The Best Oyster Stew West of Philadelphia
Highway 97 south of Bend is not my favorite area of Oregon driving.
Yes, you can see snow-capped mountains on the right and hidden away is Sunriver, the oldest “new” resort in Central Oregon. Most drivers are focused on getting south to California or northward to Portland or straight on to Washington. But it just isn’t my favorite among the many gorgeous drives to be found in 33rd state, known mainly for a lot of rain, green, and most recently, temperatures surpassing any previously known in the area.
In this part of Oregon, towns are nondescript with the occasional fast food restaurant brightening the otherwise browns and grays against the green landscape. Little on this section represents the rest or the best of Oregon.
Dilapidated trailer homes, built in the seventies, sit next to larger, newer but architecturally dull structures. Stick houses collect junk around many and much of the area exudes decrepitude. A hand carved wooden bear or elk, promising new ownership, entices drivers to stop for a coffee. A dogsled run built outside one of the small towns a few years ago encouraged dreams and hope that it would be the start of an economic boon for the area. The boon did not materialize and now, lesser amounts of snow falls. Dreamers don’t have much faith in dreams that produce nightmare terrors.
For years, at either a hundred miles from my cabin or five hundred miles from my house, depending if I was going south or north, I stopped at a certain roadside restaurant. The first time was by chance. The following ones were always by design.
Parking next to eighteen wheelers, RVs, and SUVs, I entered the low-slung building filled with truckers and travelers moving north and south. Country scenes painted on ceramic dinner plates provided the restaurant’s only décor. Table phones at each booth allowed truckers to keep in touch with bosses and loved ones.
As years went by, when I entered, I looked right, through a wall opening behind the cash register. If the owner aka cook was there, I greeted him. To the busy server and it was always a woman, I announced “Oyster stew and Marion berry cobbler, heated with ice cream, please. Whichever is ready first will be fine.”
I knew what I wanted.
Once I discovered the best oyster stew this side of the now closed Philadelphia Bookbinders restaurant, I could never pass without stopping. My Aunt Rose made oyster stew as a special treat and I remembered what a delight it was. This matched it.
Truckers and tourists pondered the extensive menu, offering heart stopping eggs, bacon, biscuits and probably numerous other breakfast and lunch items. I could not be bothered with the menu. Oyster stew was my reward for the long drive, perhaps life in general.
The stew, presented brimful in a wide, nearly flat bowl, medium sized oysters submerged in an off-white medium thick soup, allowed the melted butter to float above it. Beautiful. A miniscule sprinkling of paprika gave a touch of color. Oyster crackers on the side but why, I wondered. Why do anything to lessen the oyster flavor? Each sip and bite awakened every taste bud I owned. Warm and loving, each comforted me more.
Sometimes the homemade Marion berry cobbler arrived before the soup. Warm, it softened and soaked up the vanilla ice cream scooped on top of it. Dessert before lunch? This worked. One more order of stew for the road, I said.
A few months ago when I returned to the US after several years working abroad, eagerly I looked forward to repeating the same scenario. As I left the freeway, heading northward on the busy two lane highway, I began to salivate. Oyster stew time would be coming up soon. I pushed the speedometer beyond the legal limit. I had to make it there before closing time.
It was not to be.
No cars in the parking lot were my first clue. No lights inside. A large Closed sign hung in the glass door announced the final clue.
Telltale signs of weeds, litter informed that it had been closed for months.
In the following weeks, I drove north or south, staring at the building as I passed. Perhaps my stare would will it back to life.
Yesterday as I drove south, I planned to stop at a nearby fuel station to learn if anyone knew what had happened. Had the restaurant moved elsewhere and left no sign? Where was the son who had been taking over some of the cooking from his father? He prepared the oyster stew the last couple of times I had been there. It was good but not the same as when the father made it.
Often, I had wondered where the father had learned to make oyster stew, given there are no fresh oysters within hours driving of this café. Unlikely they arrived by plane or Amtrak which passed through the town twice each day. My fantasy was that he originated on the east coast, then entered the federal witness protection program whereby his overseers had placed him in an obscure Oregon town. Knowing no other way to make a living, he opened a restaurant and began cooking what he knew.
I passed the forlorn restaurant, pulling into the nearby service station, looking over my right shoulder. There, behind the dreary building, slouched an even drearier old car sitting under the awning of a yet more depressing recreational vehicle. The entire setting bespoke depression with all capitals.
Perhaps someone inside the RV knew where the owner had gone. Maybe my longing could be met as easily as discovering he now cooked in another and nearby restaurant.
I knocked once on the door. No response.
I knocked a second time and stood back. After the third knock, the door opened. Tentatively.
An older version of the son I had seen through the kitchen window years ago peeked around the worn door. He looked heavier and more lackluster than when I saw him last through the kitchen’s window. He said that his father had passed away last year.
I expressed my condolences, asking forgiveness for bothering him. He stood in the doorway, weaving slightly from left to right, uncomfortable with my presence.
I asked if he knew how to make the oyster stew, even though I knew he had. I told him it was the best I had ever tasted. Staring straight ahead, he appeared not to remember me, no surprise given he had seen me only through the hole in the kitchen wall. Innumerable customers had passed through the roadside eatery since those days.
Saying nothing, he nodded that he did.
“Your father left you a good legacy by teaching you to make such good oyster stew,” I said. Again, he nodded, saying that he would not be reopening the restaurant. There were a lot of unpaid bills and “they” were coming to take the place, he said. He thought I was part of the “they”. He said he would like to stay in the area but I sensed he had little to no direction and would wither away his time and life there.
As I drove southward, passing beautiful rivers flowing with trout and undiscovered tourist hideaways, I thought about the possibilities. One scenario was that I returned, again located the son, offered him compensation for making jars of the best ever oyster stew. I could give them to friends for the holiday season.
A second scenario was that I interview him, ascertain that he had some potential and I set him up in a food cart in central Oregon, where food carts are hot business — -offering little more to eager customers than oyster stew and warm Marion berry cobbler.
The third scenario involved a combination of the first two but in this one, we contracted with a canner whereby we canned, marketed and sold the oyster stew under the larger brand of Only What I Like.
The fourth and more likely scenario is that I drive onward with the rest of my life, merely remembering the best oyster stew west of Philadelphia.
