go to the movies. This lie was the most rebellious moment of my young life. I was terrified that I might be caught in the lie, but my excitement over seeing my favorite band outweighed my terror and I did the horrible deed. I felt guilty about the lie and proceeded to have the time of my life.

Cut to last night. My oldest son is currently 16 years and 6 months old, and I took him to his first concert. We paid a mere $75 per ticket to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers in the upper, upper deck of State Farm Stadium. Indeed, if we were any higher up, I think local air traffic controllers may have had to help us navigate to our seats.

Despite the dizzying heights at which we sat, my son and I had a blast. Yes, famed bassist, Flea, looked about the size of a flea from our vantage point, but there were two massive screens on either side of the stage showing close-up views of the band, so we were able to keep track of their frenetic movements throughout the entire 90-minute show. And while there were definitely loud noises, people consuming alcohol nearby, and even one dude wearing leather (despite the fact that we’re in Arizona and it was close to 100-degrees out) I didn’t feel like I was corrupting my son all that much. Instead, we were just digging on the music together. While my first concert was a rebellious moment, my son’s was a bonding moment.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not naïve enough to think that my son is never going to rebel as long as I keep on buying overpriced concert tickets. I just know that for now, I’ve thwarted that rebellion for a little while longer. Truly, I’m fine with him eventually rebelling, as long as he does it when he’s in his 40s when I’m too old and tired to care.

My son and I several miles from the stage at State Farm Stadium

(Photo Credit: Someone sitting behind us who may

have consumed alcohol but was not wearing leather.)

Queue Up the End of DVDs

 

Yesterday I got an email that will change my life forever—or at least change my movie-viewing life forever. The email, ominously titled “Our Final Season,” revealed that on September 29, 2023, Netflix DVD will ship its final red envelope. When I read this horrifying bit of information, I let out an audible gasp. Had there been anyone around at that moment to hear my gasp, they would surely have asked “What’s wrong?” and I would have told them. But there was no one around at that moment to ask, so now I’m telling you instead.

First off, I’m not a complete idiot. I recognize that DVDs are an outdated technology and it’s highly likely that at this point the Netflix DVD subscriber database consists of me and about 14 other dinosaurs who just can’t let go of the 1990s. I get that keeping a multi-million-dollar enterprise open for 15 nerds isn’t a sustainable business model. So, I’m not outraged, just sad.

I should also mention that I do stream movies all the time, not only on Netflix but on Prime and Hulu, as well. In fact, I watch streaming movies way more than DVDs. So why am I so sad, you ask? I will sum up my sadness with one word—SELECTION.

Yes, streaming is horribly convenient, and there are certainly thousands of titles to choose from, but almost all of those titles have come out in the past two decades. Sure, there are a handful of flicks available from earlier than that, but most of those are either very popular flicks that I’ve already seen or, frankly, they’re hot garbage. For a movie geek like me who wants to see films like Going My Way (1944) or Vampyr (1932), waiting around for them to be available via a streaming service could take a very, very, VERY long time. Yet I was able to get both titles on DVD through Netflix without any problem.

So now I’m faced with an interesting dilemma. I am on the two-disc per month plan, which means that between now and when Netflix DVDs are gone forever, I will be able to rent 10 discs. How do I possibly choose the 10 movies I will see? These may be the 10 most important decisions I make this year.

There are currently 38 movies in my DVD queue, which means that 28 of them will have to be thrown by the wayside. There are a handful of movies in my queue that I’ve already seen and wanted to see again, but given the gravity of this situation, rewatching a movie would be downright irresponsible. No, all the movies need to be ones I’ve never laid eyes on.

There are some movies that have literally been sitting in my queue for years. I often reorder my queue, moving things to the top that I suddenly have an interest in seeing, so some flicks keep on getting jumped over by others. Maybe now is the time to see something like Romance & Cigarettes, an indie musical from 2005 directed by John Turturro, one of my all-time favorite actors. It has been in my queue for more than ten years, so up to the top you go!

One by one I will have to make these crucial decisions, choosing each film I rent with the utmost care. How many horror flicks should I choose? How many Best Picture nominees? How many silent films? And once I watch my last ten rentals by the end of September, the other 28 films in my queue and the thousands more that I never got to will be lost to me forever. I, and my 14 brethren sitting in front of their DVD players, will all shed a tear on September 29^th as the credits roll on the end of an era. I’ll be sure to wipe my eyes with a red envelope.

Flyboys

 

I am not the most adventurous guy in the world; especially now, at age 53. In my teens and twenties, I was mildly adventurous—I went on backpacking trips in rugged terrain, took a stab at waterskiing a couple of times, and even wore a Boston Red Sox cap to Yankee Stadium on one occasion. But those wild days are largely behind me. These days the most adventurous I get is using ranch dressing a full week after its expiration date.

The reality is, as a family man with a five-day-a-week office job, not many opportunities for adventure present themselves to me, though admittedly, it’s not like I go out of my way to seek them out. Most of my entertainment time is spent reading books or watching movies, and if I want to increase my heart rate, I’ll read a horror book or watch a horror movie. “Let me get enjoyment from someone else’s peril, not my own,” is my general philosophy.

Every once in a rare while, though, an opportunity for adventure does present itself and when that happens you must ask yourself one question: “Should I seize the day, or should I walk away?” My risk-averse personality usually has me lean toward walking away at these moments, but on a recent occasion, I decided to lean in the other direction, and I am glad I did.

A friend of the family has his pilot’s license and owns a small four-seater plane that he keeps at Chandler Municipal Airport. Last spring, he invited me and my older son to fly with him and said that we could actually be the ones to fly the plane. My first thought was this was some kind of joke, because clearly neither of us had a pilot’s license. Heck, at that point in time, my son didn’t even have his learner’s permit yet…for a car, let alone a plane. But our pilot friend said he would take care of takeoff and landing and the middle part is where we would fly. It sounded a little fun and a lot terrifying.

I should point out here that I do not have a fear of flying. I’ve been on commercial jets hundreds of times in my life and have never been nervous. My family went on many trips that involved air travel throughout my childhood, so I got used to flying at a very young age. Indeed, I have always enjoyed the experience. Of course, the major difference between those flying experiences and the one I was being offered was that those prior experiences involved very large planes, with flight attendants attending to my needs, the possibility of an in-flight movie, and a person flying the plane who was not me. And, of course, it is this last point that made this very generous offer so nerve-wracking. Would I really want to be part of a flight that had me as the pilot?

The initial offer to fly a plane made last spring was not one that I followed up on. But when we saw our pilot friend again recently, he reminded us of his offer and this time I took him up on it for two reasons: 1) I didn’t want my son and I to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime, and 2) now that my son actually did have his learner’s permit, I figured we couldn’t get in trouble if we were pulled over mid-flight.

So, this past Saturday, we met our friend at the airport and he took us up in his plane, which he told us was a “Mooney” built in 1966. The fact that the plane was three years older than me made me a tad uneasy, but our friend exuded such confidence and was so thorough in his explanation of what would happen with the plane every step of the way, that I was quickly put at ease.

For the first leg of the trip, my son was the copilot up front, and I sat in the back right behind him. It was a beautiful day and the views from 2,500 feet in the air were incredible. My son was in direct contact with the pilot sitting next to him via a headset, but my headset was for noise-reduction purposes only. So, I never knew when, somewhere up in the air, the pilot with 30+ years of experience, switched control of the plane over to my son, whose flying experience was about to begin the moment control was switched over to him.

The transition was smooth and unnoticeable. While I was chilling in the back taking pictures of the desert mountains in the distance, my son was apparently flying the airplane. I didn’t fully realize this until I glanced to the front of the plane and noticed that the pilot’s hands were not on the yoke (which I learned is the fancy aviation word for steering wheel thingy.) Wow! My 16-year-old son had my fate in his hands. I thought to myself that I should be petrified, but the truth was, things were going quite smoothly, and I was completely relaxed…and then came our first turn.

My son executed the turn perfectly, but the thing is, when an airplane turns, it also dips. It has to in order to make the turn. When you are on a 250-foot, 400,000-pound Boeing 747, that dip is barely perceptible and you keep on eating your complimentary pretzels without batting an eye. But when you are on a 27-foot, 2,400-pound Mooney, you are fully aware that the plane has suddenly shifted in a downward direction, and you are very grateful that there are no in-flight snacks.

Once my heart came back down out of my throat and I understood what to expect when turns happened, I was much more relaxed the rest of the flight. Eventually we landed at Ak-Chin Airport, about 30 miles southwest of where we started. We got out of the plane, stretched our legs, and chatted for a bit. Soon it would be my turn to fly this bucket.

Before we climbed back in, my son mentioned that just the slightest movement of his hands on the yoke made the plane respond, so you have to be very subtle with your movements. That made me gulp. What if I sneezed while I was turning the plane and we ended up spinning like a top? That wasn’t the kind of adventure I signed up for. For a split second I debated calling an Uber and high-tailing it out of there, but I knew my son would never let me live that down, so I took a deep breath and slid into the cockpit.

Soon we took off and a few minutes later, as our pilot leveled us off, I heard him say in my headset, “I’m giving you control of the plane.” Hoo-boy, that was a lot of responsibility for a guy who didn’t learn how to ride a bike until he was 33. But miraculously, when I got control of the plane, we did not suddenly fall out of the sky like a cartoon anvil. I was actually flying a plane! I won’t lie- I was a bit tense, especially in the beginning, but I was being coached as we went and gradually became less tense. I made a few turns, straightened out the plane when it needed straightening, and didn’t hit any birds along the way. So, it was a smashing success! (Luckily, without any actual smashing.)

As with the first leg of the trip, the real pilot took over when it was time to land back at Chandler Municipal Airport and when we landed, I felt exhilarated, joyful, grateful, and proud. Not only was I proud of my teenage son for being a natural behind the yoke of the plane, but I was also proud of myself for not once having to grab the airsickness bag conveniently located in the back seat.

Once the plane parked and we climbed out, I thanked our friend profusely for taking us up in his aircraft. It was truly a once in a lifetime experience. When we got home, we excitedly told the rest of the family all about our unique adventure. Not long after that, my younger son asked me when he can go flying. Okay…maybe it will be a twice in a lifetime experience.

Airline Quality Literature

Recently, I had occasion to travel by plane for the first time in a little over a year. The flight was to be about five hours, so, of course, I took a book with me to occupy most of my time. Generally, though, prior to opening my book, I’ll flip through the complimentary inflight magazine a bit first to see if there are any articles of interest.

On this particular flight, I had a window seat and spent the taxiing and takeoff portion of the trip gazing out the window. Then, about ten minutes after we took off, I turned my gaze to the seatback in front of me to see what magazines they had to offer. When I did that, it took a moment for me to process what I was seeing; or maybe more aptly put—what I was not seeing.

Clearly, the sign at the top of the seatback said, “literature only,” yet I did not see any magazines. All that was there was a thin pamphlet titled “A321.” I pondered this for a moment and then thought to myself, “Don’t prejudge. Just because I never heard of ‘A321’ does not mean it is not a high-quality piece of literature.” So, I opened it up and this is what I saw:

Now, I graduated from New York University with a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and while I was not a straight-A student, I feel like I paid enough attention to discern what is and isn’t literature.  And I was pretty confident that what I was holding in my hands was, decidedly, not literature. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that there are some fine graphic novels out there that tell amazing stories using pictures only, so I don’t discount that medium as literature. But what I was looking at had no real plot, completely underdeveloped characters, and a total lack of creativity. It starts off with some guy in a tacky yellow shirt buckling a seatbelt, moves on to some dude figuring out how to properly store a briefcase, and follows up with an emotionless mom putting an oxygen mask on her equally emotionless kid, in a situation that would, presumably, be terrifying to them. I’ll admit that last bit piqued my interest, but this two-page piece of “literature” never went back to that storyline.

I finished this epic tome in about 35 seconds and placed it back in the “Literature Only” section of the seatback. I debated hitting the call button to get the flight attendant over so I could complain about the plane’s lack of literature, but remembered that I had my own book anyway, and decided not to make waves. I felt bad, though, for anyone on the plane who may have forgotten to bring a book or magazine with them to read. What would they do on a five-hour flight without any airline-provided literature? I glanced over at the guy in the middle seat who was looking at his phone, and then at the guy in the aisle seat who was looking at his laptop. That’s when I remembered it was 2022.

The World's Greatest Muffin (Maybe)

This morning I ate the best blueberry muffin I ever had in my entire life. At least I think I did. Let me explain.

Pushing up on 53 years old, I have had a fair amount of blueberry muffins throughout my lifetime. I didn’t have many—if any—in my youth, as the concept of fruit in a dessert-type item nauseated me. (At that time, I was all chocolate all the time.) But sometime in adulthood I accepted, indeed, even embraced the idea of the blueberry muffin.

For three years in my early 20s, I lived and worked in Manhattan. It was about a 20-minute walk from my small studio apartment on the Upper East Side to the MAD Magazine offices on 52^nd Street and Madison Avenue, and I passed countless eateries along the way. Restaurants, bakeries, street vendors—the breakfast options on my daily morning commute were endless. I was living on my own for the first time and with that newfound whiff of freedom, I decided I would be fearless. I would put myself out there and eat non-chocolate pastries that I never dared try before. For the first time I experienced the wonder of a bear claw, the glory of an almond croissant, and yes, the majesty of a blueberry muffin.

I am not going to lie for the sake of this blog post and say that blueberry muffins were my favorite because that’s simply not true. But I did like them very much and made them a regular part of my breakfast rotation. Sometimes I would get them from a bakery, sometimes from a breakfast cart, and sometimes I would even bake them myself. (No, that last part is a lie. I never baked a blueberry muffin in my entire life. But wouldn’t it be cool if I did?) During my years in Manhattan, I must have had something on the order of 200 blueberry muffins. Most of these blueberry muffins were very good. A few were duds.

When I moved out to Arizona in 1995, I continued to eat blueberry muffins, though perhaps not as frequently. Using standard deviations, supply chain economics, and numbers I’m simply pulling out of my ass, I would estimate that since moving to the Grand Canyon state I consume approximately 40 blueberry muffins a year. That makes about 1,080 blueberry muffins I’ve had in Arizona. Adding that to the 200 from New York days, it seems I’ve had an estimated 1,280 blueberry muffins in my lifetime.

So how do I know the one I ate this morning was the best? I don’t. I can’t. But people say that sort of thing all the time. “This is the best pizza I’ve had in my life.” “This is the best lobster I’ve had in my life.” “This is the best frog eye salad I’ve had in my life.” Granted, sometimes this is simply hyperbole, but other times people seem sincerely committed to the notion that whatever it is they just ate is really the best version of that thing they have had. How does one know that?

I am a man who loves keeping track of things with spreadsheets, but it has never occurred to me to keep a spreadsheet of all the items I eat and their relative tastiness. And even if I had such a spreadsheet of every blueberry muffin I’ve ever eaten, how would I know if the amazing one I had on March 23, 1994, was any better or worse than another amazing one I had on October 10, 2008, or any other amazing muffin day?  How accurate can one’s taste memory really be?

And yet the blueberry muffin I had this morning, which I got from the café at my work, was so amazingly delicious that, at this moment, I feel it is the best one I have ever tasted. And who are you to say any different? Do you secretly keep a spreadsheet of all the blueberry muffins I’ve had throughout my life? And if so, how did you get access to such information? And more importantly, please email it to me so I can continue to build on your incredible work.

The last morsel of this morning's muffin.

Flagstaff Food Fest

 

This summer we did not know if we were going to go on a family vacation. I started a new job in late February and had no idea what my workflow would be like, so I was hesitant to plan for any chunk of time away from the office. As the school year wound down, our two teenage boys (especially the younger one) kept on asking if we would be going anywhere this summer and I kept on saying “we’ll play it by ear.” Of course, “we’ll play it by ear,” is one of those parental loophole phrases that really translates into “I severely doubt it, but don’t want to flat out disappoint you, so quit asking me.”

As I progressed in my job, two competing points factoring into the vacation equation became clear: 1) from about mid-May to mid-August, my place of employment switches to a “summer schedule,” which means that we work ten-hour days from Monday through Thursday and have the day off on Fridays (Yay!); and 2) some of my projects are extremely demanding, which means I often have to work a significant amount of time on the weekends (Boo!). Reconciling these two concepts in an effort to plan for a vacation is a tricky proposition, but this past week, as a major project was put to bed, I found that I unexpectedly might be able to take an extra day off and…wait for it…do a quick, sort of spontaneous, family getaway.

So it was, that on Monday we decided that we would be heading to Flagstaff, Arizona on Thursday for a quick two-night stay. As someone who likes to plan a vacation months in advance, hitting the road for a trip with no itinerary and only the vaguest of plans concerning what we would do once we got to our destination, was a tad unsettling. We made reservations to stay at a Days Inn in the eastern part of Flagstaff and knew that we wanted to eat at a critically acclaimed Mexican restaurant called Salsa Brava, but other than that the trip plan was somewhere between murky and hazy. No matter—we were all excited to get out of the 100+ degree heat for a couple of days.

As it turns out, our plan to eat at Salsa Brava on the first night of our trip was a perfect launching pad for what our trip ended up becoming—an excuse to eat at unique Flagstaff restaurants for three straight days. Yes, I did take the boys on a hike for a couple of hours on Friday morning, but other than that, the focus was on finding interesting eateries. And in that endeavor, we succeeded in spades.

While Flagstaff, Arizona may not be thought of in the same regard as Paris, Rome, or New York when it comes to high quality cuisine, the truth is that every city has its own share of hidden culinary gems if you put in the effort to find them. And in the case of our family, we are just as happy (in fact, happier) with hole-in-the wall mom and pop establishments, as we are with fancy five-star restaurants. So, join me, won’t you, as I take you on the Schwartzberg culinary tour of Flagstaff.

Day 1

Dinner: Salsa Brava – The featured restaurant on our culinary tour, Salsa Brava, is one that we stumbled across when we were last in Flagstaff in October of 2019. We all loved this place so much the first time, that we knew the next time we went to Flagstaff, we would have to eat there again, which is exactly what we did on Thursday night. Living in the Phoenix-metro area, we eat Mexican food on a frequent basis and have our favorite spots, so we are no stranger to this cuisine. So, trust me when I tell you that as good as the best Mexican place is in our area, Salsa Brava is even better. I’m no food critic, so I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what makes their food so much better than every other Mexican restaurant that I’ve been to, but I can tell you that the whole family finds the cuisine amazing. Perhaps it’s the unique menu selections, or the high altitude (Flagstaff rests at 6,909 feet), or the fact that the place is always so packed you have to wait at least 45 minutes to get seated so you’re starving by the time a fork enters your mouth, but every dish we’ve tried there has been sensational. I inhaled—I mean ate—the Portobello & Spinach Enchiladas. My wife and older son both had the Lobster & Shrimp Enchiladas, and my younger son had the Shrimp Street Tacos. In my younger son’s words: “the food was a 10 out of 10.”

Dessert: The Sweet Shoppe – After dinner we decided to head to downtown Flagstaff to walk around and look in the shops. What we hadn’t considered was that at 8:30 PM on a Thursday night, all of the retail shops were already closed. No matter—some of the food shops were still open, so while we couldn’t buy souvenirs, we could buy dessert. This we did at the Sweet Shoppe, which is another place we first discovered on our 2019 excursion. The Sweet Shoppe has sweets of all kinds—candy, baked goods, and gelato. On this occasion, we opted to go the gelato route. The worker there was very generous in letting us sample the flavors. Indeed, between the four of us, we probably sampled 20 different flavors before making our decisions. The final choices? Me – Stracciatella (Italian for “yummy”), Wife – Limoncello, Son 1 – Dark Chocolate Orange, Son 2 – Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate.

Day 2

Breakfast: Day’s Inn Complimentary Breakfast Buffet – Okay, I’ll admit this meal wasn’t quite on the same level as the rest. What it did have going for it, though, was that it was free, conveniently located, and filling. I had an average blueberry muffin, a decent egg and cheese omelet, and an adequate piece of toast. My wife and younger son took advantage of the nifty automatic pancake maker. There was apple juice and orange juice. My older son dared my younger son to mix the two and drink it, which he did. What do you expect? They’re teenagers, so that’s how they entertain themselves when not gaming.

Lunch: Restaurant (aka The Crown Railroad Cafe) – About two blocks from our motel was a large restaurant that we all thought was simply called “Restaurant,” because that is what the very prominent signage said. Every time we drove past it, we joked about the generically named establishment, never thinking we would end up eating there, because it seemed like more of a punchline than an eatery. So, when we got hungry for lunch on Day 2 of our trip, we never really considered “Restaurant” an option. I searched online for a suitable place for lunch and came across an interesting establishment called “The Crown Railroad Cafe.” As I read about the décor (the restaurant is railroad themed and features an elaborate miniature train set with a track that runs throughout the entire place) and the extensive menu (vast selection of diner-type food, featuring 66 different omelets, since they are located on Route 66) I decided this is the place we had to go, especially since it seemed to be located right near our motel. Then I clicked on the images of the place and, to my astonishment, found that “The Crown Railroad Café” and “Restaurant” were one in the same! Why they decided to display the word “Restaurant” in enormous 15-foot-high neon letters on top of the building and “The Crown Railroad Cafe” in illegible small print on the awning below, I did not know, but I promptly turned to my family and said, “Put on your shoes, we’re going to Restaurant!” About three minutes after we all put on our shoes, we arrived at Restaurant and were greeted by very friendly waitstaff. As we did the touristy thing of taking photos of each other sitting in the booth, the waitress came over and offered to take a picture of the four of us. The photo, which accompanies this blog post, is great for several reasons. First off, it’s the only photo of all four of us from this trip; second, in the upper lefthand corner, you can see signage that says “Flagstaff,” so years from now, we will all remember where the picture was taken; and finally, third, outside the window you can see both Route 66 and the railroad tracks that the restaurant was named for. The french-fries were crispy and not greasy, the coleslaw was freshly made and delicious, and the bread on everyone’s sandwiches was toasted to perfection. The generic “Restaurant” turned out to be way better than any of us would have imagined when we first drove past it the day before.

Mid-day Snack: The Sweet Shoppe – After lunch we decided to head back to downtown Flagstaff, because the souvenir shops were bound to be open at 3 PM on a Friday, and gosh darn it, we wanted souvenirs. Indeed, the downtown area was now bustling compared to the previous evening, and we joined in on the bustlement, checking out as many shops as we could in the eight-block radius that comprises the Flagstaff tourist hub. Of course, all this walking made us burn off our lunch and build up quite an appetite. Soon, we found ourselves in front of the Sweet Shoppe once again. And the truth is, you can’t be in front of the Sweet Shoppe without entering the Sweet Shoppe. While my wife and older son went right back to the gelato, I and my younger son, opted for the candy section instead. I left with a raspberry truffle (deliciously decadent) and my son left with some sort of chocolate stick with a gummy worm connected to it (tasty and weird.) The sugar rush managed to give us the energy we needed for the rest of our souvenir shopping, then it was back to the motel to nap until we were ready for dinner.

Dinner: Golden Dragon – After sleeping off our food comas it was time to decide where to have dinner. The family seemed to have a hankering for Asian cuisine, so it was off to Google to figure out what Flagstaff had to offer in that genre. Of the dozen or so restaurants that came up from my Google search we went with the one that a) had a very extensive menu, and b) was really easy to get to from our motel. Golden Dragon was an extremely large traditional-looking Chinese restaurant that was almost completely empty when we arrived a little after 8 PM. Indeed, when we walked in only one of the 50 or so tables in the place was occupied. As you can imagine, there was no wait to be seated. Now when I enter a restaurant of this size on a Friday night and find almost nobody there, I think one of two things must be going on: 1) the food is really bad, so they have no repeat customers, or 2) it’s actually a front for an illegal gambling den housed in the basement. Well, after eating the food at Golden Dragon (me: Family Style Tofu, Wife: Lemon Chicken, Son 1: Orange Chicken, Son 2: Shrimp Lo Mein) I can safely tell you that the answer is not #1, as the food (including our appetizers of spring rolls and crab puffs) was all very good to great. So, the next time I find myself if Flagstaff, I’m going to go to Golden Dragon and slip the hostess a twenty to see if she’ll show me to the hidden craps table.

Day 3

Breakfast: Miz Zip’s – On our last day in Flagstaff, we decided to skip the complimentary Days Inn breakfast buffet and try out another interesting looking eatery that we drove past a dozen times in the previous two days. Another mom-and-pop type restaurant prominently situated on Route 66, Miz Zips has a quaint smalltown diner feel. When we arrived at the relatively small café on Saturday morning around 10:30 AM the place was packed, but we were able to get a booth near the kitchen. The interior was chockful of Flagstaff and Route 66 historical memorabilia. On the wall next to me, for example, was a general store grocery receipt from 1909. On the radio was a blend of 50s and 60s rock-and-roll hits. All of this conspired to create a playful, nostalgic atmosphere. Then there was the food, which was delicious and plentiful. I wanted pancakes and noticed that on the menu the options were simply one pancake or two pancakes. I thought, “One pancake? Who eats just one pancake?” So I ordered two pancakes with blueberries. When my meal arrived, I realized why someone might eat just one pancake. Turns out, their pancakes are the size of freakin’ hubcaps! They were delicious, but I will admit I did not finish both pancakes—I got through about 1.75 pancakes before I was defeated. As for the rest of the food, everyone seemed more than satisfied with their various style of eggs and hashbrowns. (I snagged me some hashbrowns off one of my son’s plates and they were quite good.) Miz Zips was a perfect last meal on our culinary tour.

After our late breakfast, we gassed up and headed back down to Chandler, Arizona. The entire family agreed that our quick Flagstaff getaway was a rousing success, even if all we really did while we were there was eat. Oh yes, the boys and I did go on that hike for a couple of hours on Friday morning and the name of the trail could not have been more appropriate for this particular trip—Fatman’s Loop.