HIGHLAND
By Duncan
A motor trip to Highland takes about two hours, give or take.
You leave Indianapolis, jump on the super slab (I-65), and follow the signs to Chicago. Highland is nestled in the northwest corner of Indiana. On the other hand, Jack leaves Milwaukee, heads south and through Chicago, Illinois, and ends up in Highland, Indiana, at about the same time. Yes, Jack and I are meeting for lunch.
Jack is one of those friends who knows way too much about me. When he calls for lunch, on the spur of the moment, I get in “Mean Yellow” and head north, no questions asked.
The Town Club is a family-owned "mom-and-pop" restaurant that has been in the family since 1947. The current owner is Mark Hines. Jack and I had lunch at the restaurant about a year ago. The interior is a bit old-fashioned, but it gives us a nostalgic feeling of the 1960s and 70s, reminding us of our youth. The bar is cozy, and there's no pretentiousness here. No one acts superior or more important than anyone else.
I stumbled upon this place through a Google search about a year ago. We were searching for a peaceful spot roughly halfway between our locations, and Highland, Indiana, fit the bill. I asked Google for recommendations for a mom-and-pop restaurant, and Google said, “You need to check this place out!” After looking at their website, I found the deciding factor.
The Town Club offers steaks, seafood, and dry-rub baby back ribs. But can it compete when it comes to drinks? You bet! The Town Club serves hand-shaken martinis with a full menu of single malt scotch and bourbons. This is definitely going to be OUR place.
Jack is on time. He is making fun of me for taking pictures. He has his camera at the ready. You can tell he is an old man by the style of the car he drives. Is that a station wagon or an SUV? I shall allow you, the reader, to decide for yourself. I don’t want to disparage my friend by suggesting his choice of vehicle color needs to be assessed. But Jack does drink from time to time. At his age, we must remember to “Live and Let Live.”
Yes, it’s always good to be in the presence of My Maynard. If you think I’m flamboyant, you haven’t seen anything yet regarding Mr. Maynard. We entered the bar, like Cramer slinging in a room on Seinfeld. We were happy to be alive.
One woman sat alone at a table as Jack and I climbed onto our bar stools. I looked back at the woman sitting behind us; she was not in the mood to acknowledge our presence. She seemed intimidating to me. But women with a “stiff” demeanor have always made me pause.
The woman sitting alone behind me at the table reminded me of Anne, the Princess Royal and daughter of Queen Elizabeth. She ate her meal with the same demeanor as Anne, but I've never dined with Anne, Princess Royal. I was apprehensive about our loud and ostentatious behavior in the Town Club. I don't want you to think I've been invited to dinner at Buckingham Palace.
Lauren - (Barmaid)
Lauren, the barmaid, was in charge of the bar during our visit this trip. We introduced ourselves with fanfare and grandeur, telling Lauren that we were from Indianapolis and Milwaukee as if we were movie stars entering a public space. We were there to tell stories, catch up on each other's lives, and pretend that life couldn’t be better. Which is an understatement. When you think of the privilege I have of having a vehicle that can take me on a two-hour road trip at the drop of a hat, enjoy the friendship of a friend, eat, drink, laugh, and joke, and return home with wonderful memories. Life is good.
The first order of business was a cocktail. Jack started off the event with Lauren,
"I would like a Gin Martini made with Bombay Sapphire Gin, shaken with lots of ice and not stirred. Please serve it to me in a v-shaped cocktail glass to enhance the aroma. When you bring it to me, please be careful and set it down gently so as not to disturb the gin from its dutiful purpose. Also, I want you to know that I will not be allowed to order another cocktail until I leave, no matter how much I plead or beg, even if I get on my knees, shed a tear, or implore you with clasped hands in a prayerful pose. Please deny me, even if I insist on another Gin Martini."
I couldn’t help but utter softly, “Like all the other women he approaches.”
When it was my turn to order my cocktail, I asked for 'two fingers' of my favorite Scotch. For those unfamiliar with the term, 'two fingers' refers to a measurement of whiskey in the glass.
The term originated from the old West, where a cowboy would order a drink and have it poured to the level of the bartender's finger wrapped around the bottom of the glass. A cowboy could only hope the bartender was a little on the chunky side. Today, we use the term to mean two ounces of Scotch. The thickness of the bartender's fingers is no longer a factor in the measurement.
The Town Club offered twelve (12) different brands of single malt scotch. Jack suggested that I do the same since he was drinking premium gin. After considering all the options, we decided on bottles labeled 12-year-old cast. This means the whiskey was aged in a wooden barrel for at least 12 years. As for the price, it's best not to ask.
I have readers of this "diary" who think I can be a bit frugal. However, there is a time and place to inquire about the price of something. I was raised by a very strict mother who taught me good manners. It's not polite to ask about the cost of a neighbor's car or someone's income. If you're curious about the total of a dinner bill, it's considered good manners to offer to pay the entire bill if you pick it up to look at it.
At that point, I decided to go with the flow. I noticed a 12-year-old Glenlivet on the shelf. I know from experience that a bottle of the 12-year-old Glenlivet costs under $40.00. I asked for two fingers of Glenlivet on the rocks. The bartender and Jack approved.
It was time to order a meal. We asked Lauren what the most popular lunch at the Town Club was without looking at the menu.
"She was quick with an answer: 'You can’t go wrong with the steak sandwich. It comes with crispy fries. How do you want your steak prepared?' Jack and I looked at each other, and we each said, 'Medium rare.'"
“Well, Jack, we met at that sleepy little mom-and-pop bank in Speedway, Indiana. You were new, and so was I. I think I was hired in 1998, and you were a week or so behind me. I will never forget that place. When they hired me to help with their mortgage loans program, they didn’t have a desk or a chair for me to sit behind. So they told me that the president had just retired and his office was not being used, so I was told to use his office.”
“Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, and you have the story all wrong.”
“I don’t think so, my personal and very close friend.”
"I was sitting in the opulent office of the bank president. As people walked by, they were curious about who I was. Some even asked if I was the new President. To maintain privacy, I partially closed the door, leaving it open about three to four inches. Then, Jack, you came down the hall, introducing yourself to everyone as the new Trust Officer of the bank. You were excited to be the new guy who would make this bank a ton of money."
“I think you’re over-exaggerating my enthusiasm.”
With a smile, I lifted my tumbler of golden nectar to my lips. My mind was reconstructing that faithful day. Do I remember the details of that day, or are they made up?
Here is my side of the story: I could hear someone coming down the bank hall and getting ready to pass the Office of the President. He was loud and very excited to be a team member. I tried to put the commotion out of my mind and focus on why I was there. They didn’t have a desk, chair, or phone for me. I was confused about how I was going to operate in this environment. I was beginning to wonder if I had made a mistake. I was, to say the least, not as excited as I should have been when this guy, walking down the hall, pushed the door to the office of the President open and said, "Excuse me, I just want to introduce myself to you. I’m a new employee; I’m your new trust officer."
I sank back into the high-backed, ox-blood-colored leather chair reserved for the President and thought, "Is this guy serious? He thinks I'm the President."
With a tone of authority, I said, "Well, come on in, Jack. Have a seat and tell me a bit about yourself. It's great to have you on the team."
Jack entered the room with an air of importance and sat in one of the luxurious side chairs, perched on the edge as if to show his utmost respect.
He began by sharing his background, including his previous work and his desire to succeed. Jack hailed from Wisconsin and had a wife, children, grandchildren, and a deaf son. He took pride in his life and was honored to be a part of the bank's team.
It was becoming embarrassing. He really believed I was the President. I needed to find a way to steer this conversation in a different direction.
"Jack, could you please go to the office door and close it all the way? I'd like to have a private conversation with you." Jack almost jumped up from his chair. He closed the door very gently and returned to his seat.
"Jack, lean back in your chair and relax. I want to tell you a story. I'm not the President of this bank. You are trying to impress a nobody. I'm a new sales guy in the mortgage loan area who doesn't have a desk or a chair. They put me in here until they can figure it out. Now, what do you have to say to me?"
Jack sat there for a few seconds and then began to laugh. I started to laugh, too. I asked Jack, "Are all banks like this?"
He laughed even louder. He then said,
“You want to get a drink after work?”
I said, "There is a half-empty bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses left in the President's desk. What's wrong with a snort right now?"
So, there you have it. We became friends thirty-four years ago, in the President's office.
Duncan - Jack Maynard - Tampa - Jan 2, 2004
Jack was always on the move. He didn't stay at the mom-and-pop bank for long. I'm curious to know who left first, him or me. Jack relocated to Tampa and invited me to his home almost every New Year's. Then he moved to Seattle and asked me for New Year's weekend. Jack and his wife are back where they started, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Jack Maynard - Duncan
I know a few of you want to know about the bill. In a previous post (Story: Derailed in Fishers), it seemed I got hit with a liquor bill that cost me $32.00 for two fingers of Scotch. Well, while it’s not acceptable to talk about Religion, Politics, or Sex in polite company, I guess it won’t hurt to tell you that we asked Lauren to split the bill down the middle. My half came to $30.00.
Before we left the building, we agreed we needed to have lunch more often. How about twice a year? Lauren suggested once a quarter. We looked at each other and smiled.
