A memory of ambience

The last time my grandsons were here, one explained to me why he liked a particular Columbus restaurant. The food was good, he said, but he especially liked the ambience. I smiled, thinking how when I was twelve, I’d never even heard that word, much less used it in a sentence. But his comment set me to remembering good food and pleasing ambience.

In my experience, it doesn’t always require fancy ingredients for a meal to be memorable. If you’re tired, cold, and hungry enough, a warmed can of the much-maligned Army C-rations can linger in your memory forever. Though given the choice, I’d naturally always choose a T-bone steak or Lobster Newburg over an olive-drab can of ham and limas.

I’ve been fortunate to dine on delicious food, well served, in beautiful surroundings, with agreeable company, across this country and in several others. Those events are a pleasure to recall. Still, one occasion where the fare was simple and the surroundings primitive has lingered most strongly in my memory for many years. It happened the summer after I’d finished college and was whiling away the last few days before leaving for the Army.

My brother-in-law and I, a favorite cousin, and the cousin’s cousin all met at dusk on a remote spot on the banks of the Pee Dee River. The other three were a dozen years older than I, but I knew them well and was completely relaxed and comfortable with them. We built a small fire just before dark, then went out in a boat, the four of us, to paddle slowly across the water setting out a trotline, a long line with multiple short branch lines with baited hooks hanging below. Back on the bank, we relaxed in the glow of the fire and visited, quietly. No alcohol or drugs, just conversation. I mostly listened, as the others talked about fishing, about work, about their experiences in World War II, about anything that came to mind. All wrapped in the scent of dark river mud and the smoke from the fire, with a background of soothing river sounds, the water sloshing at the bank and murmuring on its way to the Atlantic.

From time to time during the night, we would venture out again in the boat, holding a kerosene lantern up for light, and collect fish from the trotline, then re-bait the hooks and return to shore. After midnight, the mood grew drowsy, and the conversation slowed but didn’t stop, and nobody stretched out to sleep. The blackness around us felt friendly and peaceful. Then, shortly before the darkness started to thin, my cousin’s cousin began preparing to cook. The other three of us cleaned fish, which he rolled in seasoned meal and then fried, sizzling and smelling wonderful, in a skillet over the campfire, repeating the process until it was clear we’d not need more. We ate off paper plates, just the fish and plain sliced bread, and I salivate even now as I think of the taste.

The tree line across the river began to take shape about this time, and the blackness of the river took on visible character. With the coming of light, a gray fog could be seen hovering above the water, and the spell of the night was slowly broken. It had been an inexpensive, low-key occasion, but very special. I knew my life was about to move in a completely new direction, and I would not likely ever again meet with these three men in this spot and enjoy again the camaraderie, the river, and the food. As the gray blur over the water thinned and the day took shape, we packed up and went home. And it never happened again.

But, man, what good food. And what superb ambience.

This story was originally published June 10, 2017 at 6:50 PM with the headline "A memory of ambience."