Part Three, Day 2: The Last Day on Our Route 6 Pie Adventure
Adventures, trials, and grace.
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Joe is already showered and dressed when he catches some eye movement from the opposite bed.
“Finally,” he says brightly.
It’s 6:30 in the morning.
Luckily, I no longer pay much attention to my appearance so we are checked out of the hotel and seated in a booth at the Silver Spoon Diner by 7:30.
The four late middle-aged men sitting together at the counter don’t seem to mind the diner’s pounding heavy metal sound track. They merely raise their voices to gripe about the world’s affairs.
The lone waitress, commanding and professionally congenial, drifts over to us. We order eggs and Scrapple. They have one slice of pumpkin pie left from Saturday night.
“We’d like that first,” Joe says.
“Now?”
“Yep. Now.”
Last night, we spent a considerable amount of time dissecting how our pie journey could be improved and came to a surprising conclusion: Pie works best as an appetizer because the main course impinges on taste buds and the stomach. We also realized that to appreciate the full essence of filling and crust, the slice needs to be free from fancy toppings. Admittedly, this may apply only to the rigours of this outing.
Pumpkin pie arrives with very strong coffee. About the best thing you can say about its commercial filling and thick soggy crust is that it does not impinge on our eggs and spicy Scrapple.
There is a strict itinerary for the day after breakfast. It begins in Carbondale, the town down the road, and then continues into late afternoon until we reach Milford.
We will be making seven stops:
McDonnell's Restaurant
Viewpoint Diner
The Cacoon Coffee Shop and Bakery at the old Hawley Silk Factory
The Waterwheel Café
The Dimmick Inn
Milford Diner
Village Diner
61 miles, 14 pies, and an unknown number of historic markers.
Off we go after leaving a generous tip, joining the considerable Sunday traffic along Route 6. Our first stop is the highly touted McDonnell’s Restaurant, the only place on today’s list known for peanut butter and chocolate pie. But, given that our breakfast sits heavy upon us, we make the huge mistake of passing it by. Fortunately, a month later Joe and his high school friends, Jerry and Lenny, are for some reason traveling around this area and they stop in. They all judge the pie, which is made every day by the owner, to be the best they’ve ever had. The apple pie is good but suffers by being compared to it. I will now have to make a special trip to Carbondale to judge for myself.
On the road, 12 minutes later, I yell “STOP!” at the sight of a small graveyard, hemmed in by a Citco station and a vacant lot. Joe is not as keen as I am about cemeteries but he’s stuck with me and pulls over. A stone near the entrance commemorates it as the resting place of members of the Society of Peace, part of Carbondale’s once influential Jewish community. The Society promoted the importance of serving in the military in their efforts to bring world peace. The stones are carved in Hebrew so I can only read the names of the men and whether they died fighting in World War I, II, and Korean Wars. The most famous member of the Society, Colonel Alvin D. Ungerleider, liberated the Jews in the Nazi slave camp at Nordhausen. He’s buried in the town’s main cemetery.
As we resume our drive, it quickly comes clear that this part of Route 6 does not have the colonial history we encountered yesterday. The towns are bigger, shaped by the Industrial Revolution, mining and factories predominate over agriculture. The route increasingly jams with swap meets, strip malls, and Sunday breakfasts at Applebee’s and Chili’s restaurants. We turn into the Viewpoint Diner’s parking lot before realizing there’s not a sliver of space available and the line to be seated runs from the door, down the steps, and over to the edge of the lot. The only reasonable thing to do is run in and ask for whatever pies they have to takeout. The teenage boy at the cash register is completely flummoxed by my request and it takes an equally young waitress to rush to a dessert display case to grab a slice of pecan pie and throw it in a Styrofoam container and then throw it at me. Later in the evening we discover the pie wouldn’t have tasted any better if we ate it inside the Village Diner.
The more miles we drive, the more we encounter a growing number of state and national campaign signs stabbed into house lawns. The signs for Democrats appear in front of expensive, handsome houses; the ones for Republicans crowd together before more modest homes, many in need of critical repairs. Healthcare and tech companies took over the area after the coal mines and textile mills began to fail. They pay better but the jobs they offer require more education than is generally available in the area. There’s a huge divide between the people who have relocated for the companies and the people who have always lived here and now depend on the building trades and hospitality positions available at the nearby Poconos Mountain resorts.
We have one of the closed factories next on our list, the Bellemonte Silk Mill. It opened in 1881 and quickly became celebrated for producing fine silk thread. The 500 young girls and women who worked there were valued for their small hands and slender fingers which could fit bobbins and threads through the loom gears. The mill closed in 1986, but it reopened in 2011 as a tourist and cultural center. One of its main attractions is its bluestone structure, the largest in the world. The exhibits around the building don’t mention anything about the dangers of being maimed or how little the girls were paid. The only clue is a jarring cutout from a photo that shows three smiling but ragged girls.
After pretending we have money to buy anything in the craft shops that now fill the loom floor, we head outside to the coffee house and bakery in the small building that used to store silk cocoons. Somehow we make it through all the tourists to the counter and order overpriced coffee, a very delicious almond and peanut butter tart, and a meat pie plump with a rich Bourguignon beef stew in an astonishingly flaky crust.
This section of Route 6 has a measly number of historic signs. We find just two. One for Horace Greeley’s Sylvania Colony (now demolished) and the other for Dr. Matthew Shield who established the first medical system used throughout the coal region to aid injured mine workers.
From there we take a fairly major swing east off Route 6 so Joe can explore one of his current interests, the Roebling Delaware Aqueduct Bridge. It is John Roebling’s first experiment in constructing a suspension bridge, the precursor to his masterpiece, the Brooklyn Bridge. I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t be as enthralled as my brother is by the opportunity to study the bridge’s cable structure.
But the detour makes it hard to reach Milford before lunch. Joe is responsible for not getting a speed ticket while I plot the order of visiting the four places up ahead. It’s 12:30. We’ll have a quick lunch at the Apple Valley Restaurant (known for it’s caramel pie) and go immediately afterwards to the Waterwheel Café (known for its fruit pies). Late afternoon will see us in the Milford Diner (known for their lemon meringue pie) and finally dinner at the Village Diner (known for all its pies). A night cap seems probable at the Dimmick Inn.
Change of plans: It’s the tail end of the brunch rush hour when we reach the Apple Valley Restaurant. Looking for an empty parking space is foolish. We’ll catch up with the restaurant tomorrow. At the Waterwheel Café the half-full parking lot is a hopeful sign. The long and slightly rowdy line at the door is not. The hostess says a table may open up in around twenty minutes. If we leave our name and phone number, she’ll call us but warns we better run over before she gives it to someone else.
Twenty minute later we rush in and follow a waitress through a bunch of rooms to the back. Joe tells her that we immediately require whatever pies they have. Happily, Sunday is peach and four berries pies day. After the pies, we order salads because we haven’t had anything approaching a vegetable this whole trip. There’s also the hope that leafy stuff will help our stomachs which have lost their enthusiasm for anything pie related. Joe forks half way through the peach pie and helps with the four berries—each a solid 8 on our pie score card. Then our salads arrive. He finishes his Caesar salad and then more of the peach pie. My mesclun and feta cheese salad is undeniably fantastic but I may require medicinal attention if I eat more of it after several mouthfuls of my four berries. The understanding waitress brings two boxes to carry the remainders away.
But, damn, if we aren’t professional and believe we can manage visiting The Milford Diner. Mercifully, it’s three o’clock and we’re grateful it closes at 2. A loop around the pretty and historical town seems medically appropriate. We skirt around cheery campaigners for Harris (older women and one man) politely handing out buttons and very boisterous Trump fans (younger men) egging on cars to honk louder as they drive by. The decision to check into the hotel is made after stopping to read about the noted chef, Louis Fauchère and conservationist, Gifford Pinchot.
In the room we pace and moan and perform yoga poses that are supposed to address our metabolic distress. Several huge swigs of different OTC digestion remedies promise a peaceful nap. Unfortunately, none produce a full recovery but it’s possible we can survive a visit to the Dimmick Inn if we keep to small appetizers and ask for a tiny portion of pie. The dining room is about to close but we’re welcome into the adjoining pub where men sit at the bar to watch the evening’s football game on the loud TV. We climb up on stools at one of those high tables I can not imagine anyone finds comfortable. Soon two tiny appetizers, one peanut butter and chocolate pie slice, and two glasses of wine are placed down in front of us. Food is just the right amount. Pie is a huge overloaded mess. Still, we do what we can with it that is probably helped along with a second glass of wine.
And now, we enter the homestretch. The Village Diner is very unassuming, tucked off the side of the road and easy to miss. The parking lot is deserted. A waitress is making coffee in the empty restaurant. She’s worked there for 18 years. Another waitress appears from the back. This is her first day. They’re very happy to see us and it seems polite to sit at the counter to talk to them. Two pies are available: apple crumb and coconut cream. Do we want the apple crumb warmed? Ice cream on top? Yes to the warmth, a groan against the ice cream.
The older waitress—although she’s not old by a stretch—delivers our pies and settles in before us, happy to answer our questions about the diner’s history. She keeps an eye on the parking lot to see who might be coming while she tells us about the three families who have owned the place since 1956. The current one is a cousin of the founder. Joe tells her about our pie expedition and she’s proud to say that their pies are homemade. Used to be baked right back in the kitchen, but now they’re purchased at the former cook’s bakery outside town.
An older man comes in with the day’s newspaper and our waitress asks if his wife is going to join him today. No, she’s with her sister, he says as he takes his usual back booth and opens up the paper.
A little ding! is heard from the kitchen. She goes back for our pies. Right away, we’re floored by the coconut cream pie. It’s custard is a delicate yellow, creamy, as egg-y and delicate as a superb souffle nestled in a butter crust. The few coconut shreds on top counter balance the filling’s silkiness and add a toasted crunch. Then there’s the apple crumb, proud of it’s chunks layering the lard crust, the whole covered with barely sweetened plump crumbs. It’s warmth makes you feel swaddled on a cold Monday morning. Joe and I sit amazed, trading plates, slowly eating our pies, our reward for deciding that a drive along Route 6 would be a monumental experience.
One more customer arrives and he and our waitress friend get into the finer points of the Sunday night Eagle’s game.
“Just made a fresh pot of coffee for you,” she says and the new waitress hastily brings over a cup for him.
“Where are you from,” she asks us.
We say Philadelphia and Brooklyn.
“Oh, gosh, a lots of people are from somewhere else now,” she says. “If someone comes in and says they’ve lived here all their lives I shout, THANK GOD.”
Joe and I feel it would be a huge blessing to live in Milford and have our waitress look forward to seeing us walk into the Village Diner. She draws a smiley face on our check and sees us out the door with a “have a safe ride home.”
Thank you for joining Joe and me on our adventure! I would love to hear your thoughts about Route 6 and what else you would like to know about how my brother and I survived together….
Jarring cutout, indeed. I may have nightmares after seeing this!
Wow. I'm impressed with your focus and fortitude! Apple pie for breakfast is my favorite!