Very recently, a chance to take a trip to Rhode Island came out of the blue. Enthusiastically, M. and I seized the opportunity to travel.
We rode east on the Amtrak from Penn Station, arriving in Providence, three and a half hours later.
That evening, for dinner, we docked—by car—at the Wharf Tavern, a quaint two-story oceanfront restaurant, jutting out on the Warren harbor. Its white tablecloths and plate-glass windows, offering a sweeping view of moored boats and yachts, reinforced its nautical ambience.
At an establishment known for the best of the reef, it’d be a colossal shame not to order seafood. Moreover, I’m enormously fond of it. So, we went for fish and chips, a quintessential British fare. Unsurprisingly, it’s also a New England favorite.
An order of deep-fried fish fillets, a pile of chips (British for French fries), with two little bowls of coleslaw and tartar sauce each, was big enough a portion for two. As a table condiment, we were served a bottle of malt vinegar. A pale-brown liquid, it had a robust citrusy tang to it that enhanced the flavor of the battered fish.
I relished it all: the shore, the water, the meal.
The next afternoon, on our way back to the train station, we made a pit stop at Aidan’s, a convivial Irish pub, located on the waterfront in historic downtown Bristol. Across the street from it is the marina, dotted with counterpane-like white sails, beyond which stretches the aquamarine Atlantic Ocean.
For a light lunch, we had the “toasted limerick sandwich,” a goodness of melted Irish cheddar, sautéed onions, and Irish bacon, served on toasted rye. Each time I turned my head and read the wall decal, “My Goodness, My Guinness,” I was tempted to taste a pint from their incredible selection of ales, bitters, and stouts.
In the end, it was a pity we had to skip them. But we had a reasonably good excuse for that. We were in a rush.