For whatever reason, around the age of ten or so, I came up with an idea of a restaurant choice randomizer. I wrote down on a piece of paper the names of around thirty restaurants in the Norwich, Connecticut area, cut them out, and put them into a wooden box. On half days of school, my grandmother would take me out to eat. This box was designed for the selection of these half-day restaurant choices.
As I aged, the box continued. Friends found it a bit of a novelty. Of course, it was added to as I thought of more restaurants. There were also ridiculous entries such as “catch fish in the Thames River,” “starve,” or the names of eateries that had been closed for years. To boot, whenever one restaurant was selected, it would never be good enough and another selection was made. I’m not sure if the restaurant box ever picked a restaurant I actually went to on that certain occasion, at least never the first choice. And I’ll never forget when my grandmother picked out the Maple Shade Inn as her choice which was the earlier name of an adult entertainment venue. What laughs that gave the 12-year-old me!
The box grows with me
The box was added to further as I attended college in Boston, moved to Newton, Massachusetts afterward, and then to Rockland and finally Plymouth, Massachusetts. Never though, were slips of paper removed, meaning many of the choices became defunct as years progressed.
During one of my quarantine projects in April, I found the box, reminisced, and giggled about some of the entries. I took photos and sent some to childhood friends who all remembered the box vividly. One friend, Andrew Burnett (of Drew’s Honeybees), even chose restaurants from the box with my grandmother and me back in my grade school days.
The reach into the box
Andrew devised a plan to have my older son pick out of the box. Whatever he chose, we would have to go to. He told me later he was secretly hoping for fish in the Thames River. We agreed that wherever my son picked we would meet there, be it in the Norwich area, the Plymouth area, or somewhere else.
In August, my son and I Facetimed Andrew with the box in hand (that’s him with the Batman mask). Danny reached in and selected a little yellow piece of scrap paper. I knew right away that this was an original, circa 1993, since the initial restaurants were written on the legal pad paper. This would mean I’d be traveling back home for the restaurant. Danny selected Brookside Cafe in Preston, Connecticut.
Brookside Cafe
Brookside has had many owners over the years as well as different names. It was called Brookside when it was entered into the box and its latest incarnation was also Brookside. In between, it’s had some name in relation to the nearby casinos. (It is slated to reopen as the Sly Fox, a restaurant with Native American cuisine in the near future) Historically, the bar straddled the line between a dive bar and nightclub but was always a townie establishment. In later years it even included a mechanical bull. Kind of dance music meets country music where fights were not infrequent. Quite honestly, Andrew and I were a bit disappointed with the pick. We had to go though. When I looked up Brookside Cafe on the internet to see what its status is during COVID, I saw that it is closed permanently.
I quickly called Andrew once again. How do we resolve this? It’s closed so we can’t go in, but picking again would be against protocol. He thought a trip to the parking lot would suffice.
A visit to Brookside
On a Thursday night, around 9 pm, Andrew and I hopped into his truck with my dog (a mini schnauzer) in tow. We thought the pickup truck and dog thing would be good for a Brookside setting. Andrew brought Kombucha, I grabbed a beer as a prop (not actually opening it) which we could enjoy in the parking lot. Kombucha, an unopened Mayflower 400 Double IPA, and Pepper, the intimidating mini schnauzer, was one boot-scootin’ tribute to Brookside. Our countryfied trip to the parking lot would be complete.
We headed down Route 2A in Preston, through Hallville, and into Poquetanuck. We somehow couldn’t find Brookside. There was construction on the road, it was dark, and I refused to use my GPS since I was trying to conserve data. Those were my excuses for not finding the shuttered bar. Instead, we pulled over on the side of the road. Andrew drank a few sips of his bottled Kombucha and I pretended to drink my Mayflower beer. Pepper stayed huddled on the floor. The next morning, out for a Backyard Road Trip, my wife and I drove back through Poquetanuck. There was the Brookside building. It hadn’t been demolished after all.
Unfortunately, on this box pick, there were no mechanical bull rides, bar fights, or even parking lots to listen to country music while drinking kombucha at my Brookside experience. I’m hoping next time, if there is a next time for this kind of Backyard Road Trip, Danny picks somewhere more vibrant.
For more Drew’s Honeybees, check out this Backyard Road Trips article.
