Adventure Is a State of Mind
Holy Toledo! We dreamed of a city in Spain. We reminisce about a rust-belt diner.
When my husband and I set our sights on Toledo, we pictured Jewish stars, Moorish arches and soaring churches, all perched on a mountain just a half-hour train ride from our temporary home in Madrid. Paul, a stickler for detail, had made certain the cathedral would be open and aglitter for our visit. We would marvel at the altarpiece, El Greco’s swirling vision of heaven, then mosey on to the earthly joys of tapas.
We took our sweet time with the jaunt to Toledo. Kibitzed with the English-speaking server at our corner cafe in Madrid. Lingered over breakfast tostadas and lattes. Why hurry? Any one of three high-speed trains could whisk us to Toledo.
Multitudes sing the praises of Toledo. I won’t be joining the chorus. The one detail we’d left to chance was booking tickets. Big mistake: none remained. With our time in Madrid running out, we would miss the UNESCO Heritage City.
Our younger selves would have cursed the lost adventure. We’ve smartened up since then. In more than half a century of travel, we’ve found that adventure is a state of mind, not a point on the map. The places we reminisce about, laughing all the while, are mostly not those we dreamed of but those we stumbled into. I don’t doubt we’d have relished the legendary sights of Toledo. But the storied city on the mountain has an unsung namesake in Ohio where travelers like us can wing it and alight on unexpected pleasures.
We were driving north from Florida one long-ago evening in March, road-weary and peevish, when we pulled off I-75 in Toledo. Crusts of dirty snow rimmed underlit streets. The stately homes of more prosperous times loomed gray and pock-marked. We were craving food for the soul—a perfectly grilled piece of swordfish, or a robust stew laced with garlic and wine. Toledo, bedraggled as it looked, could surely deliver the goods. It had a university, after all, and a well respected art museum. Did the culture crowd have to choose between Arby’s and KFC?
That Monday night in Toledo, every restaurant that caught our fancy was closed, about to close or hosting a private party. At 8:35, our options dwindling by the minute, we settled on the Madison Bistro. What kind of bistro can’t rustle up a bracing stew? We might even luck into a navarin of lamb. Lest hungry art historians nab the last table, I phoned ahead. Yes, they’d be expecting us.
“You’re the folks who called, right?” Cathy’s black T-shirt bore the stains of many orders. Forty-ish, I figured. No makeup, hair dyed to match the shirt. Biggest smile we’d seen all day. When she asked how we were doing, we trusted her with the truth. “Well, you two just sit back and make yourselves comfortable.”
It must have been a while since anyone phoned ahead to book a table at the Madison Bistro. Plastic greenery dangled from the ceiling. A televised wrestling match held the grim but unwavering attention of a big-bellied geezer in a straw hat pale as his skin. Every 90 seconds, he would slam down his beer and yell, “Kill the fag!”—until he noticed the presence of a so-called lady. Then he switched to “Kill the sissy!”
I gave the menu a fretful scan before settling on the omelet. “The eggs are always fresh in a greasy spoon,” I told Paul. “They can’t fuck up an omelet.”
As if I had to say it. He’d been reading my thoughts. Observed Paul, based on long experience, “Your views are all over your face.”
If Cathy noticed, she let it pass. Some people always look for the best in you, and our waitress was that kind of person. I didn’t ask her name, but she deserves one here. She was more than her job, and Cathy suits her.
Paul and I have dined out in many countries. We remember restaurants where a whole line of white-shirted waitstaff do all but genuflect on your arrival. Where your purse gets a special brocade stool to shield it from the carpet, and dessert is followed by a flight of gilded petits-fours. But not once in these gastronomic temples has anyone seemed happy to see us. In a lifetime of eating everywhere from lobster shacks to French country inns, we’ve been informed that the waiter is hung over and should be spared the pain of working, that the undrinkable wine cannot possibly be corked, that we must pick up the pace because another party needs the table. As Cathy took our orders, she said, “I’m glad you came.”
If we’d checked Yelp’s verdict on the Madison Bistro, we’d have braced ourselves for the worst. “I get the feeling that I just rolled into town in 1905 and this is the first saloon I stumbled into.” “Not ruining bacon and everybody coming away with a clean bill of health is not enough of a reason to send me back.”
We had no time for reviews, so we looked for the best in our dinner. Paul’s fried local walleye had a toothsome batter I’d have served with pride. My Greek omelet arrived so abundantly stuffed with feta cheese, tomatoes, olives and salami that I figured it contained four eggs, but Cathy said she used only three. Yes, that’s right: She cooked the orders, answered the phone and tended bar for good measure. No, she didn’t own the place. She was simply an employee of the kind many claim to be and few truly are—an honest-to-goodness people person. Holy Toledo!
We may yet make it to the mountaintop city in Spain (although, in our mid-70s, we don’t have much time to lose). As for the Madison Bistro, it closed for good some time ago. I count myself lucky to have dined where my square meal came with a refresher on the art of making people welcome.
This is my virtual bistro, and I have a few words for everyone who stopped here, be it for a cup of joe or a three-course dinner with wine. Of all the joints you could have picked, you walked into mine. I couldn’t be more glad you’re here.
And speaking of gladness, I’m celebrating. Amazement Seeker turns two this month, with more than 6,000 subscribers, as I turn 76. My birthday, October 20, is also my 55th wedding anniversary. Time for a double-birthday/anniversary sale, my first-ever.
An annual subscription, normally $50, can be yours for half-price, just $25.
It’s never been so easy to send a rainbow to my inbox. And it won’t be for long: This offer ends on October 26.
All my essays are free to read and share. There are no bonus features (yet). If you choose to pay, it’s because you love my work and feel moved to cheer me on. I can’t think of any better reason.
Meanwhile, I’d love to know where you’ve stumbled on adventure. I promise to reply (it’s part of the fun). Bring on the unlikely discoveries!
You make magic every time you put your pen to paper, Rona. I'm glad you had such a memorable interaction with Cathy. Hospitality is an art. I don't know if it can be taught; I believe it comes from within, it's a personal value or mindset. I think that quality is something that can be encouraged, inspired, but the seed has to be present. It was cultivated in me (an already kind and giving person) by Danny Meyer when I worked at Union Square Café. Hospitality was/is his primary mission. Serving great food was his second. Also, I have to say, you keep telling us how great Paul's attention to detail is...but then you follow up with the near-disasters that sometimes occur under his watch. Hmmmm? And the happiest birthday to you, and to you and Paul, the happiest anniversary. Sending you my love. HOLY Toledo., Damn, you do this so well. xo
This story reminded me of a visit to British Columbia. Do you remember Corner Gas, a Canadian TV show? We stopped in at a diner in BC, and I could have sworn we were in the diner featured in the show. It was a little surreal.