You think you can do what I do?

As far as my associates know, I've spent the last three weeks traveling cross-country on the Oregon Trail, in search of a new life in the off-world colonies. And not, as might also be supposed, living in my car and working out of a studio somewhere in West Virginia, Photoshopping myself into various national monuments and writing inane blog posts about beer and cheap motels.

Without confirming or denying these allegations on either side, if this sort of adventure appeals to you, here's a brief guide to your options in how to get from point A to point B when those points are over 3000 miles apart.

1. Decide the nature of your trip. This will by necessity be the product of your circumstances, to some extent. For instance, if you have a full-time 'job,' three weeks of vacation may not be feasible. If your employment is flexible, you may choose as I did to work 'from the road.' If you have sufficient liquid capital saved, you may choose to forgo employment and treat your 'slow travel adventure' as a vacation.

Be advised that the most economical way to relocate yourself and your belongings is undoubtedly to liquidate as many of your possessions as feasible and fly. You will soon realize that to purchase a physical object is not only to buy the object, but also to pay to get it to your home, to pay for the space to store it (as a fraction of your lease or mortgage), to pay to maintain, insure, and protect it, and to pay to relocate it if you move.

If you are not concerned with economy, or if you are attached to possessions, you can drive. A car can hold much more densely packed smaller objects than you would think, and it is only items of extreme dimensional weight (mattresses, large/assembled furniture, etc.) which pose an issue. I cannot recommend non-weatherproof roof storage unless you can exert control over the weather or are prepared to frequently install and remove it.

Your cost of living will increase on the road by a factor of maybe threefold, which is important to bear in mind. Unless you increase your income threefold and still to make progress, you will lose money doing this. Undeterred? Read on.

Oregon Trail - Part 9 - No good deed

I've been living hotel to motel for weeks, and I'm currently parked in a discount motel in Portland. The internet is intermittent, but otherwise it's as decent as it's possible for it to be. I go from apartment to apartment, one of which looks like a halfway house and requires the occupant to go down the hall and through the kitchen to reach the bathroom. In a way, I miss the road.

I get groceries and bring a plastic bag to re-use. I get offered a paper one, the clerk saying, "You want to use that? Shameful plastic!" Of course I realize later that plastic shopping bags are banned in the city, but really I'm following the spirit of the rule if not the letter, huh? What do you want from me? The ban goes on to recommend you line your garbage can with newspaper and wash it out regularly instead, which brings to mind: that sounds pretty unsanitary, who has the space/sink/time to wash out a garbage can, what the fuck kind of environmental activist still reads the news on paper? Paper bags are great, sure, and biodegrade easily, and in a city where it rains 96% of the time, maybe biodegrades even before you reach your car bike or mass transit.

While waiting outside one of those apartments, I go for a walk (it is not the first time my knock has gone unanswered), and find a wallet. I phone the police, unsure of whom else to defer to, since there's not obvious contact info and the license is from Washington. I wait with it for an officer for another half hour, but then call back and explain politely that I need to leave, to finally go look at this apartment, and nobody's been dispatched to pick this thing up. I offer to take it to a mailbox (USPS apparently mails wallets back to owners for free), but the dispatcher recommends against it. I try to explain that the only other option is for me to leave it there, because what the hell am I going to do, take it? Even if I dropped it off at the nearest precinct, that's across the river, and I'm trying to be a good Samaritan, not a civil saint.

Anyway, while touring the apartment, I get a call from an officer who's come to pick it up, and whom I can see out the window and play a sort of "you're getting warmer" game with him from my vantage point while he no doubt scans for a red laser bead and wonders just who the hell this 'grassy knoll' guy on the phone is. He finds it, I hang up, and eventually make it down the block to introduce myself, and evidently give my name and date of birth for his report, though why he didn't ask on the phone, who knows. I sympathize; clearly the PD is busy that day and I'm wasting time with a not-actual-crime, other than that there's no cash in the wallet, for which I am now undoubtedly the number one suspect, and this poor guy has to fill out a report for some citizen from another state who couldn't bother to keep his wallet in his pants.

I head back to the motel to simultaneously dry out and not dry out, as I make my way through the Sierra Nevada Beer Camp. I promise myself to publish my musings on it, as well as the Lessons from the Road which I have learned.

Oregon Trail - Twin Peaks - Part 8 or something

I can't afford a room at the Great Northern, so the North Bend Motel will have to do. It's nice, clean, and though the rates are not published, it costs pretty much what it ought to. The woman in the room next to mine is smoking in her doorway, and behind her I see a bicycle and a harp, and in front of her I see no car in the parking lot, and I am wondering what that story may be, wondering whether she can carry this massive harp on a bicycle, wondering if she smokes cigarettes while riding the bicycle.

I go to the store and get a package of smoked salmon for breakfast and a box of Sierra Nevada Beer Camp beers, because hey, the mission here is to be as gamey as possible.

I wake up to the sound of lovely harp music, and as I pack my car, the harpist comes out and warns me that a little bird she's befriended is hiding under my car, and that I should coax him out before I pull away. By the time I leave, the bird is long gone.

Oregon Trail - Part Six - Rapid City

First, some words about the Corn Palace.

The Corn Palace, which advertises from the highway that you should 'cornsider' visiting this
one-of-a-kind attraction, is a multipurpose municipal building for Mitchell, SD. Home to concerts,

basketball, vaccinations and more, this would-be tourist draw was more than I expected. Built in
the 20's and renovated through today, the corn is grown in 12 colors by one farmer and must be
replaced annually on the exterior. A mild summer meant a delayed harvest, and the school-aged
workforce is suddenly busy, making repairs slow. The woman giving the tour and manning the guestbook table remarks that she's pleased that the venue is used so much. I'm impressed as well; the structure is both enduring and endearing, adjoined to the town hall, and rather than (as I had assumed) a tacky tourist draw which locals put up with for the economic boost of souvenir sales (which there are, no doubt), it seems to be a rallying point for the community and makes me entertain, for a brief moment, the notion of moving to Mitchell.

I press onwards instead. Rapid City is a fantastic town, with perhaps the best hotel of my stay, for half the price of the most expensive. I go to the Firehouse Brewery for a good burger and some okay beer. On the way back, I see a girl with what looks at first like a stuffed toy fox, then like a taxidermied fox, then finally like a pet fox, with a leash and everything. I keep walking in search of another drink, which after that incident, I tell myself I need, and believe it. The Adoba hotel provides hip, stylish accommodations with extra amenities and custom omelets at breakfast. Other guests marvel at my card-access ninth floor room, while I explain that I am not in fact some VIP, but that they must have run out of normal rooms and had to give me a fancy one on the cheap. In actuality, I suspect there is little difference, but no matter since the room was great and I intend to return there some day.

In Montana, I drive past a small radio tower guarded by, I shit you not, TANKS, one of which has
a giant missile on the back. I do not stop to make a photo or even slow for a better look, lest the
Howitzer atop the second tank perforate myself, my vehicle, and my possessions. A store on the
side of the road has vintage cameras, but no bathroom, so I move on.

I stop in Hardin to get some work done and stay in a cinderblock room that's pretty clean and
makes a decent office. I reflect that any hotel with a policy prohibiting alcohol on premises and a
bottle opener on the bathroom wall is a taunting contradiction. Obesity seems widespread here;
my Philly cheese steak drips with white American cheese that has melted back into its constituent milkfat, canola oil, and polyurethane. I have a steak at a restaurant run by plain-dressed folk, and when I get back to the laundromat where I've left my clothes, a woman is apologizing and putting quarters in the dryer for my clothes; my understanding is that due to the majority of driers being out of order, she had to commandeer the one that contained my clothes, but when she removed them, they were not quite dry. I appreciate the gesture, and being no stranger to communal driers, I sympathize. I stop by the grocery store to see displays of butter, packs of American cheese larger than should be available outside a commercial setting, and other 'red flags' but nothing summed it up as well as this salad, which I promise contained lettuce, probably. Decent beer selection for Montana, but I don't buy any.

I also see this magazine:

I reflect the that thing to "just do" must be "die" because otherwise, I think aging is inevitable.

I check out the next morning, and the woman at the desk (which I believe is in her living room—it has a suspiciously nice television and I suspect she lives upstairs) remarks that I have a new shirt on; I had explained when she first commented on how well-dressed I was (overdressed, in fact, for the entire town), I explained that I was out of shirts. Anyway, upon her remembering this which I had already forgotten, I explain that I made it to the laundromat after all. And then I leave, because I've got to make it to Spokane before bedtime.

Oregon Trail - Part Seven

I roll into Devils Tower and make some photos. Perfect timing lands me there at golden hour; blame the wasted time in Deadwood. I brag about this to a friend of mine; "Go fuck yourself," he says. I reply that this is what everyone here has been telling me as I distractedly try and swat the flies off of my elk/bison burger (it's gamey) and indeed, away from my water. I wonder what the flies like about the water. I know they like me on account of I'm full of shit. Anyway, Deadwood is mostly a attraction which has been entirely rebuilt, because essentially every building in Deadwood has burned down at least once. Much like the RV trailer I pass on the side of the road. The cops are there and it looks like everyone's okay, but I don't stick around. I see a guy who looks just like Wild Bill Hickock, and I can't decide whether he's a costume character, or just a character. Halloween, I reflect, is just around the corner. As is Wyoming, so I beat feet.

I book a room at the Hulett Motel in a town of under 400 people, many of whom seem to work in establishments to serve the Devils Tower tourism industry. Things in the town are expensive as a rule, perhaps due to higher cost of bringing them in to the remote location, but the motel is very reasonably priced and discounted on account of it being nearly empty.

I crack my Three Floyds/Mikkeller Majsgoop (y'know, 'majs' like corn). It smells hoppy in a gnarly way, and taste kinda follows. Not at all like corn, mostly just a big American barleywine.Hoppy, but not completely unmanageable. Maybe I needed to save this for a couple years. I don't even save it for a day, and toss the last couple sips rather than exacerbate the next morning's headache.

I shake that headache with some food from the café next door and steep some tea. I take it to go and head back to Devils Tower. I pass on some overpriced sunscreen and regret it, paying more for less at the profiteer establishments outside the park. It occurs to me that this is a more sensible business model, making more money from fewer purchases, than the hotel's policy of discounting during low demand, but I'm thankful for it. The Motel is nice, the clerk at the front desk had a long conversation with me about life, photography, and my fake northern accent, and it's the first place I've stayed in for two nights in a row. I make sure to make positive mention of the place, because I have told her about this blog.


Anyway, I buy the hotel and just as I get to the ranger station, the ranger is explaining how there's going to be a solar eclipse today. Go figure, on the day I pay too much for sunscreen. I should've bargained, but the clerk had a radio voice that can outmatch mine any day so it might've been in vain.

I get back and have dinner and a New Glarus Pie Lust. I have to read the label before I realize what has struck me about the beer; it's a wheat beer. And to be honest, it doesn't taste much like pumpkin or pie spice at all. But then, Apple Jacks don't taste like apple. Smells spicy though,

Oregon Trail - Part Five - Out on the Edge of the Prairie

Visiting the Mall of America was perhaps an ill-advised idea. The best reason I had was a Star Trek exhibition, which was under-lit, and expensive for what it was. The Minnesota Public Radio store (I looked) was years since closed. The two places claiming to serve tea (and I'm not even counting Teavana on that list), on further inspection, do not. Even the Star Trek exhibition is an overpriced disappointment.

I just miss the shuttle back to the hotel, so I walk it; it's less than a mile. I nearly step on what looks to be a used condom. I shuffle my feet in the grass as I pass by a LabCorp building, wondering if they could test my shoes for AIDS.

I make it to another tea place. It's maybe not exactly what I would've envisioned, but it's pretty close. I steep and set up camp to get some work in. My tea leaves are enormous and taste faintly of salmon. Someone comes in hopping on one foot, and keeps it up for the entire transaction. Evidently she is supposed to be wearing a cast but lacks the patience for donning and removing it. The staff insist on helping her exit, or at least carrying her hot tea. Whether someone could carry hot tea without spilling it while hopping will remain a mystery. I step next door to AAA for an emergency (paper) map and order some more tea. The selection really was remarkable, and it was a redeeming end to my misadventures in Minnesota.

I burn rubber down state roads, cutting a diagonal slice and trying to make up time for my detour. I drive like I'm on the run from the law, having killed my Past Self and left him in a ditch by the side of the road, wondering if they'll make the connection between my face and the one on the slab at the morgue—the insanity in my eyes and the glaze on his. If there's any advice I can give; don't be beholden to the person you were yesterday. Sure, you may owe where you are now, for better or for worse, to them, but that's no reason to carry their torch.

Sometimes you've got to use the torch to burn a bridge under your ass. Though in a place as fart-smelling as this state, I'd be careful lighting anything on fire. Even once I'm out of the sulfurous state, South Dakota smells like skunks, which I reflect is not much of an improvement.

The jackass behind me seems adamant on illuminating my back bumper—I can see no other clear reason for his gratuitous use of high-beams unless to daze me in preparation for him to pass me, which he mercifully does.

I decide to skip out on the Kool-Aid of the fancy hotel chain and go for a Days Inn to salve my budget. The hotel room is cheap but clean, in spite of its appearance. The only actual dirty thing in the room is booklet of menus and the porno DVD in the front cover. Fastest wi-fi on the trip so far which bodes well because it is going to be a long night. But first I need food. Somehow I've gotten hungry again, and I see within walking distance: an IHOP, a 24-hour family restaurant, and a dive bar/casino. If you have to ask which one I chose, you need to start reading this blog from the beginning, friend.

When I get in, the kitchen is closing, so I'm told my only options are fried foods or a pizza. This doesn't bother me as much as I wish it would. I get some fried mushrooms and they are actually darn good. Casinos are terrible, at least in concept; this one appears populated by multi-game video gambling machines from the Atari era. The staff are diligently cleaning and dusting everything despite the dim lighting, including the Captain Morgan statue.

I go back to my room and drink my New Glarus Spotted Cow and try to get some work done. The beer is a normal brown ale, and good, the same way a Lammsbräu is.

I think back about the casino staff then as people instead of concepts, and wonder whether they are doing what they really want to be doing; wonder what their dreams were when they were young. What they may be now. Wondering whether when they articulate these dreams, do they preface with, "when I grow up," do they consider themselves grown-up already?

Do I?

Oregon Trail - High Divide Double Blonde

Big estery nose like peaches and cream. I used an Aventinus glass because, strangely enough, it was the one that was handy. Shows off a lovely gradient of amber to gold and a thick, persistent head.

One sip of this and I'm a believer. Pete wasn't yanking my chain at all. This is a singularly great beer. What the hell does 'double blond' mean anyway? It was only Pete's note and the crazy wax dipping that made me take note. It's brewed with "honey malt, fresh Wenatchee peaches and cherries, then aged in white wine barrels for four months." And that sounds kinda like a crapshoot—a high-risk, high-yield operation for sure since cherry is a notoriously difficult flavor and peach is hardly ever even attempted.

So the flavor is mostly peach. Cherry is there if you look, subtle, but it works together, I promise. The wine barreling ties it all together with a nice little off-dry bow on top. Dangerously drinkable, dangerously interesting; each sip demands another and in spite of the relatively high alcohol content (and relatively high price), I could drink this all night.

And given that I'm alone in this here hotel room, I think that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Oregon Trail Part 4 - Slow Tea from China

I suppose everything is running late today. I stop by a grocery store and break an unspoken rule of mine (buying a west coast beer on my way there) because it came highly recommended.

I try and book it to Minneapolis/St Paul but don't make it before closing time of the first of two tea stores I wanted to visit. I head to the second. I am trying to become a more patient person. The wait on my tea is Kafka-esque. Or like something out of Sartre. I would know better if I were more well-read, but in the time it has taken, I could've read a short story by each. The tea evidently required no preparation, as I make it myself, so they must have the slowest hot water kettle in the world.

I place my food order and I fear it has been lost entirely. I book a hotel room, realizing that I may be here a while. I think everyone else is more upset than I am. I should've left, but I order more tea instead. I am told that the happy hour pricing is no longer valid because it is no longer happy hour. I reflect that I have been here for over an hour, and I am not happy. Further, I reflect that I placed my food order during happy hour and would not be ordering this at all if I had received my food within the hour.

In for a penny, in for a pound. If everyone leaves in disgust, there's no way the kitchen can stay backed up.

The tea I get was all right, but it's gone now. As is my water, which came in a tiny cup because they were out of big ones. I splashed it on myself because it got cold at my outside seat. I may go refill it in the bathroom, for which there is mercifully no line.

I reflect that I could've driven to a grocery store, bought ingredients and Sterno cans, unpacked my cookware, and cooked for myself in the parking lot in less time than this has taken. Forget the Slow Food movement!

Unfortunately, most of their to-go selection is not in until Tuesday. I reflect that my food may not arrive until Tuesday, given that it's been over an hour since I ordered already.

I am told that this tea operation is mostly an online retail presence. By comparison, this restaurant aspect would be a 28.8k dial-up connection over long distance where someone keeps picking up the extension in the next room. And once it loads, it's an animated "Under Construction" GIF.

Five points out of five for concept and looking great on paper. Negative seven points for execution. I leave after waiting 2.5 hours. Not quite enough to watch a Peter Jackson movie (at least not a director's cut), but close.

On an unrelated note, I discovered an entire town in Minnesota which smells like poop. I wonder if inhabitants get used to it, do they eventually believe their shit doesn't stink? Is there any market for bathroom fans? Could they install pine-tree-shaped cardboard air fresheners the size of actual pine trees? I didn't stick around long enough to ask.

Simple Malt - Fumée

It smells like it's been in the oven a long time. Like bitter cocoa and smoldery charcoal. To taste it... dang. I honestly thought I'd tried this one before, and that it was just okay. It's good... really good, and in a powerful way. On the caliber of Alaskan Smoked Porter and Weyerbacher Fifteen (regrettably no longer in production, and currently a bit past its prime).

It's a malt bomb with serious roasty bite. It's smoky like jerky, not like barbecue. That's the best way I can think of to describe it. Getting warmer, it turns into charred anise, but if you can deal with big beer, driving to Canada, and a lot of smoke, I recommend this.

Les Fréres Houblon - Coureur de Bois

Bought this one on a whim at a store in Montréal. I knew the brewery translated to "The Hops Brothers" , but I wasn't sure what Coureur meant (something about a heart?), but I knew that 'bois' meant wood and if I could get beer and wood at the same time, so much the better. Said it was double-fermented; which I'm wondering whether refers to barrel fermentation or bottle fermentation.

Smells thick and sweet, like a concentrated amber. Nice big head. It doesn't taste syrupy though, which is nice, and it's pretty balanced. There's a small off-hint of metal, but otherwise it's pretty well balanced and nice. Not giant wood flavor, but it's there. I notice that 500mL bottles in Canada are cheap thrills—not marked up as in America (consider price per volume—you often pay extra for a larger format, but they are easier for breweries to package). I wonder if this is for tax reasons, and what other shenanigans The Man has been up to as regards my beer. Also that Unibroue is everywhere and seriously cheap, especially considering how good it is.

According to Wikipedia, seems as though a coureur de bois was a woodsman/trader from early French Canada. So maybe a courier of the woods. According to the brewery website, it is a strong beer, supposed to age well, and the Belgian-style double fermentation gives it a rich amber color. The residual sugar should release aromas of some kinda malt and fruits. Not bad for somebody who has never actually studied French, eh? But beer is a universal language. No mention of whether wood is actually involved in the making of it, nor clarification as to what double fermentation could refer to (though I am almost positive it refers to bottle refermentation). I was hoping for a Canadian take on DBA, but oh well.

Oregon Trail - Part 3 - Chicago to New Glarus

Through the drizzle I drove from Munster to Chicago to visit an exceptionally gamey looking tea store. It turned out to be a wholesaler, and the man who answered the buzzer was busy with deliveries, but gave me a very nice looking sample to console me for having driven 800 miles to get there and to hasten my departure hence.


I met with some friends for lunch, which was the first meal that was so large I was unable to finish it. This meant a late start to New Glarus—late enough that I wouldn't make it before the brewery closed for the day. I got only the view of it from the highway.

New Glarus is a tiny Swiss theme park, an example of small town charm in full blumen. Two motels are sold out, and the third place has only four rooms. Three are booked, and I'm told the fourth is "really crappy and $100." The Mäd'l at the door insists on showing it, and I pass, upon seeing mysterious stains under the mattress.


I console myself by buying some New Glarus beers at Roy's Market, which has a great selection and probably the best prices you are going to see. I don't like to talk about the price of beers, partly because it's rather political, and partly because beer really only costs what I am willing to pay (which has a tendency to be "fuckin' much"), so I suppose out of potential embarrassment to myself. But big NG bottles there run about $9 if memory serves. Fantastic price for what should rightfully be much more expensive beers (large amounts of fresh fruit needed to brew, world-renowned quality, difficult sour fermentation).

I book it north after that, noting that Prairie Home Companion is over at 7pm in its native time zone. I have difficulty finding a hotel, or indeed, roads that go to places I might want to go, but I luck out and see a sign from a road for that hotel chain I'm trying to earn loyalty points at. More on that, as well as its merit as an idea, at a later date.

I have dinner with a civil engineer, in town for a lecture at the local university, who answers a couple questions I had about pavement (which looks different near Madison, WI). Roads paved in concrete are tougher and require less maintenance, but are more susceptible to corrosion from salt and are more costly to repair, and take longer to set in the first place. Asphalt is more prone to freeze-that cracking and is quieter; in fact, prototype pavement made of recycled tires is in testing for noise reduction. We muse on zoning laws in rich neighborhoods mandating slow speed limits so the rich can enjoy silence, which really cannot be bought by the poor in any event. He also recommends Screwjack, by Hunter S, when I reveal the nature of my blog.

Capital Oktoberfest is recommended by the bartender, who pours me a taste before I could ask for a Spotted Cow. I can't resist. Sweet smelling and malty with a taste to match, but not overwhelming, nutty with maybe some caramel. Really a fantastic exemplar of what an Oktoberfest should be.

And I learned something important that day. Not every great beer is made with local kumquats and cardamom. Or Randallized through reishi mushrooms. Or 11% ABV. Making a 'normal' beer great is hard. Any flaws stand out. Recipe, technique, and discipline become paramount.

That said, I have no qualms about cracking a New Glarus Strawberry Rubharb back in the hotel room. Mercifully, it's only 4% ABV, so it will not destroy me. It smells exactly like jam. Tastes like strawberry soda cut with rubharb, so it's not too sweet. What can I say, they 'get' fruit in a way that few others do, and they've made a name for themselves with it. Faint vinegar tartness... not in a bad way, either. This could be reduced into an excellent salad dressing. Or expanded into pie filling. I expand into pie filling, if the hotel bed were a pie. I reflect that I had mentioned being in Titus Andronicus to those friends from Paragraph Two.

Oregon Trail - Part 2 - Jackie O's

A speeding ticket may have left a bad taste in my mouth (a loaded-down vehicle, out-of-state plates, and a story about moving cross-country make for an easy target), but the beer at Jackie O's did not disappoint!

The Barking Pumpkin tastes subtly like gourd, I guess (it is made with real pumpkin, as opposed to many other pumpkin beers, since it is not a strong flavor), which smelled kind of like meat for some reason. The bartender mercifully re-pours it after I ask for the wrong glass. It's kinda boozy, but manageable.

Dark Apparition is big and malty, but balanced. Very much in the same vein as Plead the Fifth, if you've had that. Slightly chocolatey with beautiful lacing on the glass. You would have to really strain to find fault with this one. They're out of the Bourbon Barrel version, and I don't end up having the time to seek out their main brew facility the next day, but I do buy a bottle of their Bourbon Barrel Batch 1000. More on that at a later date.

I wander around and discover an indie film festival and Oil of Aphrodite at their bar next door. It's made with black walnut (prized for superior flavor) and I learn from the bartender that the trees are native to this region. It's delicious, unctuous, thick and malty, but with rich walnut instead of the chocolate of Dark Apparition. The bartender is extremely helpful and texts local store owners in an effort to help me track down their bottled beers, leading me next door where I buy a bottle of Rum Barrel Aged Oil of Aphrodite, which he promises me is even better.

Oregon Trail - Part 1 - Begins With a Single Step

The short version. I put everything I owned into a beat-up 2002 Toyota Camry and started driving across the country with no itinerary, determined to be a road warrior and make the country my office. There were places I wanted to go, but no schedule to keep beyond handling work as it came in and getting to a reasonable stopping place before it got too late. For reference, I've been working 3-5 hours a day, driving 3-5 hours a day, sleeping 6-8 hours a day, and the rest of the time... who even knows.

My second day on the road cross-country, and I haven't even made it out of Charlottesville, VA. It was a late start, and I ended up working at a service station during a tire rotation and an oil change, then at a private-sector student union/gym/tanning salon, and then the next day while kneeling on a tatami mat at a friend's house, and then at a different friend's house. Full of variety if not efficiency.

I stopped on the road at Edelweiss, a German restaurant where I ordered a salad and potato dumplings and felt bad for keeping them open late. The decor was interesting, but the high prices made me wonder if gratuity was included (as it is in most actual German restaurants).