The Riviera

On the corner, a stone's throw from our cottage, lies the Riviera Resort with it's hodge-podge of buildings and an array of boats, jet skis and other lake toys that for the most part seem to have been in hibernation this week. Life at the Riviera seems eerily quiet. It is there, at their restaurant, Matthew's, that we ate dinner the other night.

The resort, despite it's name, has a Bavarian Alpine look to it. Once a hunting and fishing club, there are large depictions of forest animals painted on the sides of the buildings. Rabbits, deer, wolves and the like. On the porch outside the restaurant entombed in glass stands an old Bavarian wooden wine cask with elaborate carvings of faces and other symbols. Tacked to the side is an explanation of all the symbols typed in letters so small even with my reading glasses I could barely read it.

A slender man with a goofy smile nervously greeted us as we stepped inside the restaurant.

"Well, hello there! Table for six? Let's see now do you have a reservation? No, no I don't see a party of six reserved, but you know what? That's okay! We are so glad you are here! We don't have our liquor license yet, so I can't offer you any drinks, but look over there - I've got a beautiful big, keg ready to go, only I can't serve the beer just yet."

We all just blinked at him. He jabbered on about how ever since he's closed on Mondays, now the food truck doesn't come until Thursday and often times he doesn't get his deliveries on time. Ever since, "it's been a little confusing around here."  That explains it, I thought, why we are all struggling to figure out a point to his babbling like a pot of oatmeal boiling over. He seemed to think we knew he used to be open on Mondays and I guess he thought we were hoping for a beer or two.

We were seated in the dining area closest to the entrance. A handful of other diners, all of them seniors, were finishing their dinners. I sat in an odd, little wooden chair dwarfed by the other five chairs. The man self-consciously explains the mismatch and in the same breath asks us what we'd like to drink.

"No, the ice tea comes from a box" he explained to Pat. "But folks say it's very good!"

"What kind is it?" 

"Lipton."

"Hmm, well is it sweet?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any juice?"

"Yes, we do, but only grape," he said apologetically.

"Grape?? That's perfect."

He, too eagerly, took the rest of our drink orders and left. The restaurant had an odd sixties ambiance. Michael Row Your Boat Ashore flowed across the room from a radio behind the bar. Part of me was eight years old again. Perhaps I should have ordered a Shirley Temple with an extra cherry like I did in 1968 when my parents took me out to dinner for my birthday.

The waitress, a plump and boisterous woman named Renee, came over and asked if our drinks had been ordered. A short while later she appeared with a tray full of beverages. Water, ice tea (unsweetened), a diet Pepsi for Erin because they did not have diet Coke and Megan's Arnold Palmer.

"Wait a minute, we're short one. What did you order, sir?"

"Grape juice."

"Grape juice? We don't have grape juice. You sure?"

"I was told you have grape juice."

"Well, I've worked at Matthew's for fourteen years and we've never had grape juice. But that doesn't mean I'm right; I could be wrong." She scrambled off to check.

"We only have sparkling grape juice - like champagne. Sorry. I guess Matthew was mistaken."

"Well, do you have juice?"

"Yes, orange."

"No, thanks. I'll have water."

"Okay, sorry about that. I'll be right back with your water." A few minutes later a younger waitress with a wide smile walks over to our table and sets a big glass of grape juice on the table in front of Pat.

"Look what we found just for you! Sorry about the mix up. Seems we had it back there after all!"  she chirped to Pat like he was ten years old.

My brother, Fr. Jim, ordered stuffed mushroom caps as an appetizer to share with everyone. Cheerily, Renee informs us that she'll get the order in right away as they take a little time to bake and then come back to take our dinner orders. About ten minutes later she returns saying, "Your mushrooms are going to be real fresh 'cause Matthew's back there making them up as we speak." I briefly pictured Matthew in the kitchen freaking out because there were no mushroom caps made up ahead of time. I wondered if he did all the cooking himself or perhaps he had a chef who didn't show up because they used to be closed on Wednesdays and he forgot.

A couple arrives and Renee welcomes them warmly to Matthew's. She asks if they have a reservation. From my vantage point in my teeny-tiny chair, I could see that the pages in the reservation book were blank! The odd thing is, the place could easily seat about seventy-five people and there were only about a dozen eating there at the time.

"No reservation? Well, that's fine, come on in. Where would you like to sit?"

The woman, unsmiling and angular looks at her husband, who appears to care less, and says, "Right there is fine." She points a bony finger at the table next to ours. Later, the woman asked about the mushroom caps and Renee tells her they don't have any. "The hills are alive with the sound of music ..." drifts from the radio behind the bar.

Only one other couple came in while we were there and they were not asked if they had a reservation. It was about 7:00 and the restaurant closes at 8:00.

As we were finishing our meal, Renee returned to ask if anyone wanted dessert.

"What do you have?"

"Well, all we have is chocolate cake."

Pat asks," What kind of chocolate cake?"

"Not homemade. The people who make our desserts never showed up, so Matthew went out and bought a chocolate cake from a bakery or somewhere." 

"Most likely Wal-Mart." I don't say it out loud.

"It's too bad too, 'cause our homemade desserts are just so good!"

We pass on the chocolate cake and Fr. Jim pays for our meal. As we head for the door, Megan says barely audible,  "That's the weirdest restaurant I've ever been to."

(c) 2010 Darby C. Fitzpatrick