I’m writing this because I said I would.

We were driving up to the Bay Area to be in time to hear a friend sing in a special recital. We talked about whether we would stop on the way, take a bathroom break, maybe eat food somewhere.

The prognosis of blistering heat and crowded traffic on the inland route of the endless dry Highway 5 decided us on the coast route, 101, which would take us by Ventura and Santa Barbara.

I did a little checking, call it “research,” and put in my bid for Ventura. If we had more time, had started earlier, we might have opted for Santa Barbara which has an extended array of restaurants, we were thinking fish, hoping swordfish, and after eating could run around the beautiful town, But we started a little later than planned and I made a compelling case for Ventura. People say Ventura is Santa Barbara lite, but has plenty to recommend it.

My clinching argument for Ventura was that the Greek at the Harbor, a family favorite restaurant, was listed as offering swordfish. Kristina and Chaz had never been there, didn’t know Ventura, but were intrigued and acceptably convinced.

We took the back road to the coast and then the road into the marina and drove past yachts and working boats and then around shops and restaurants to the busy always crowded parking lot a short walk to our destination.

From the parking lot, we looked across the street to the little grassy dune over which you could walk right down to the water, the mighty Pacific right there and waiting. We climbed just high enough to see over the top to the umbrellas and spread blankets on the sand where families were enjoying their day at the beach. We saw kites flying in the air, and seagulls flying between them. This was the setting where Shirley and I had watched kite fights years ago, and we had gone into the water to swim in the ocean.

Kristina and Chaz and I said, “Maybe later,” and walked toward the shops and restaurants and a tower with large blue letters spelling GREEK. I led us around to the front along the outdoor dining terrace below the windows where happy lunchers were eating and looking out at the harbor.

The walkway was busy with afternoon strollers going both directions, couples of all sizes and shapes, families with prancing children, some pushing strollers with tiny babies out for a walk, one stroller with a little dog peeking out pushed by an elderly couple hoping for grandchildren.

Some people were walking dogs big and little, and a uniformed man came by walking his pony. It was a police pony, actually a miniature horse, small and white, and drew a crowd to question and pet. I had never seen a police pony and wondered about its function, surely not like a sniffer dog to ferret out drugs. [Ed. – Rowdy is a 14 year old miniature horse whose job is to meet and greet people on the street as part of a Los Angeles LAPD volunteer outreach program.]

One couple walking a dog stopped as another couple with a very small walking baby faced each other, achieved détente, as the dog slowly nosed forward, the baby with outstretched arm toddled and they met in the middle, nose to finger and petting hand. The adults were ready to continue their separate walks, but the dog and baby weren’t ready to part and looked longingly at each other as they passed.

We saw an elderly woman with a walker preparing to gird herself up the steps to the restaurant entrance, our same destination, as her middle-aged daughter was shepherding the process. Kristina said, “Do you need help?” and the answer, “No, thanks, we got it,” as we passed them, climbed the steps and through the entrance to the “be with you in a minute” station, then ushered to a table for three. I said, “By the window?” and the accommodating, “Of course.” Most of the window tables were filled along the view with two left empty available, we chose one, sat, and looked at the menu. The waitress was genuinely friendly cheerful, and I asked with earnest hopefulness, “Do you have swordfish?”

“Oh yes,” she said, and I exclaimed in joy, because we had been looking everywhere extensively for swordfish which gave us fond memories, and we quickly ordered. And drinks, iced tea for Kristina and Chaz because they were driving, water for me, because I like water and because it’s free and I was paying the bill. But I ordered extra a cup of clam chowder because I saw it on the menu and decided I should try it for my education’s sake.

The waitress told us about the weekend shows, live music, bouzouki, belly dancing, for three full hours, and she brought our drinks. Then my clam chowder, thick and rich, filled to the top and almost overflowing, and a packet of oyster crackers with a label that said they were headquartered in Vermont.

Everyone had a try of the clam chowder, New England style, with a fork or dipped bread which was sliced in a napkin covered basket next to the little bowl of pats of butter, you know the kind, neatly foil wrapped squares that you peel and open and spread, with a label that seemed to indicate locally sourced.

I told the waitress how my wife and I and her family had been coming here for years. I replayed the story Kristina and Chaz had already heard, how years ago Shirley and I and her dad Jimmy Kenegos, a city slicker from Athens, had sat just two tables over, and a group of four Greek men was sitting at the very table where we were now, loudly talking Greek. The waitress, whose name I now see from the check receipt is Bichette, said, “They always do, that’s the way Greeks talk,” and I agreed and said that Jimmy heard them and they exchanged greetings and he mentioned that he had fought with the Greek underground in the War, driving the invaders out, and the men at the table applauded, and Jimmy looked secretly pleased to be so acknowledged.

And then came the three plates with identical orders, swordfish, and the usual but perfectly cooked medly of vegetables, squash and carrots and green beans and tomato and onion, and, of course, rice, a shaped pilaf that was not only exactly right but so flavorfully cooked to be memorable. And the swordfish steak, the way swordfish should be, not like some of those few other places that offer but over cook it to dry. We were in food heaven, and ate and talked and looked over the harbor. We saw the little paddle boats shaped like swans where families rented and floated as the children worked the pedal paddles with their feet like bicycles.

And we saw a fishing boat with emptied nets hanging from the morning catch, a swarm seagulls descending and fighting over any little bit caught and left. And we saw a big fishing boat back up from its moorings, turn around, and head out through the marina out to sea and a hopeful catch.

Dinner and a show!

We left stuffed and happy. I gave my card to Bichette and told her I’d put her in my blog.

She said, “I’ll be watching for it.”