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Whenever you visit Ohio, you're going to want to eat. Our route didn't take us near the Mennonite and Amish groaning boards of rural east central Ohio, but we did encounter Cincinnati and, less successfully, north central Ohio.
North central first. This is a flat, featureless region. We were there because Rutherford B. Hayes retired and built his family mansion here in the town of Fremont, which he picked perhaps because he wanted a quiet life; certainly one undisturbed by any rumor of interesting restaurants. Nearby is the town of Clyde, said to be the inspiration for Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, an association the town is actually proud of, which suggests they haven't read the book.
For dinner we decided to flee to Sandusky. It's a lakeshore resort town; surely there would be somewhere worth eating? No. Admittedly it was still before the summer season began, but the vacant storefronts there are not going to be restored to activity within the next few weeks. It'd be too dull even to tell you where we eventually dined, but we did find one sign of life in the hollow streets of Sandusky. On the outskirts of town was a bustling parking lot full of cars, people milling and sitting around at patio tables in the balmy early-June evening, and what were they doing? Eating ice cream. This was the storefront in front of a large dairy plant called ... I can't read this script ... Jokt's? No, it turned out to be Toft's. Inside, at a long counter with well over 31 flavors, the cheerful staff will scoop up for you the Extra-Large Colossal Ultimo Gigantica size, which they have the temerity to call "small" and charge only $2.70 for.
It was good ice cream, very thick and creamy in the American heartland style, but even better was the lighter-textured ice cream at Graeter's in Cincinnati. I had this. Heavenly, especially when gathered from their old-fashioned bathroom-tile-lined mother parlor and eaten outside amid the benches and fountains of pleasant Hyde Park Square.
Cincinnati also gave me the opportunity to revisit old acquaintance restaurants from earlier trips to the city. Skyline chili, for instance, eaten in the traditional Cincinnati manner by being draped in small quantity over a heap of spaghetti and topped with mild cheddar and chopped onions, functions as a slightly cinnamon-scented spaghetti sauce. But I suppose it wouldn't do to describe it that way.
Then there's the barbecue at the Montgomery Inn. I count my discovery of this place some fifteen years ago as one of the great serendipitous experiences of my life. A friend, learning that I was headed for Cincinnati, advised me that, since I like barbecue, I should eat at a place called "Rib King". This was in the days before Google* and the easy availability of detailed restaurant guides, so I figured I'd just look it up in the phone book when I got there. The phone book listed no "Rib King". Disappointed, but still craving barbecue, I scanned the relevant listings and picked a place called the Montgomery Inn as seeming the most promising. And when I got there, I found that their logo depicted a cigar-smoking crowned head, and, underneath, the legend, "The Ribs King". Bingo. I had wound up at the right place by accident.
So of course I went back this time. Still good. But Cincinnati is a cosmopolitan city and even us jaded Californians should not look down our noses at their offerings of, say, Asian cuisines. On our way to Graeter's, another evening, we ate at a conveniently nearby Thai restaurant called Lemon Grass. Now, Thai restaurants in the Bay Area usually have a couple of crispy catfish dishes on the menu. Cincinnati's Lemon Grass had not just crispy catfish, but also crispy walleye. And that is how I knew I was in the Midwest, where walleye - a fish unheard of out here - is ubiquitous. Even in the Thai restaurants. It was memorable, and worth having again.
*See, I don't always hate Google.
North central first. This is a flat, featureless region. We were there because Rutherford B. Hayes retired and built his family mansion here in the town of Fremont, which he picked perhaps because he wanted a quiet life; certainly one undisturbed by any rumor of interesting restaurants. Nearby is the town of Clyde, said to be the inspiration for Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, an association the town is actually proud of, which suggests they haven't read the book.
For dinner we decided to flee to Sandusky. It's a lakeshore resort town; surely there would be somewhere worth eating? No. Admittedly it was still before the summer season began, but the vacant storefronts there are not going to be restored to activity within the next few weeks. It'd be too dull even to tell you where we eventually dined, but we did find one sign of life in the hollow streets of Sandusky. On the outskirts of town was a bustling parking lot full of cars, people milling and sitting around at patio tables in the balmy early-June evening, and what were they doing? Eating ice cream. This was the storefront in front of a large dairy plant called ... I can't read this script ... Jokt's? No, it turned out to be Toft's. Inside, at a long counter with well over 31 flavors, the cheerful staff will scoop up for you the Extra-Large Colossal Ultimo Gigantica size, which they have the temerity to call "small" and charge only $2.70 for.
It was good ice cream, very thick and creamy in the American heartland style, but even better was the lighter-textured ice cream at Graeter's in Cincinnati. I had this. Heavenly, especially when gathered from their old-fashioned bathroom-tile-lined mother parlor and eaten outside amid the benches and fountains of pleasant Hyde Park Square.
Cincinnati also gave me the opportunity to revisit old acquaintance restaurants from earlier trips to the city. Skyline chili, for instance, eaten in the traditional Cincinnati manner by being draped in small quantity over a heap of spaghetti and topped with mild cheddar and chopped onions, functions as a slightly cinnamon-scented spaghetti sauce. But I suppose it wouldn't do to describe it that way.
Then there's the barbecue at the Montgomery Inn. I count my discovery of this place some fifteen years ago as one of the great serendipitous experiences of my life. A friend, learning that I was headed for Cincinnati, advised me that, since I like barbecue, I should eat at a place called "Rib King". This was in the days before Google* and the easy availability of detailed restaurant guides, so I figured I'd just look it up in the phone book when I got there. The phone book listed no "Rib King". Disappointed, but still craving barbecue, I scanned the relevant listings and picked a place called the Montgomery Inn as seeming the most promising. And when I got there, I found that their logo depicted a cigar-smoking crowned head, and, underneath, the legend, "The Ribs King". Bingo. I had wound up at the right place by accident.
So of course I went back this time. Still good. But Cincinnati is a cosmopolitan city and even us jaded Californians should not look down our noses at their offerings of, say, Asian cuisines. On our way to Graeter's, another evening, we ate at a conveniently nearby Thai restaurant called Lemon Grass. Now, Thai restaurants in the Bay Area usually have a couple of crispy catfish dishes on the menu. Cincinnati's Lemon Grass had not just crispy catfish, but also crispy walleye. And that is how I knew I was in the Midwest, where walleye - a fish unheard of out here - is ubiquitous. Even in the Thai restaurants. It was memorable, and worth having again.
*See, I don't always hate Google.
