V18 N13

The Old Fogey
Ah, those good old Cape May days... by Jackson D’Catur
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BREAKFAST LUNCH DINNER
Reserve a seat for outdoor dining, or order takeaway from your favorite beachside hideaway.
Select from Rusty Nail favorites including our Baja grilled fish tacos, Buffalo chicken wings,
deep fried mac-n-cheese balls, pre-mixed cocktails, and much more.
I
am often asked: “Where do you go on
vacation?” I always respond: “Living in
Cape May IS a vacation!” I follow that
with some good advice, which depends
upon whom I am addressing, but tends
to be along the line of, “Get a haircut and
wear spats!” or, “Button that tunic, laddie!” and
sometimes, “You’re a mess! Leave town!”
But truly, where DOES one go for a break
from Cape May? I do take 14 days’ “anti-cation”
every year, just to give me an added appreciation
for Cape May upon my return. Some years
Young Albert and I board our decommissioned
fast-attack boat The Edge of Reason and motor
up the coast in search of pirates (I say “pirates”,
when I actually mean “anyone we take a dislike
to”) and run them ashore/send them to
the bottom/draw alongside and shout hurtful
things, depending on our mood. Once, we had
a perfectly lovely time sitting just offshore of
Wildwood, snorkeling, sunbathing and shelling.
What’s that? No, no, whyever would I want
seashells? I mean shelling stray Wildwoodians
with the rather nice two-inch gun on the bow.
I have also taken in all of the world’s capitals,
expecting to be awed, but all were disappointing
compared to home. The Forbidden City?
Not a patch on the Admiral Hotel. Edinburgh
Castle? An anthill compared to The Marquis
De Lafayette hotel. The New York Times building?
have they even SEEN the Exit Zero offices?
If so, they would not dare call themselves a
newspaper. And every time, whether I have
returned by motor car, aeroplane, hot air balloon
or in a crate (my expedition to Borneo did
not go well), I have taken a deep breath of sea
air and been glad to be home.
Oh, this city is not perfect, not at all: I have
a love-hate relationship with Shoebies, as you
know (they adore me for my gentlemanly ways
and formal dress, and I despise them all), I am
not at peace with the notion that people should
purchase homes here and then leave them
empty for nine months of the year (I am thinking
of restarting the much-loved-but-troubled
“Wicker Man” festival whereby good fortune
and a fine harvest were guaranted by the sacrifice
of whichever maroon tooted his BMW
horn at me when I was crossing the street).
But for all of Cape May’s faults (I counted
three: two are above, the third is a person reading
this newspaper who knows who he/she is),
I walk the boundaries every day, breathe in the
scent of the sea, and realize that when one tires
of Cape May, one tires of life. This is actually
quite handy, because we take a dim view of
people who are critical of Cape May, and kill
them on the spot.
Cape May’s original farm-to-table
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using his famous family recipe.
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