Matt’s first day of school at Berkeley City College is tomorrow, so we thought we’d head over to Oakland and have a nice lunch as a sort of pre-celebration.  He’s nervous, and there’s nothing like a good meal to help make it better.  We parked in Old Oakland and perused the pickings.  Having never eaten at B, 499 9th Street, we figured we’d give it a go.  It’s in a wonderful space — an old retail store with huge windows and a tile mosaic floor.  Bistro-ish things typical of what is served in this kind of place in the Bay Area make up the lunch menu:  herbed fries, organic greens, the ubiquitous all-natural burger.  They use Acme bread, which is always a plus.  We both ordered the smoked New York steak sandwich, which, according to the menu, was served “open face.”  What arrived, however, was akin to the old joke about looking for the lamb chops under the mint jelly:  these were not sandwiches and there was precious little steak involved.  What we were served would properly be called smoked New York steak crostini.  There were two slim slices of toasted bread topped with a couple of slices of steak, blue cheese and a fruit puree of some kind.  The crostini were served with a mound of fries and a bit of microgreenery.  When our plates arrived, Matthew proclaimed them “lame-ass.”  I believe he was talking price ($11 on the menu, but we were charged $9) and overall value at this point and not taste.  We agreed that the crostini were very good, and the fries were excellent, but felt misled by the menu and were already eyeing Ratto’s deli across the street, which we made a B-line for when we left.

Yet another blood test today for my dad at the Wilson Hospital oncology unit.  Given the flood damage at Our Lady of Lourdes, Wilson Hospital is accommodating — for some value of the word — OL of L oncology patients.  We walked in shortly after 8 a.m. and the place was already jammed.  Incredible.  When we slid up to the counter, the woman manning the reception area grunted, “have a seat,” without looking up as she simultaneously highlighted my father’s name on her master appointment list.  This pissed me off to such an extent that I turned to my dad and commented, “I guess she knows you.  I guess they don’t bother with a greeting here.”  It has become clear to me over time that several Our Lady of Lourdes Oncology Unit staffers need to be hit with a clue by four when it comes to etiquette.  Do these people not grasp that there is much more to the delivery of medical care than technical services, and that so much depends upon HOW they do things and not only WHAT they do?  The level of condescension is intolerable.  I am certain these people would be canned post haste at the UCSF Cancer Center.  After this annoyance we went to IHOP on Vestal Parkway and had a snack.  Does a restaurant that uses more syrup exist?  There were four huge syrup dispensers representing various fruits installed in a permanent holder at each table.  One would think that this would cover any and all syrup needs.  Not so.  After we served ourselves coffee from the urn placed at our table, we took what we thought was cream from the smaller urn next to it.  This, however, turned out to be the plain syrup.  Enter, new coffee cups.  It goes without saying, of course, that none of this vast amount of syrup is real maple — it’s pretty much all sugar and caramel color.  I must say that I did enjoy the chicken breast sandwich, but I swear that Matthew’s onion rings tasted like they were made with pancake batter.  Maybe it was the power of suggestion from all that damned syrup.  After dropping my dad at home, Matt and I swung by Motel 6, grabbed Steve and headed down route NY 26 cum PA 267 to Stevensville, Pennsylvania, to have a meal with Martha Yanavitch.  Martha had promised sweet corn, and there was much rejoicing when we saw multiple ears in the garage upon entering her home.  Martha, ever chipper, made fettuccine alfredo and minute venison steaks.  Martha is a hunter, and there is always dear meat in her freezer.  In fact, there is a good chance that any meat item she serves you either has venison in it or is 100% venison.  You just never know.  She won’t always tell dumb city slickers since she thinks they won’t eat it.  Ha!  Little does she know!  We’ll eat anything.  After dinner and photos and catching up, another 55 mile drive north in the world’s lamest car.  A car that continues to tell me, “change oil soon.”

We drove out to Masonville, New York, today to visit a friend, Tony, from the days we might have had a chance of being considered interesting or hip.  In the 1980’s Tony and Steve were players in the East Village — as opposed to being players in Upstate New York and Albany, California, respectively.  Tony moved “out to the country” some years ago and then, when his partner passed away, moved even further out.  The directions Steve had were sketchy.  Something like, “pass the blinking red light and make a left on the next block.  Then it’ll be easy to find Tony’s trailer.”  City slickers.  Even I know there is no such thing as a block out in the woods.  There are two-way winding roads, no sidewalks and very little signage.  I ask, “Did he give you an idea of how far we go once we pass the light?  Is it 200 feet or three miles?”  No idea.  After driving around for awhile, finally being accosted by a junkyard dog as we attempted to turn around by some rotting equipment in a clearing, we asked for directions at a gas station and located the correct dirt road.  It was not so easy to find Tony’s trailer, however, because Tony was not the only individual on that road who thought a trailer might make a nice home.  Another irritant was Steve and Matt continuously directing me to really steep and rocky driveways each time they spotted a fifth wheel.  Of course, when Tony said “trailer” to me, I pictured something not quite as nice as a modular home, but something in that line.  Steve and Matt, having never lived in the country, must have been picturing something else.  Once we established what kind of a trailer people live in as opposed to hitch to a car and pull to a campground for the weekend, I no longer had to tempt fate with the rental car.  At long last we knocked on the right fiberglass door.  Tony thought we should make tracks to Sidney, six miles away, and eat.  Sidney, as he explained it, is a real town with a restaurant.  Several, it turns out.  There is a lovely little main street with a number of business establishments and, although Sidney is part of an economically challenged area and was hard hit by the recent flood, it retains all the charm that is so typical of small towns in this part of the country.  Clearly everyone knows everyone in Sidney and no one knew us.  Glen “Whit” Whitaker, president of the local Chevy dealership, saw us walking by his showroom and tracked us down up the street to introduce himself and find out who we were and why we were taking pictures.  We chatted for quite some time and found out that his family started the dealership in 1912 selling buggies.  Nice man.  Lunch was comfort food — good and inexpensive — served up at Trackside Dining.  I had a what was called a cold plate, with ham and turkey slices and chicken and tuna salads over iceberg lettuce.  The sliced meats were real, not processed, and the salads were chunky.  The only downside was the Miracle Whip used in the salads.  I enjoyed the salad plate, and it reminded me of the combo plates I used to have with Mutti and Tante Margaret in the Gertz department store restaurant in Flushing, Queens, when I was just a little chowhound in the 1960’s.  They would give you a scoop each of shrimp, tuna and chicken salads in tomato cups and rim the plate with toast points.  The restaurant was really a glorified lunch counter, and would become almost overcrowded with white-gloved women shoppers by early afternoon.  Chicken salad always makes me remember that.