For Pete's sake there's nothing like the feeling one has following a really good meal. Now, I don't cook and I am told I can't learn to cook. My friends often remark that I am uncoachable but, even so, I do like a well-prepared batch of food. With that being said, I look for much more than good food when considering the venue for a meal -- atmosphere and history are of the utmost importance.
My brother, sister and several close friends have initiated what I might refer to as a tradition. One day each month, the seven of us meet at a dining establishment for lunch. Donna seems to have been designated as the official reservation maker. I'm not sure how that decision came about, but she lets everyone know when and where the luncheon will take place.
Possibly it was designed to make her task easier or maybe it just happened that way but it seemed as though the group settled into a routine, a preferred place if you will, for many of our noon meals. That place was a Pineville, Mo., venue called "Haven 55."
I was, although I kept this fact to myself, very pleased with the decision to meet at the restaurant located on the outskirts of town. The cuisine was to die for, the service was extraordinary and, most important to me, the view of Little Sugar Creek and the dam from the large windows was breathtaking.
One warm and sunny summer's afternoon luncheon stands out to me more than the others. The group met at the Haven 55 restaurant around 11:30 a.m. It was prior to the somewhat unofficial noon lunch hour, but we wanted to avoid the anticipated crowd of people who often filled the seats. As was always the case, we sat adjacent to one of the large windows that offered a great view of Little Sugar Creek and the dam.
I had no reason to look through the menu handed to me by the cordial waitress as I knew it by heart, but one never knows if something new might have been added, or maybe a favorite deleted. Nope, the menu was the same; but then the waitress threw a wrench into the works.
"We had prime rib as our special last night and there was enough left over for six, and only six, sandwiches. So, if anyone would like that for lunch today, although it isn't on your menu, it is available."
Decision made; I wanted that prime rib sandwich with an accompanying order of French fries more than I wanted the winning ticket for the Powerball. Well, that's not exactly true but I sure liked the sound of that sandwich. However, there was an obvious problem.
As I mentioned, there were seven of us and, if you recall, I did say that there was only enough prime rib for six people. Now I'm no mathematician but that means that there was not enough of the left-over meat for everyone at the table.
I pondered the question; how many others were calculating those numbers just as I was. Then, and to further complicate the situation, I wondered how many of the other patrons seated about the room were figuring their odds. Had the waitress given the same prime rib spiel to everyone else?
When would the server stop talking about water, drinks and other non-essential matters?
"Get to the point I silently screamed. Take our orders." But with who at our table would the order taking process begin? -- so many questions and so very few answers.
Being the gentleman that I am and although it took every ounce of my patience, I allowed the women at the table to order first. To my surprise and great delight, none of them ordered the sandwich. To further add to my pleasures, the charming young woman then looked at me; "and for you sir?"
Calmly and most casually I replied, "I believe I'll have the prime rib sandwich and fries."
"That's an excellent choice," she replied.
While awaiting the delivery of our meals, idle conversation was bantered about but I seemed more content to look out at the beautiful scenery below the restaurant. It was then that my good friend, Donna, further contributed to my most pleasant dining experience.
"I wonder what the history of this place is."
"Gadzooks," I silently celebrated the emergence of Donna's question but, of course, to nobody other than myself.
Well, I suppose gadzooks might be somewhat overstated, but I was certainly pleased that she asked the question as it opened the door for me to do what I enjoy the most -- talk about the good old days. I tried to maintain my casual demeanor.
"Well, since you asked. This site was originally the home to a mill and it is thought that the mill first went into operation in the early part of the 1840s. Several names are associated with the early operation of the place; George Stearns, John Stearns and Fenton Resler.
"Many of the local farmers planned their crops around the mill's operation as they planted fields of corn and wheat. Those folks relied on the mill's operation and the processing of their crops to support their families. The products of the mill gave those local farmers the bread that was very important back then.
"Long ago there were three dams in the creek. By the way, that is Little Sugar Creek we're looking at. Two of the dams were made of wood and the third was made of stone. In the late 1930s and early 1940s, my mother and her friend Maxine Legore used to swim right over there."
"Over there," Donna pointed her finger toward the water. "Yep, right there."
"Way back then, a man by the name of Fenton Resler used to operate an ice cream parlor in the area just below our feet. My mother, Maxine and some of their friends once spent hot summer afternoons, and after their swims, enjoying some cold Huckleberry ice cream.
'The place once had its own ice plant along with electric power. I'm told that there was once a suspension bridge that spanned the creek and every evening, along about 10:30 p.m. or so, Fenton Resler walked across the bridge and flipped a switch that shut off the power to Pineville. The next morning he came to work, crossed over the creek and again flipped the switch turning the power back on.
"Now for the part of the story which brings us closer to modern history. The old building burned to the ground in August of 1962."
"Burned to the ground?" Donna asked.
"Yeah, but as you can plainly see, it was rebuilt and is now the site of the Haven 55 restaurant."
"Incredible," she commented as she once again looked out at the creek."
"Isn't it," I replied.
"Dessert anyone?"
I had been so consumed by my words that I neglected to make my sandwich disappear.
"None for me thanks. I'll be way too full when this is finished."
If by chance you should run into me as I am out and about, I would be happy to confab with you about any number of topics -- the weather, my advancing age or any other topic of interest to you. However, should you ask about the age or history of anything or anyone, be prepared for a conversation which you might think would never end. But thanks in advance for asking.
Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel. Stan's connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. Opinions expressed are those of the author.