Sparrow would make of all the yachtie types in their belted shorts and pastel polo shirts, I don’t know.
“Mum, look!”
For a second Ravenna forgets to be sullen and shut-down, so dazzled is she by an entire window filled with outsize cupcakes sparkling blush and lavender.
“Are they real?”
We all peer closer looking for clues amid the glitter, only to realize we are looking into a fancy beauty shop.
“Bath bombs,” I conclude. “You know those things that fizz and go crazy when you add them to water?”
“Ohhhh!” Pamela and Gracie nod understanding.
“Can we go inside?” Ravenna asks.
“After dinner.”
“Won’t it be closed?”
“All the shops here stay open late,” Gracie assures her.
We follow some poshly boisterous spirits to the Clarke Cooke House (which has a reputation for hosting the swankiest of the sailing crowd) and opt for the waterfront dining option, both for its scenic aspect and its name: The Candy Store.
As with the beauty shop, there are no
actual
sugary confections at large, just plenty of candy-colored director’s chairs in gobstopper pink, lemon-sherbet yellow and flying-saucer turquoise, set around white-clothed tables.
We are positioned near the “missing wall” overlooking the harbor and beside the bar—a grand, wood-paneled affair with a low ceiling fan and mirrored backdrop. Silver champagne buckets glisten on the countertop, chilly with condensation. Cashmere sweaters drape over shoulders. Everyone has good hair. Pamela dubs it Sloanes-by-the-Sea, but without the snobbery.
While studying the booze selection for inspiration, I see a couple perched on bar stools displaying intense “someone’s getting lucky tonight” body language and feel a tug of longing for that heady state of first-date flirtation when you’re feeling giddily tipsy and entranced, bodies cleaving toward one another, heavy with anticipation of the spinning surrender to come . . .
“Is there a local cocktail you could recommend?” I rasp. I may need a couple.
“Dark and Stormy,” Gracie points to the menu. “Dark rum and ginger beer.”
“Is that what you’re having?”
“Actually, I’m going to try the Newport Water.”
Which sounds all very pure and abstaining until you read that it is, in fact, a mix of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label champagne, Grand Marnier and St-Germain (a sophisticated elderflower liqueur).
“Ooh, I like the sound of that!” enthuses Pamela.
“Ravenna?”
“I’ll just have a glass of seawater, perhaps with a dash of leaked engine fuel?”
I can’t help but have a little chuckle.
At least she can’t complain about the food.
“This is the best swordfish I’ve ever eaten,” I announce. Aside from the fact that it is cooked to juicy perfection, it comes served with minuscule baubles of couscous and a spoonful of aubergine caponata. “Just delicious.”
“Same goes double for the clam chowder,” Gracie raves. “Taste it.” She offers me a spoon.
“Oh.” I wince. “I don’t know about clams.”
“Have you ever had them?”
“Not on purpose.” I look around me. “I don’t know if I should say this out loud in New England, but I’m not really much of a seafood person.”
“Just taste it.” She is determined.
Slimy, salty, chewy and inducing of the gag reflex.
That is what I was expecting.
Instead my taste buds are met with a light but hearty, creamy but fresh delight.
“What’s that herb?” I ask.
“Dill.”
“And these little white cubes?”
“Potato.”
“Oh, it’s so yummy!”
I can’t even taste the clam.
“I knew you’d like it.” Gracie is smug.
“Do you think they used to serve it at the mansions, you know, back in the day?”
“Well, it’s actually rather interesting about the food.” Gracie dabs her mouth with her napkin. “French cuisine was held in the highest regard, so it was all French chefs presenting their food
à la française
, which was basically an extremely lavish buffet
“Mum, look!”
For a second Ravenna forgets to be sullen and shut-down, so dazzled is she by an entire window filled with outsize cupcakes sparkling blush and lavender.
“Are they real?”
We all peer closer looking for clues amid the glitter, only to realize we are looking into a fancy beauty shop.
“Bath bombs,” I conclude. “You know those things that fizz and go crazy when you add them to water?”
“Ohhhh!” Pamela and Gracie nod understanding.
“Can we go inside?” Ravenna asks.
“After dinner.”
“Won’t it be closed?”
“All the shops here stay open late,” Gracie assures her.
We follow some poshly boisterous spirits to the Clarke Cooke House (which has a reputation for hosting the swankiest of the sailing crowd) and opt for the waterfront dining option, both for its scenic aspect and its name: The Candy Store.
As with the beauty shop, there are no
actual
sugary confections at large, just plenty of candy-colored director’s chairs in gobstopper pink, lemon-sherbet yellow and flying-saucer turquoise, set around white-clothed tables.
We are positioned near the “missing wall” overlooking the harbor and beside the bar—a grand, wood-paneled affair with a low ceiling fan and mirrored backdrop. Silver champagne buckets glisten on the countertop, chilly with condensation. Cashmere sweaters drape over shoulders. Everyone has good hair. Pamela dubs it Sloanes-by-the-Sea, but without the snobbery.
While studying the booze selection for inspiration, I see a couple perched on bar stools displaying intense “someone’s getting lucky tonight” body language and feel a tug of longing for that heady state of first-date flirtation when you’re feeling giddily tipsy and entranced, bodies cleaving toward one another, heavy with anticipation of the spinning surrender to come . . .
“Is there a local cocktail you could recommend?” I rasp. I may need a couple.
“Dark and Stormy,” Gracie points to the menu. “Dark rum and ginger beer.”
“Is that what you’re having?”
“Actually, I’m going to try the Newport Water.”
Which sounds all very pure and abstaining until you read that it is, in fact, a mix of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label champagne, Grand Marnier and St-Germain (a sophisticated elderflower liqueur).
“Ooh, I like the sound of that!” enthuses Pamela.
“Ravenna?”
“I’ll just have a glass of seawater, perhaps with a dash of leaked engine fuel?”
I can’t help but have a little chuckle.
At least she can’t complain about the food.
“This is the best swordfish I’ve ever eaten,” I announce. Aside from the fact that it is cooked to juicy perfection, it comes served with minuscule baubles of couscous and a spoonful of aubergine caponata. “Just delicious.”
“Same goes double for the clam chowder,” Gracie raves. “Taste it.” She offers me a spoon.
“Oh.” I wince. “I don’t know about clams.”
“Have you ever had them?”
“Not on purpose.” I look around me. “I don’t know if I should say this out loud in New England, but I’m not really much of a seafood person.”
“Just taste it.” She is determined.
Slimy, salty, chewy and inducing of the gag reflex.
That is what I was expecting.
Instead my taste buds are met with a light but hearty, creamy but fresh delight.
“What’s that herb?” I ask.
“Dill.”
“And these little white cubes?”
“Potato.”
“Oh, it’s so yummy!”
I can’t even taste the clam.
“I knew you’d like it.” Gracie is smug.
“Do you think they used to serve it at the mansions, you know, back in the day?”
“Well, it’s actually rather interesting about the food.” Gracie dabs her mouth with her napkin. “French cuisine was held in the highest regard, so it was all French chefs presenting their food
à la française
, which was basically an extremely lavish buffet
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