FSH Bucket List of Best Bars, #9 The Good King Tavern

Finally, a return to our quest.  After weeks of vacations, obligations, and commitments, it was time to resume our noble cause.  It was a perfect, clear day for brunch, so we sought out a place on the list that fit the bill.  #9 was The Good King Tavern in Bella Vista, and we only strayed out of order a little bit.  We’ll go back to # 8, A. Bar, next time. 

What a beautiful, quaint setting to watch the snow fall.  I took a sneak peek at the menu and planned to order eggs Benedict with a bloody Mary (my idea of heaven), but the specials board enticed me with braised short ribs and fried eggs over pomme frites.  That description also lured the lumberjack appetites of Todd and Rich.

Vibe:  Cozy, warm, charming.  Quintessential neighborhood pub. 

Server:  Adorable, friendly.

Drinks:  I forgot to take note of the ipa beers and the other drinks because I was so enthralled with my bloody Mary.

Food: A+ from us lumberjacks.  A thumbs up on Jeanne’s lobster omelet, Kevin’s strawberry French toast and Lisa’s scrambled egg and mushroom toast.

The best part of the day, though, was going back to our hometown and hanging out as the snow fell around us.  Our kids actually had to track us down.  Booyah.

42 to go!

My Dad Loved a Good Story

About 3 years ago, I shared one of my dad’s WWII stories on my blog.  One particular place he cherished was a little town in Sicily called Caltanissetta.  There in the burned out remains of the town were two Italian children, Maria and Geno, who would come out every evening and sing to the soldiers in exchange for a little piece of candy.  My dad recalled their voices echoing off the walls and he marveled at how they could sing so beautifully when their world was literally crumbing around them.

Soon after I released that story and his many others, he passed away. He had made plans to give his body to medical science so that researchers could learn something from him, even in death.  Fast forward 3 years, and his ashes are returned to the family. We decided to scatter his remains in his childhood home of Tuckahoe and planned a big family brunch at the Tuckahoe Inn before going to the river to say our final goodbyes.

My dad, never one to let anyone else have the last word, made himself known in a few ways.  First, on my way down to the brunch, I got an email.  From the town historian of Caltanissetta.  He found my blog from 2011 and said he translated it into Italian, hoping someone would know Geno and Maria. He called my dad a “noble soul” and hoped he was still alive.  Then, my in-laws were walking on the boardwalk the day of the brunch and were approached by an old man who just wanted to chat. He used to own the Tuckahoe Inn. Before parting, he said, “oh, and my name is Harp, like the angel.”

My dad was always a storyteller. Still is, apparently.