I've become fond of the Java Hut down in Belmar.  The atmosphere is nice, and nobody is loudly wasted.  They might stagger over from somewhere else wasted, but they don't get wasted there.  The crowd is young, generally, and somewhat unusual.  The chess geeks hang in the back.  The slaves to hip wander back and forth.  Mixed in there are the people I best like, the ones you can tell do their own thinking.  There are older ones who come in, quirky ones, too, like Moses the farmer who really isn't into agriculture.  He might do livestock one day, but really right now he is occupied BBSing (I never learned to do that, ya know, tsk) and miter cutting trim.  Every time I see him I ask if he has a cold, and he replies, "Sawdust!"
    Friday, I knew I wanted to wind up there, but needed a bite to eat first, and could pretty much remember their limited food menu, knowing that nothing on it would really appeal to me.  Fortunately there are several restaurants on that very corner, and I gave Jack's Tavern a try.
    I walked in and stood there at the little desk where you wait to be seated.  It was fun for the first few minutes to soak in the feel of the place, to note the homey touches of displayed plates and bird figurines and the open hearth, but after the first few minutes, the waiting began to be a drag.  These people have no idea who I might be, I thought.  I could be anybody, it's a nasty gamble being inattentive to a customer.  I was ready to bring out the semaphore flags when someone finally took notice and came over to seat me.
    "One, please," I said.
    "One?" incredulous.
    "Yeah, one."  I was getting irritated.
    I got seated and the server for my table came around, asking my drink order.  I ordered my ale, which she delivered promptly, promising to return for my order.
    I didn't see her again for twenty minutes.  I thought, I wish I were a restaurant reviewer.  This utterly blows.  Wait a minute.  If I want to be, I am a restaurant reviewer.  I do have my own little column on the internet.  Why not?  So I took notes.
    The menu was striking, in that the cheap and the luxurious were all jumbled together on it.  Burgers and chateaubriand.  The menu insert was a veritable vocabulary list of cultured dining.  None of the appetizers on it had prices.  This gave me a feeling, but I chose one of those anyway.
    Finally I caught the attention of another server.  "I'm not your waitress!" she shouted, not really angrily, but in a frustrated way.  "Do you need me to get her?"
    "Yes, please, that would be nice."
    Ten seconds and there was Ms. Notepad.  I asked for the lobster stuffed mushrooms appetizer, made into a meal by the addition of a baked potato and side salad.  She had no problem with that.
    In fifteen minutes the salad was there.  Extra extra points for fresh croutons!  Fresh and garlicky.  Fresh and crispy.  Did I mention fresh?  Thousand Island dressing that didn't have that cheap whang.  There are three kinds of TI dressing: the incredibly good, with chopped up boiled egg and relish in it, the pretty good, with a nice round compliment of flavors, and the utterly crappy with a kind of aftertaste that makes everything you eat for the next half hour utterly unappetizing.  All the veggies were crisp and fresh.  Can't stand mushy tomatoes.
    Maybe fifteen more minutes and the mushrooms were there, on flaky crust that looked and tasted for all the world like Hungry Jack biscuits rolled out.  Oh GOD they were GOOD!  Lobster and cheese and shredded potato and onion and who knows what else all baked into these nice big mushrooms.  Oh so nice.  I only got four, but I could only eat two of them.  Mmmmmmm.  The baked potato was far from dry.  How I wished I had more room in me.
    So, service was lousy, but the food probably made up for it.
    Crossing the street, the wind was going so hard, it blew my hair off.  I was still wearing my work wig, and whoop it went, but got caught in my jacket hood.  I decided not to be embarrassed about the hair in my hands, nor about how terrible my own hair must look after being stuck under the other all day.  I simply walked into Java Hut and was asked if I was here just for the coffee.  It didn't register until later that the guy was taking up cover charges.  I strode on back to the restroom and put my hair back on.
    The place was full.  Read Headed Boogie Child was playing, and apparently draws a good crowd.  Their stuff was good, funky.  I hunted down that guy and gave him $4.  "I'm enjoying the music, after all," I said.
    Brownie wasn't in that night, or last night either.  That's a bummer, cuz I like her.  Not like that, she's taken, and prolly completely straight.  Gorgeous, fun, and smart.  Sigh.  Got a great boyfriend.
    Moses did come in.  Sawdust.
    
    I'm thirty.  It's not on my mind often, but it is sometimes.  I answered the phone the other day, "Dry and Thirty, this is Spring."  It's not halting my life or freaking me out.  Life flows just as fast as always.  It just pops up suddenly and makes a big fat pause.  Whoa.  I'm thirty.  I'm still an insecure kid, how can I be thirty?  Please don't make me grow up.  Oh but I am grown up, just fighting it an a few small fronts.
    Whoa.
    I'm thirty.
    
    I've been so busy that even the Quick and Dirty isn't getting any attention.  Man, that IS a drag.
 

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