It All Began with Lunch…

Not really. It began with a climb up Burial Hill in Plymouth, however I have always loved the opening line of Peter Mayle’s first book, A Year in Provence, which alludes to the year beginning with lunch. But, back to the present, or at least the very recent past.

On our first day in Plymouth, after climbing Burial Hill and waiting for Michael to join me on the long walk down, I met a woman from Redbrook. We struck up a conversation which turned to the subject of food when I discovered she was originally from Foxboro, Massachusetts. (And that’s another story.) Before we said good-bye, she asked if I had ever been to The Farmer’s Table.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to get there ever since that day. The journey isn’t the problem. It is the timing. Open on limited days at limited times, and me only having limited weeks to choose if and where to dine. I am challenged to say the least.

Lunch in the Country

Finally, it is my week, today is Monday, and the weather is on the tail end of terrible, with another front end of terrible just over the horizon, and forecast to be part of our lives for the next three days. So lunch in the country today sounds perfect. I let Michael know my plans. And — I call the restaurant to be sure they are open today.

A Tiny Detour

At 11 am we set out. On our way we pass by a beach near Plymouth, and see the waves crashing more wildly than they did during the recent Nor’easter. There is no question about what we will do. We turn into the parking lot and watch.

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The Road Less Taken

Beginning our journey anew, we get turned around (a.k.a. lost) almost immediately. But that is never a problem. I turn on Google Maps. We are led down winding country roads lined with wet towering trees. The roads have no white or yellow line and quickly turn to dirt. Then back to asphalt. Then back to dirt. Then…

I tell Michael, “This road is like a bunch of dashes. It can’t make up its mind what it wants to be.”

Which isn’t a problem for me. The journey is part of the joy. When I read the reviews, the biggest complaint about The Farmer’s Table was that “it was so far out of the way.” To me, that’s the biggest draw. I know, I know. Michael thinks I am weird too.

The Farmer’s Table

My enchantment turns to confusion when we emerge from country lanes to the entrance of a shiny new development with the appellation of REDBROOK. I sigh inwardly, thinking this can’t be.  But it is.

And there it is, The Farmer’s Table. As cute and cheery as can be on this gray and gloomy day. Michael parks around back and we make our way to the entrance. Opening the door, we are greeted with warmth, coziness, and a room full of patrons. The place is tiny. But there are two small tables still available.  They are set with what looks like my grandmother’s china. How could anyone not love this?

It is a breakfast and lunch kind of place and the menu is several large pages filled with myriad choices of sandwiches. Michael quickly surveys those for lunch, I can’t stop checking out the descriptions of breakfast items. Three words say, choose me. Ciabatta. Fig. Bacon. Michael orders a grilled chicken sandwich.

What is Old…

While we wait for nourishment to arrive, I start checking out the place settings.  I am doubly charmed. Between the two of us, each with a knife fork and spoon, there are six antique silver-plate patterns on this table. The little gears in my brain start to turn, tempting me to go home and throw out everything I have that is shiny and matching.

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Lunch

When I take my first bite of the Farmhouse Sandwich, I know that I want this bread in my life. Forever.  When recipes call for ciabatta rolls or bread, this has to be what they are referring to. Sturdy yet light. The crust has a delicious sounding crunch when you bite into it. A soft crumb. Fresh. Perfect. All of the delicious fillings tucked inside hardly matter.

Michael’s grilled chicken sandwich is big enough for both of us, made with ultra thick, giant slices of home baked white bread. Soft. Just the way he likes it. By the time we leave, I have forgiven The Farmer’s Table for their newness.

They are trying so hard to be old.

Another Quest

Instead of returning home immediately on this cold gray day, we decide to explore the southern part of the lower Cape. Michael drives us in the direction of Woods Hole saying, “There’s bound to be some lighthouses down here. Somewhere.”

Hope is in his voice.

A Side Note. I find myself referring to the house in Plymouth as “home” more often than not because — home is where Michael is. Always.