The General's Store

In the seven years that I have continuously visited Upper Michigan, I have never explored the trails and places that it's most famous guest resident once tromped around. This is mostly because a: a lot has changed in 90 years and b: I don't like Ernest Hemingway. The reason why I hate Hemingway is simple: his stories sound more like a diary of his travels than literature. (The irony that I'm writing, and you're reading about, our summer travels has not been lost on me). 

Here is the basic of The Sun Also Rises, Hemingway's first success: An  impotent Hemingway goes on a fly fishing trip. It takes three days to get there and he only fishes for four hours. Another character is obsessed with a woman. This woman likes to play the field. A man dies before a bull fight. Hemingway goes swimming. The end. Here is a blunt writing style of what I think of that book: Big deal. 

Nevertheless, I owe it to the icon and to myself to explore the region through his eyes. It was this region where Hemingway developed his writing style, writing the Nick Adams stories before heading off to Europe as an expatriate in the "Lost Generation". For this reason, I stopped by the General Store at Horton Bay, established in 1876. This location, where Hemingway often visited and wrote at the bar, is now protected by the National Register of Historical Places. Today, it's less of a general store. Featuring pictures of Hemingway lining a back wall, it's the kind of place that summer vacationers would go to pick up some ice cream and sit on the front porch, but not the kind of place to pick up a half a dozen eggs that they forgot to get at the local Glen's in Charlavoix. 

Despite this, it still has the unique feel that makes one understand why Hemingway came here as a kid. Actually, it's pretty understandable when you remember riding your bike to the local gas station for arms full of candy when you were 11. It turns out "great" writers did the same. 

And so I followed his footsteps and found myself talking to the owner. 

"Do you have a menu?" I asked. I was curious how much a chocolate shake would set me back.

"No menus. You order it, and if it's something I'd like, then I make it." this elderly, should be retiree replied with a smile.

"And if not?"

"Then I don't."

Now, a conversation like that just inspires a challenge. In essence, instead of grabbing the ready made Ham and Cheese sandwich in their fridge, I had to order my own sandwich, one that was odd but could still past the old lady test. 

"I'll have a pastrami, with cole slaw and a fried egg."

"We don't do eggs after 11." 

Shoot. 

"Pastrami with slaw we can do. Do you want it panini style or cold."

"Cold is fine" I replied.

"What kind of sauce do you want? Honey mustard, Mayo?"

"What kind of sauces do you have?"

"We have a homemade raspberry horseradish you might like. Adds a bit of kick to the sandwich"

"Sounds perfect. Did this past your test?" I asked?

She shrugged, "I'd give it a try. I just don't like it when people order a chicken salad as a panini." She scrunched her face and stuck our her tongue in the international signal of disgust. It's the same face a 2 year old makes when they taste broccoli for the first time. It's the same face my 25 year old girlfriend makes when tasting broccoli now. 

"So, does that mean that when you end up making an menu, this sandwich would be on it?" I asked slyly. 

"I'd think about it."

"Would you name the sandwich, 'The Heming-No-Way'?"

She said, "No." 

I think she may be saving that name for the hot pressed chicken salad on rye. 

I admit that my sandwich was not particularly odd. It was essentially a take off on a ruben. I should mention that on the way back to Detroit from Boyne, I ate a lamb, mashed potato, asparagus sandwich with lettuce, pepper jack, and (yes, mom) yellow mustard. It was delicious, but no Heming-no-way sandwich.

(The title of this blog doesn't mean anything. I just thought it was clever.)