The timing couldn't have been better. Up Saturday to Geneseo and back Sunday, with both midday meals and breaks from behind the wheel aligning perfectly with the appearance through the windshield of one of the Empire State's great roadside attractions: the Roscoe Diner.
Trout Town, U.S.A. The Gateway to the Catskills. Many a time has the beauteous sight of fishermen dotted along the Beaver Kill, casting into the slow-rolling water, presented itself to this Route 17 driver. And many a time have I fantasized about a future stay with my son in one of those riverside log cabins to take part in that sport of my maternal grandfather, not passed down.
Now that I think about it, I did once take a fly-fishing class. The instructor admonished me for "too much wrist." But from my time in little Ferndale, Wash., north of Bellingham and next to the Lummi Indian Nation, I know of the unique pleasure of standing in a river — the Nooksack, to be exact.
Although, it's true, I'm much more skilled at casting forkfuls of gravy-laden meatloaf into my waiting pie hole. That's an awfully good dish at the Roscoe, mashed potatoes on the side, of course.
This last stop, however, I went for the chicken salad club on toast with bacon, which is mentioned here only to point out that it's actually better locally, at Sip'n Soda in Southampton — the breast meat more finely chopped, more celery, less mayo. A chocolate malted on the side and you're nearing the gastronomic empyrean.
But that's a luncheonette.
Of note about the Roscoe, even if it's no longer open 24 hours, is the crossroads clientele that's as varied as it is various. Cornell professors talking shop one table over, past local girls giggling over the latest social media embarrassment, next to the camo-clad huntin-fishin crowd, and just yonder what used to be called mountain men tucking into plates of hamburger steak. (No disrespect intended, speaking as someone whose pre-Revolutionary, Suffern-area Greene roots were once described by my father as "early American hillbilly.")
And as with us three last weekend, a recurring theme is college kids in transit. Sure enough, one of the place's charms is the profusion of rah-rah school banners adorning the walls, from Brown to Corning Community College.
We had to ask for help in finding it, but there was Geneseo, too. "My daughter just graduated from there," I boasted to the hostess.
Well done, kid, but it's a real blow that these trips are over. All that's left for me to do is gently steer my high school junior toward four years at SUNY Oneonta.