An Island on the Quiet Side

Driving toward Rustico and lunch, I am quickly discovering Prince Edward Island is an island on the quiet side.  No earth-shattering, heart-stopping views.  No crashing waves — no vistas from high peaks.  It possesses a quiet beauty. Pastoral.  Peaceful.  You appreciate the small corners, the hidden roads, the worn hills, the crumbling cliffs.  The fog.  The soft rain — the yard art.

The night before we left Searsport while waiting for our first course to be served at the A.V. Nichols Inn, I ventured out on the deck to see the view.  There were two young couples having dinner, and I couldn’t help but tell them they were braver than I was; I needed warmer climes to dine alfresco.  They laughed, agreed it was super chilly, and said they brought jackets. A conversation ensued, and when they discovered we were on our way to PEI the next day, one of the women told me, “I love PEI.  We spent our honeymoon there.”

When she discovered we were staying in Charlottetown, there was disappointment in her voice.  She loved the countryside — truth be told, I prefer country roads to city streets also.  She spoke of a village called Rustico, fond memories coloring her voice.  So today, there is no place else to go but Rustico — for lunch.

In Search of Rustico

Looking at the map plotting our course, I see that along with Rustico there is also North Rustico, North Rustico Harbor, Rusticoville, and Anglo Rustico. These villages, all within a stone’s throw from each other, are surrounded by national parks, sandy beaches, bays, inlets, and the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. 

Lunch in Rustico – Maybe

I search Trip Advisor for restaurant recommendations and settle on The Pearl. Great reviews.  Great menu — and only open for dinner. 

Strike one.

Option two, discovered by Michael, is on Covehead Bay which is nowhere near Rustico, but this is where we head. Driving down back roads, we see signs for summer cabins EVERYWHERE! — and rolling-green golf courses — and more signs for lodging. 

The island is so small it is hard to believe that we have difficulty finding Richard’s, Michael’s restaurant of choice, but we do. 

We discover it set in a string of humble, beachy, beach shack buildings, it is just the type of place that I love; totally funky, on the verge of seedy.  It is a place for flip flops, tank tops, and bikinis, sitting on the edge of the bay with the dunes and the beach just beyond.  It is closed. 

Strike two.

Back on my phone and back on the Trip Advisor app, I suggest Jo-Joe’s Eatery. I plug in the directions; we backtrack. We arrive. There is nothing here.  Continuing on, we turn in a parking lot, stop and check Trip Advisor to make sure I keyed in the correct address, looking for further guidance. 

I remember comments about being “hard to find…this eating place is what we would call a fishing shack between the road and the sea! …we drove in front of it three times before finding out that this was the place.  The sign reads Joey’s as it is the name of the boat rental business…it is the same place.” 

I look up.  There is a gray fishing shack right beside us. It says Joey’s.  Parking the car and walking around to the front of the building we discover — it is closed. 

Strike three.

Lunch Becomes a Quest

We are now on a quest — a quest for a restaurant, any restaurant, with open doors.  We find it around the corner.  The lights are on, but it is not my kind of place.  Too big — geared to MONSTROUS groups.  But — they are open.  As I unlock my side of the car and begin to push on the door, a tourist bus pulls up beside us.

“Hurry,” Michael says. 

But I don’t hurry enough.  We walk in — we walk out — as more and more Anne-of-Green-Gables-Japanese-tourists pile in. The restaurant manager isn’t even sorry to see us depart. 

Another strike.

This is getting serious — a gauntlet has been thrown down in our path.  However, we are determined.  Michael looks across the street and sees real live people walking into a Dairy Queen-like establishment called Amanda’s.  I have a granddaughter named Amanda; perhaps this is an omen.

I say goodbye to my idyllic dream of a lovely lunch in a quaint restaurant or funky beach shack in Rustico. We eat where the locals eat on Dairy Queen type food — except here they have a scallop burger, which Michael orders along with a beer. 

U-Turns

As we leave, I see a sign on a building of gray weathered wood next door.  It catches my fancy. Michael raises his eyebrows at my request to turn around, reluctantly backtracking so I can take a picture. 

“It is a portrait of the sense of place, “I assure him.  He is not assured — or impressed.

His groan gets worse when he has to turn around on the highway — a loosely speaking version of a highway — on the way home. I thought I saw the most enormous squash in the world growing in someone’s front yard.

“Did you see that yellow thing?” I ask.

Michael turns around on the narrow road.  Just for me. Unwillingly. “When I die, just so you can take a picture of a yellow squash…” he mumbles.

In Search of the Perfect Vegetable Stand

After a few more stops — nothing is easy — I’m still in search of perfect vegetables at the perfect vegetable stand.  We find some with promise, but the shelves are mostly empty, and the produce looks old and tired at all of them.  The meat is frozen. Perhaps it is because it is the end of the season — probably — and the season is all too short.

Reluctantly, we head for the Atlantic Super Store a few blocks from our apartment, stopping along the way at the state-owned liquor store for red wine for dinner. A bottle of Gnarly Head Zinfandel costs $19.99 — twice the price as in Texas. I’m not complaining, just amazed.

Arriving home, I consult my phone one more time and make reservations for dinner tomorrow night at Lot 30, reputed to be one of the best restaurants in Canada.  Maybe that is where all of the best produce goes, and I know by my experience at Terre Rouge that it does exist.

9/3/2014 12:14:50 PM