Meals Between Moments: Gideon Owen Wine Company (Port Clinton, OH)

Discover Gideon Owen Wine Company, one of the best restaurants in Ohio, known for exceptional food, curated wine experiences, and a setting that makes it worth the drive. 

April 19, 2026

There is a part of this job that happens outside the timeline. It takes place in the miles between home and the venue, in the hours before a room fills, and in the quiet that follows once it empties again. Over nearly three decades of traveling the state to DJ weddings, those stretches have led me to restaurants I might never have found otherwise. Some were recommended. Some I went looking for. Others I stumbled into simply because I happened to be there—the right place at the right time, or sometimes the wrong place at the right time—discovered purely by accident. Most of my dining on the road is unmemorable, but every now and then a restaurant leaves an indelible impression, not because of when or how I discovered it, but because of how exceptional it was. Over time, a handful of those places stopped feeling like stops along the way and began to feel like destinations, meals and experiences that stayed with me long after the night had ended, and ones I have returned to whenever I’ve found myself nearby again. 

This series is simply a way of sharing those places.

Not as a ranking, and not as a definitive list, but as a collection of restaurants across Ohio that I believe are worth the drive. They are local businesses run by people who are passionate about what they serve, where the food is unforgettable, the experience is genuine, and the reason to go becomes clear the moment you sit down. Some are refined, some are casual, some are hidden in plain sight, and others are tucked just far enough away that you wouldn’t think to look for them unless someone pointed you there.

It feels right to begin this series with Gideon Owen Wine Company, not just because of how impressive the setting is, but because it represents exactly what this series is about. It is a place I first discovered while working a wedding, and one I have since returned to without the work bringing me there, drawn back by exceptional food, thoughtful wine, and an experience that holds together from the first pour to the last bite. 

The Wedding That Introduced Me to Gideon Owen Wine Company

The first time I arrived at Gideon Owen Wine Company, I was there because I had been hired, not because I had set out to find it, and like many places I have come to know through this work, it introduced itself gradually rather than all at once. Set quietly on Catawba Island, just beyond the pull of the Lake Erie shoreline, it revealed itself in layers, not through any single moment, but through a sequence of impressions that built on one another—gardens, pathways, limestone, light—until what began as a venue started to feel like something more complete. The air carried a stillness that felt settled rather than staged, and even in those first few minutes, there was a sense that the space had been shaped over time rather than arranged all at once. Gail was with me that day, running the photo booth with the same steady presence she brings to every event, and we had arrived earlier than expected, with everything set up and ready more than two hours before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. That kind of time is rare in this line of work, and it changes how you move through a place, because instead of rushing toward the next responsibility, you are given the chance to notice where you are. Without the usual urgency, small details begin to surface—the way the light settles across the stone, the way the pathways guide you without forcing direction, the way the property feels cohesive without feeling controlled. It is a different kind of arrival, one that allows the place to introduce itself on its own terms rather than through necessity. And standing there, with nothing pressing and nowhere immediate to be, it became clear that this was not going to be a place we simply passed through on our way to something else.

With time we don’t usually have and no reason to stay in place, we stepped away from the wedding space to explore, following beautifully landscaped pathways lined with floral accents that felt intentional without being overly curated, drawing us forward without needing to suggest where we should go next. The grounds didn’t feel designed to impress so much as designed to be experienced, each turn offering something slightly different without disrupting the overall sense of continuity, and as we moved further from the reception space, the shift became more noticeable. What began as a simple walk turned into something more attentive, more deliberate, because the environment encouraged it, asking you to slow down just enough to take it in. We passed through spaces that felt distinct without feeling separate, connected by an underlying consistency that made the entire property feel unified without repetition. The textures changed subtly beneath our feet, the visual lines opened and closed depending on where we stood, and the sense of movement felt natural rather than directed. By the time the Tirage Wine Room came into view, it didn’t feel like we had arrived somewhere new, but rather like we had been led there without realizing it. We didn’t have a plan beyond seeing what was inside, but somewhere along the way, that shifted. We were no longer simply passing through. We were moving through grounds that had been carefully, almost reverently, assembled over time, where the history wasn’t presented as a feature, but instead felt embedded in the bones of the place.

Where Everything Slowed to a Pour

Stepping inside, the contrast became immediately apparent, and it was not subtle. The grounds outside carry the weight of history in a way that feels earned, with limestone, aged structures, and pathways that suggest a story stretching back to the 1870s, a place that feels rooted, established, and shaped over time rather than designed all at once. But inside the Tirage Wine Room, that sense of history gives way to something entirely different, more modern and deliberate in its restraint, and wholly unexpected. It does not attempt to mirror what exists outside, nor does it compete with it, but instead offers a contrast that feels intentional, a space that is still elegant, still refined, still unmistakably thoughtful, but expressed through a different lens, where clean lines replace weathered textures and precision replaces patina. And yet, despite the shift, nothing feels out of place. The room does not abandon the history that surrounds it; it acknowledges it by refusing to imitate it, creating an experience that stands on its own while remaining connected to something much older just beyond its walls. 

It is the kind of space that lowers your shoulders without asking permission, the kind where you don’t realize you’ve settled in until you already have, but unlike most rooms that rely on subtlety to create that effect, this one makes its presence known immediately. Along the walls, temperature-controlled wine stations line the perimeter with quiet precision, offering forty-eight selections—each one available in measured pours, allowing you to explore without commitment, to follow instinct instead of obligation, a taste, a half glass, a full pour, no pressure, no pretense—and in doing so, removing the weight that usually comes with choosing. You are not committing to a full glass before you understand what you’re drinking, and you are not locked into a decision made too early, but instead the experience opens itself gradually, allowing you to move at your own pace and build something that feels discovered rather than selected. We began simply enough, Gail with a Traminette that carried honeysuckle and peach with a touch of tangerine that lingered just long enough to invite another sip, and me with a Meritage Reserve that leaned darker, built on black currant and black cherry with a subtle floral lift that kept it structured without feeling heavy. From there, without really deciding to, we began to move outward, adding to what we had, sharing, comparing, circling back when something held our attention a little longer than expected. A Cabernet Sauvignon layered with black cherry, plum, and clove. A red blend carrying raspberry, white pepper, and a quiet note of mocha. A vineyard blend that opened into apricot and orange blossom. A Vidal Blanc that introduced papaya, pineapple, peach, and mango in a way that felt unexpected until it settled into place. The experience was not rushed, and it was not directed; it unfolded one pour at a time until what began as a few initial choices became something more deliberate, more understood, more shared, glasses turning into a flight, notes giving way to preferences, and preferences giving way to agreement. There is always a moment when tasting wine where conversation slows, not because there is nothing to say, but because something has quietly landed, and we found that moment there without needing to name it. By the time we returned to the Meritage Reserve, it no longer felt like a starting point, but something confirmed, something that had held its ground against everything else we had tried, and the decision that followed didn’t feel like one at all. We purchased six bottles before stepping back out into the day, already aware that we had experienced something worth remembering, even before the wedding had begun, and even then, it felt like we had only begun to understand what the place had to offer.

Stepping back outside, the rest of the property came into focus in a different way, no longer something we were passing through, but something we were now aware of, as though the time spent inside had recalibrated how we saw everything beyond it. The limestone cellar below ground, where I would soon DJ the ceremony, held a kind of quiet that is difficult to describe until you are standing within it, a space carved not just from stone, but from time itself, where the air feels cooler, steadier, and somehow more grounded than the world above. It is not simply a room, but an environment that shapes the moment before anything has even begun, where sound carries differently, where voices settle instead of echo, and where the presence of history is not decorative, but structural. As I prepared for the ceremony, there was a distinct awareness that this was not a typical setting, not just visually, but acoustically and emotionally, the kind of space that does part of the work for you if you allow it to. I have since learned that tours of the cellar are available, something I fully intend to experience in a different capacity someday, without equipment to manage or a timeline to follow, simply to walk through it and take it in without distraction. Above ground, the property continued to unfold in quiet layers, green space that felt intentional without being overworked, pathways that connected everything without forcing direction, and a beautifully sculpted garden set into the hillside that led toward the bride and groom’s suites, anchored by a single flowing fountain that never called attention to itself, yet was impossible to ignore. The water moved with a steady, measured rhythm, not loud enough to dominate the space, but present enough to fill it, creating a soft, consistent white noise that settled into the background and subtly shaped the atmosphere around it. It did not compete with the surroundings; it completed them, adding motion to stillness and sound to silence in a way that made the entire space feel more cohesive. It is a beautiful place, without question, but what makes it matter is not how it presents itself at a glance, but how it supports everything that happens within it, shaping the experience in ways that are felt more than they are noticed. 

The wedding moved the way a good one does, steadily and without resistance, not because it was tightly controlled, but because nothing fought against the natural flow of the day. There is a difference between a timeline that is followed and one that is felt, and this was the latter, where each moment seemed to arrive at exactly the right time without needing to be forced into place. The ceremony in the cellar carried a weight that required very little enhancement, the space itself doing what so many venues attempt and fail to achieve, creating a sense of presence that holds people in place without asking for it. It is a rare thing to stand in a room where silence has as much impact as sound, where the absence of noise feels just as intentional as the music that eventually fills it. Music in that setting behaves differently, not louder or softer, but more immediate, more connected, as though it doesn’t have to travel as far to reach the people it is meant for, and that changes how the moment lands. There is a closeness to it, a clarity that removes the distance that often exists between what is played and what is felt. There is a responsibility in working within a space like that, not to overfill it, not to disrupt what is already there, but to support it, to let the environment and the music exist alongside one another without competing. It becomes less about performance and more about awareness, about recognizing what the room is already giving you and choosing not to take more than is needed. As the ceremony gave way to the reception, that sense of continuity remained, the transition feeling less like a shift and more like an extension, the energy building gradually rather than abruptly. By the time the final song had played and the room had emptied, the day had taken what it takes, not all at once, but in measured pieces, and what remained was the quiet that follows, that slow return from movement to stillness that doesn’t happen the moment the music stops, but lingers for a while afterward, settling in gradually as everything comes to rest. It is in that quiet that the day reveals itself most clearly, not in the moments that were planned, but in how they are remembered once they have passed. 

We made our way back toward the Tirage Wine Room almost automatically, not because we had discussed it, but because it felt like the natural place to return to, the point where the day had begun to take on a different shape earlier that afternoon. There was a rhythm to a long wedding day, and when it ended, there was often a pull to return to something familiar, something that existed just outside the structure of the event itself, and for us, that had become this room. It was a quiet instinct more than a decision, the body recognizing where it had felt most at ease before the demands of the day took over. But when we arrived, it had already closed, the space dark and unavailable in a way that didn’t feel disappointing so much as quietly redirecting, as though the next part of the night had already been decided without us needing to say it out loud. We weren’t looking for anything more than a nightcap, just one more glass of wine before heading to the hotel we had booked in Sandusky, a place to land for a few hours before turning around and driving to Madison the next morning for another wedding. That was the plan, simple and contained, nothing more than a pause at the end of a long day. So we stepped into the restaurant instead. What we found inside was entirely different. At the center of the room sat an indoor fire pit—something I had never encountered before—surrounded by deep leather seating that drew your eye the moment you stepped inside, not as an accent, but as the anchor around which everything else was arranged. The flame moved steadily, contained but alive, commanding attention without feeling out of place, and on each visit since, I have found myself wanting to sit in those seats, to experience the room from its center rather than its edges, though every time I have returned, they have been occupied, as though others had arrived just a moment earlier and claimed the same instinct. Around it, the room unfolded in layers—velvet seating that invited you to stay longer than you intended, a wood-slatted ceiling overhead that carried warmth without weight, and a balance of materials that felt deliberate without being overdesigned, refined without stiffness and relaxed without losing intention—shaping not only how the room looked, but how you moved within it. We took seats at the bar, not intending to stay long and certainly not intending to order anything beyond that one final glass. It was a small decision, almost an afterthought, but it carried with it that same sense that had followed us throughout the property, that things were unfolding in a way that didn’t need to be forced. There was no expectation attached to it, no sense that anything more would come from it, just a quiet moment to let the day settle before moving on. And in a day shaped almost entirely by structure and timing, it was the first moment that felt completely unstructured, which, as it turned out, made it the one that changed everything that came next. 

When the Menu Changed the Plan

And then we opened the menu, not because we intended to order anything, but because it had been placed in front of us and there was no reason not to glance at it while finishing what we assumed would be our final glass of wine. What followed wasn’t planned, and it didn’t arrive all at once, but instead unfolded in that quiet, almost imperceptible way that certain moments do when they aren’t forced into existence. There is a particular clarity that comes with sitting at the end of a long wedding day, when everything slows just enough for you to notice what is in front of you in a way you wouldn’t have earlier, when the urgency is gone and what remains is awareness. We weren’t hungry, not in any traditional sense, and there was no physical pull toward food, no gap that needed to be filled, but the menu resisted being dismissed, not because it was overwhelming or indulgent, but because it was composed with a quiet confidence. The language didn’t shout, and the descriptions didn’t overreach. It simply held its ground long enough for us to recognize that something was happening, that this wasn’t just a place to eat, but a place that expected to be taken seriously. I remember glancing up from the menu and catching Gail’s eye, not saying anything, but recognizing that she was having the same realization at the exact same time. There was no discussion, no weighing of options, no “should we or shouldn’t we,” just a quiet, mutual understanding that the plan had already changed. We weren’t finishing a drink anymore. We were staying. It didn’t feel like a decision, and that’s what made it easy, because it felt less like we were choosing something new and more like we were continuing something that had already begun. The room had slowed us down enough to notice, and once you notice, it becomes difficult to walk away. We hadn’t come in hungry, but somewhere in that moment, we became willing. 

The baked brie arrived first, and even before it reached the table, there was a shift in the way we were paying attention, the aroma arriving just ahead of it, warm and slightly sweet, carrying a richness that hinted at what was coming without revealing it entirely. It was wrapped in golden puff pastry that held its shape just long enough to create a pause before cutting into it, the surface lightly crisped, catching the light in a way that suggested both structure and fragility at the same time. The knife met a subtle resistance before giving way, not collapsing the pastry, but opening it in a controlled release that revealed the softened brie beneath, still holding its form for just a moment before easing outward, carrying with it the apple chutney that had already begun to warm and loosen into itself. There was a natural hesitation, not because we didn’t know what to do, but because rushing it would have felt like missing something important. The first bite required assembly rather than impulse, a piece of pastry, a measured portion of the brie, a careful pass through the chutney, gathered with enough restraint to allow each element to remain intact. When it landed, it unfolded in stages, the crisp outer layer giving way first, followed by the warmth of the cheese, the chutney introducing sweetness that was immediately checked by acidity, and the salted caramel rounding everything at the end without overtaking it. The balance was immediate, but it didn’t flatten into sameness, each bite shifting slightly depending on how it was built, which made the act of eating it part of the experience rather than something that simply happened. I remember looking up again after that first bite, not because I had something to say, but because I needed to confirm that what I had just experienced wasn’t imagined. Gail met that look without speaking, and in that moment, we both knew we were in the middle of something that had already exceeded expectation. 

The pommes frites arrived alongside it, and in most settings, they might have been overlooked, something expected rather than considered, but here, they carried the same level of attention as everything else on the table. They were cut thin and evenly, each one holding a consistent shape that suggested precision before you even took a bite, and when you did, that precision revealed itself immediately. The exterior carried a crispness that held without breaking apart, while the interior remained soft enough to give without resistance, creating a contrast that stayed consistent from beginning to end. They carried heat evenly, each one just as warm as the last, the seasoning present but never dominant, allowing the texture to lead rather than the salt. On their own, they were complete, but what elevated them further was how naturally they folded into what we had already begun, drawn through the remaining brie and chutney, picking up just enough without losing themselves in the process. It became impossible to treat them as separate from the dish, because they weren’t functioning as a side, but as an extension of what we had already begun. I found myself reaching for them without thinking, not out of habit, but because they had become part of the rhythm of the table. There is a tendency to dismiss something as simple as fries, but in a setting like this, simplicity becomes the test, because there is nowhere to hide, and when it is done correctly, it reveals itself in ways that are difficult to ignore. They didn’t ask for attention, but they earned it anyway. And by the time we realized how much we had already eaten, it no longer felt like something we were trying. It felt like something we were part of. 

Gail didn’t say much as she ate, which in itself was not unusual, but the quiet carried differently, because she wasn’t evaluating or searching for language, she was simply present with it, letting each bite land without interruption, without the need to define what she was experiencing in real time. That alone was enough to get my attention, because anyone who knows Gail, or has ever shared a meal with her, understands that she is a very critical eater, the kind who notices everything, who finds the flaw others might overlook, who rarely lets a dish pass without some observation about what could have been better. It has become something of a running joke between my two sons and me, now 24 and 21, long past childhood but still fully aware of what it means when Mom takes that first bite and pauses, because more often than not, we are waiting for the critique we’ve come to expect. And to be fair, it isn’t always easy, because there are times when it feels like no meal quite measures up, no restaurant escapes without at least one note of dissatisfaction, and over the years, I’ve quietly made it something of a personal mission to find the places that might finally break through that pattern, meals that don’t invite commentary because they leave nothing to correct. In twenty-six years of marriage, I’ve seen that happen maybe three dozen times, and when you consider the thousands of meals we’ve shared, that number becomes almost insignificant, which is exactly what gives it meaning. It cannot be forced, and it cannot be anticipated. When it happens, it doesn’t need to be explained. Sitting across from her that night, I watched that shift take place in real time, the moment where thought gives way to something more immediate, more instinctive, and then it happened. She cried, not subtly and not in a way that could be mistaken, but in that unguarded, involuntary way that signals something has moved beyond preference and into something deeply felt. It wasn’t dramatic, and it wasn’t performative, but it was unmistakable, and I remember pausing not because I needed to respond, but because I understood exactly what it meant. This was not just a good meal. This was something that had crossed a threshold that very few ever reach. We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t need to. It was already understood between us, and that understanding settled into the moment in a way that made everything around it feel just a little more significant. 

The braised short rib required a different kind of attention altogether, less about assembly and more about recognition, because from the first contact with the fork, it was clear that the structure had been handled with intention. It did not fall apart immediately, which would have been easy, but instead yielded in a way that felt controlled, offering just enough resistance before giving way completely. That resistance mattered, because it told you something about how it had been prepared, about the care taken to preserve texture rather than sacrifice it for ease. The first cut felt deliberate, not because it was difficult, but because it invited you to approach it with intention, to build the bite rather than take it automatically. The red wine reduction coated rather than saturated, settling into the meat instead of sitting on top of it, bringing depth without weight. The garlic mashed potatoes provided a foundation that grounded the dish without flattening it, holding their own without competing for attention. The tri-colored carrots introduced contrast, not enough to distract, but enough to keep the experience from settling into repetition, each bite shifting slightly depending on how it was composed. It wasn’t a dish that encouraged speed, and it didn’t allow for it either, because its structure demanded that you stay with it, that you continue to build rather than rush. I found myself slowing down without realizing it, paying attention in a way that felt natural rather than forced. And as the plate came together, it became less about the individual components and more about how they supported one another, each element holding its place without drifting. 

What stood out most, though, was not any single moment within the dish, but how consistently it held together from beginning to end, never peaking too early, never losing balance, never becoming less than what it was in that first bite. It didn’t rely on contrast for effect, and it didn’t need to escalate to maintain attention. It simply sustained itself, steady and deliberate, and that kind of control is far more difficult to achieve than anything showy or overly complex. There was no need to adjust, no moment where something fell out of alignment, no point where the experience asked for correction. It remained exactly what it was meant to be from start to finish, and that consistency is what made it memorable, because it removed the need to search for what worked. It was all working. And sitting there, moving through it one bite at a time, it became clear that this wasn’t just well-prepared food, but food that understood itself, that had been executed with a level of awareness that extended beyond the plate.

By the time we reached the point where most meals begin to taper off, when the natural inclination is to close things out and move on, the decision to order dessert didn’t feel like an addition, but a continuation, because nothing about the meal had suggested an ending yet. The pacing had never pushed us forward, and there was no sense that we had arrived at a natural stopping point, only that we were still within something that hadn’t fully finished unfolding. The crème brûlée arrived first, its surface smooth and unbroken, carrying that familiar, delicate tension that signals what is about to happen before the spoon ever touches it. There is a very specific sound when it gives way, a clean, controlled crack that separates the surface from what sits beneath it, and that moment alone carries its own kind of satisfaction. Beneath it, the custard held exactly as it should, not too firm, not too loose, but balanced in a way that allowed it to move without collapsing, rich without becoming heavy. The contrast between the cool custard and the brittle top remained consistent with each bite, never softening, never losing its structure, maintaining that balance from beginning to end. The German chocolate cake, by contrast, moved in a different direction entirely, unapologetically rich, layered and substantial without crossing into excess, each bite carrying weight without becoming overwhelming. The sweetness was present, but controlled, grounded just enough to keep it from tipping too far, allowing the texture and depth to carry as much of the experience as the flavor itself. It didn’t ask for restraint, and it didn’t need it. What stood out wasn’t just the quality of either dessert on its own, but how naturally they followed everything that had come before, not as an afterthought, but as a continuation of the same level of care and execution. There was no drop-off, no sense that the final course had been given less attention. And by that point, staying longer no longer felt like a decision we had made, but something the evening had quietly insisted on from the moment we sat down.

On later visits, that same consistency held, not in a way that felt repeated, but in a way that confirmed what we had already experienced that first night, the kind of confirmation that removes any doubt about whether something was situational or real. Returning without the structure of a wedding day, without the built-in pacing and emotion that comes with it, only made that clarity more apparent, because there was nothing surrounding the experience to influence how it was received. It stood on its own. A butternut squash ravioli layered with ginger and allspice, finished with brown butter, sage, cranberries, and candied pecans, moved across the palate in sequence rather than all at once, each component arriving clearly before giving way to the next, never competing, never collapsing into sameness. The first bite introduced warmth, subtle and controlled, followed by sweetness that was immediately grounded by the butter and the sage, and then a shift into something brighter, more textured, as the cranberries and pecans came forward. Nothing blurred together. Nothing was lost. Each element held its place, contributing without overwhelming, creating a progression that felt measured rather than accidental. It required attention, but not effort, because the dish guided you through it without needing to announce itself. I found myself slowing down again, not because I needed to, but because the pacing of the dish demanded it, the same way the room had earlier. And that repetition of experience, that consistency across visits, is what separates a good meal from one that stays with you, because it proves that what you felt the first time wasn’t circumstance. It was intention. And more importantly, it was repeatable. 

What began as a single glass of wine became something much more than that, not because we intended it to, but because nothing about the experience suggested it should end where we thought it would. The plan had been simple, contained, nothing more than a quiet pause before moving on, but somewhere between opening the menu and finishing the last bite, that plan gave way to something else entirely. We stayed longer than we expected, not because we decided to, but because the experience didn’t give us a reason to leave. There was no moment where it tapered off, no point where it asked less of our attention, no signal that we had reached its limit. It held from beginning to end, from the first pour to the final course, never losing alignment, never becoming less than what it had been when it began. And that is what has stayed with me, not just from that night, but from every return since. It wasn’t a single dish, or a single moment, but the consistency of the experience as a whole, the way it sustained itself without needing to escalate or draw attention. There is a difference between a place that impresses once and a place that continues to deliver every time you return, and Gideon Owen Wine Company has proven itself to be the latter. And in a line of work that has taken me to hundreds of venues across the state, that is not something I say lightly. 

Where One Meal Became Something More 

What I’ve come to understand over the years is that places like this don’t announce themselves in advance. They aren’t always the ones you plan for, and they aren’t always the reason you set out in the first place. More often, they appear somewhere in between, in the space carved out by the work itself, discovered not because you were searching, but because you were paying attention when it mattered. Gideon Owen was one of those places for me, a restaurant and a setting that revealed itself gradually, then completely, and has continued to hold its ground every time I’ve returned. And it is not the only one. All over the Buckeye State, there are restaurants run by people who care deeply about what they serve, where the experience is not manufactured, but earned, and where the food is strong enough to stand on its own long after the moment has passed. In this ongoing series, I will share them with you. From Ashtabula to Cincinnati, Toledo to Marietta, and everywhere in between, I have my favorites Some are tucked just beyond the venue, discovered in the margins of a long day. Others require a little more intention, a drive that extends the night just a bit further than planned. But each one carries that same defining quality, the ability to turn what would have been an ordinary stop into something that stays with you. This is simply where I begin. Because if one night that started with a single glass of wine can unfold into something worth returning to again and again, then it stands to reason that there are others, waiting in the same quiet way, just beyond the next venue, the next drive, the next stop along the road. And over time, those stops begin to form a pattern, not of coincidence, but of consistency, places that reveal themselves only to those willing to slow down long enough to notice them. That is what this series becomes, not a list, not a ranking, but a record of those moments, of the meals and the people behind them that have made the miles between weddings something worth remembering in their own right. 

Great food. Genuine people. Places worth going out of your way to find. 

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