How We Yearn For The Window Booth

In each place I’ve lived, there have been public spaces that feel like my home. They are usually places where you can drink and eat. They are almost always neither shiny nor new. Frequently, these places feel like relics of a time before -- a version of the place they are in that no longer exists. In New York it was a cafe on Great Jones Street, named after it, and its disappearance has made that city feel alien to me in a way I can hardly explain. In Albuquerque it was named after what it was, an anodyne, and although it still exists, the people who so frequently made it feel like home are now far-flung around this world, or have, most unfortunately, stepped off of it. 

In Provincetown, this place for me is The Old Colony Tap. This storied refueling station for bad decisions has been closed since January 2nd, 2020 -- its usual reopening date in April having been skipped since America went on pause due to the coronavirus pandemic. January 1st is always the OC’s last day of the season -- then they, like nearly every other bar, restaurant, retail shop, and the occasional social service in Provincetown, take a break until April 1st. The months in between are dark, both literally and figuratively, and for me and the people I love, the countdown to opening day is one of sincere importance. 

I have never been what you would call “in tune with the seasons,” unless in saying that, you meant, “able to differentiate between spring and fall allergies.” But there is something about living on the very end of Cape Cod, on a spit of sand thrust so mightily into the sea that it wrapped around itself to form the town I now call home, that can make even the most useless naturalist fall in line. I’m more acutely aware of the tides, the moon cycle, how they intertwine, and what havoc they can potentially wreak on our moods and constitutions. I know which flowers to expect in each month, and the locations in town where you can most effectively steal a stem without getting caught or bothering the folks they technically belong to. I know which fisheries are in season when, and I have even managed to find my own spots for beach plums, dune cranberries, and sea beans. On top of this, I have finally, without question, managed to identify which of these plants is poison ivy and which isn’t. Call it a small victory if you want, I remain unbothered. 

In the late winter, the crocuses start to pop up through the slush -- you can spot a few after you’ve been out clamming. Next come the daffodils, once it gets a tiny bit warmer, and the sun hangs out with us for a few more minutes each day. And then finally, always three weeks after you hope they’ll arrive, the lilacs. Lilacs and mackerel always come together. This spring, they arrived with significantly less joy. Somehow, these infallible harbingers seemed more like a reminder that time marches on, but very little changes, in a time when change was so desperately what we needed.

You’re supposed to sniff lilacs, and grill mackerel, and bring both those treats to your friends in the window of The Old Colony Tap, while you drink a pint of Harpoon and pass around a “table whiskey.” You’re supposed to go next door to The Lobster Pot, where the intrepid and resourceful ones know you can order to-go oysters and littlenecks from the raw bar. You’re supposed to sit there, in the window booth that tilts you just slightly forward in your seat at all times with your friends, and your raw shellfish, and your wrinkled stack of dollar bills for the jukebox, and your beers, sweating down onto the table with ancient graffiti carved into it, and you’re supposed to listen to one of the usual suspects at the corner of the bar tell the story of how Joe Bones once wind-surfed from Provincetown to Plymouth without spilling his beer, while you make eye contact with Big Ben, the bartender, from across the room and laugh, winking at each other. 

We were supposed to do that in April. 

In May, we were supposed to finish an entire day of scrubbing the dust that always somehow accrues in the corners of a closed sandwich shop over the winter, and then crash down into the wooden booth in the afternoon light, drinking gin and tonics with a black stir-straw while we watched the first tourists of the season stream in off the ferry, and wonder how the hell we were going to do a whole ‘nother season of this. We were supposed to play gin rummy and listen to Link Wray and The Barbarians (the jukebox, my friends, the jukebox), and talk to Chris, the bartender, about her sea-clam empanada recipe. We were supposed to eat foot-long hot dogs from John’s, and take a few ill-advised tequila shots, until someone decided that we’d been out long enough to sing karaoke across the street at The Governor Bradford. 

No one remembers what happens in July or August. 

In September, we are supposed to catch the last few Sunday nights of The Broke Brothers, the house band. Since the tables are bolted to the floors, like it’s a roiling ship, the band sets up in between them, a little stall for every grey-haired, barefoot musician -- most of them local artists, all of them known-casanovas, with a side table for their drinks. We meant to catch Sunday night all summer long, but every time we passed by, there were too many people packed into the bar, dancing, and shouting the words to the songs they play every single week, I think in the same order. The lyrics to The Broke Brothers songs are problematic at best, and we cringe while our eyes twinkle with laughter, at the fact that maybe, just maybe one of these songs is about one of our mothers. 

In October, we are supposed to have the bar to ourselves again. We won’t have to fight for the window booths anymore: Two is plenty to go around. We are supposed to take portraits of our friends in the perfect light, the dark wood panels of old ship’s masts and parts forming a wall behind them. It’s hard to say where the wall ends and where the art begins, there are paintings of locals, old advertisements, newspaper clippings, buoys, retired t-shirts, memorial pamphlets, handmade Christmas ornaments. Or maybe we’re sitting in the other booth, where the neon beer sign casts an ethereal glow on the whole table, making everyone look hotter than you remember them being, even the ones you’re dating or married to. In that booth, we’re supposed to get to overhear the conversations in the alley. Sometimes they’re drug deals, usually they’re complaining about someone we know. Someone notorious who is a “real character.” 

We’re supposed to wander in after dinner, hoping for a nightcap on the way home. That’s usually when you can catch Lenny, the owner Big Lenny’s son behind the bar, perched on a stool, one Croc kicked up next to the cooler, and get to hear him tell you the story of how his daughter snuck into your sandwich shop and bought her first cup of coffee without his permission. Or about the time when one of you tried to sneak into the bar underage. Or about the time he was driving while using a pocket knife to slice a piece of cheddar off a block, and hit a bump so hard he sliced his finger open, and had to get stitches. We’re supposed to be surprised and delighted by the Halloween decorations, because we always forget how spooky and romantic they make this place that is somehow already the spookiest and most romantic place we’ve ever been.

In November, the front windows start to get too chilly, since the insulation practices in Provincetown are somewhere between “I think we did,” and “I guess we could use another piece of plywood?” So we’re supposed to post up at the end of the bar closest to that formidable jukebox where the wall heater blows right down onto your head. Then we’ll hang out with Kiki, the daytime barista, nighttime bartender and ask when she’ll head back down to New Orleans for the winter -- hoping she’ll stick around for long enough to actually get to dance on a dance-floor together. We’re supposed to smoke a joint in the alley without our coats on, even though we’re shivering, and look at Ben’s garden behind the bar, wondering what he’ll plant back there next summer, even though we’ve never, not even once, gotten to see Ben’s garden in the summer because we’re always too busy. 

By December, we’ll be all too aware of how little time we have left in this place. And we’ll start the reverse countdown. Thirty-two days left of the OC this year. We’re supposed to try to get a drink at 7:30, in the pitch darkness, and realize that whoever was working the bar got lonely and sleepy and closed for the night at 6:45. Twenty-nine days left of the OC. We’re supposed to react nimbly and magnanimously when the draft beer we order is sold out for the season, and switch to something else that will taste just as good with our “table whiskey.” A table whiskey, for the uninitiated, is like a Bloomin’ Onion, but made of Bourbon, Scotch or Irish, in a glass. You all want it, so you ask the table if they’d like to share. Eventually, at some point in the evening, or in the season, this becomes a personal Bloomin’ Onion for every guest kind of situation. 

In December, we’re not supposed to have to worry about the line for the bathroom being too long while we’re in there. We’re supposed to remember we have a Sharpie in our bag and add to the collection of bathroom graffiti so generous and widespread it almost feels compulsory. I have only done one bathroom graffiti ever in my life, in the ladies’ room of the OC. It’s the most searing, singular advice my father ever gave me. 

Ten days left of the OC. We’re supposed to decorate scallop shells with hot glue and pipe cleaners and glitter for Christmas. We’re supposed to eye the potluck buffet suspiciously, acutely aware of which dishes have been in the Danger Zone for too long, and calculate the cost/benefit to eating them anyway. Because we’re supposed to be hungry from wrapping presents, from Christmas shopping and from menu-planning. We’re supposed to grab the front door when a blast of snowy wind throws it open behind someone who doesn’t know how to close it correctly. 

One day left of the OC. 

We’re supposed to be looking forward to the dark times, because at the end of them, we get to have the light again.

Listen to This Shit: I Made You a Playlist:“Stack of Bills for the OC Jukebox” on Apple Music“Stack of Bills for the OC Jukebox” on Spotify

These are what you eat in the window of the OC for one of your best friend’s birthdays. You bring your own. This is just how it’s done.

Stuffed Clamsfrom the “Pop+Dutch Snackbook, Vol. 1”

1 onion, halved and peeled4 cloves garlic, smashed4 stalks celery, chopped4 bay leaves2 Tbsp. olive oil1¼ cup dry vermouth/white wine (divided)a few sprigs of thyme30-40 quahogs or cherrystones½ lb. linguica, chopped fine (or buy the ground stuff)8 oz. mushrooms, chopped2 leeks, sliced½ bulb fennel, diced2 sprigs sage, minced2 sprigs rosemary, minced1 cup breadcrumbsblack pepper, to taste

1. Scrub your clams in the coldest water you can stand, tossing out any that don’t slam shut when you mess with them.

2. Sauté onion, garlic, celery in the olive oil in a deep, heavy pan with a lid, until fragrant and starting to brown. Add the bay leaves, thyme, and ½ c. of the vermouth/wine. Bring to a boil, then steam clams, covered, in two or three batches. Check on them occasionally, and pull them out as they open. Discard any that don’t open after 7-10 minutes. Let your clams cool while you start your stuffing. Strain the clam liquid and reserve (great for chowder!).

3. Brown the linguica. Add the leeks and cook until they soften and shrink down. Add the mushrooms and fennel and sauté until they start to brown. Deglaze the pan with the rest of the vermouth/wine and turn off the heat. Chop your clams, then add them to the pan with the breadcrumbs and mix well. Taste for seasoning (you’ll probably want pepper but not any salt, the clams really bring their own).

4. Choose the biggest, prettiest clam shell halves and give them a hot rinse to remove any sand or sinew. Fill as many as your stuffing allows, dot with butter, and bake at 375°F for 20 minutes, or until brown on top. (You can also wrap in foil and freeze individually.)

You’re reading “Soup and Despair,” a weekly newsletter by Sarah Flynn and Rebecca Orchant. It’s about food, feelings, and surviving the dark times. If someone forwarded you this email, it’s because they love you and they want you to eat. You can subscribe to it too!