The Connection Between Food and Sailing

A highly esteemed sail-blogger recently asked,

and I'm paraphrasing it, 'Is there a connection

between food and sailing?'  I say yes.  Well

then how, you ask?  It all began in the city of 

Brotherly Love.  My earliest restaurant memories

were most likely from this place, Kelly's on Mole

Street.  No, it wasn't a Mexican restaurant, but an

old-fashioned oyster house.  My parents would 

bring me and my brother downtown during the 

holidays to have lunch and see the Christmas show.

I don't recall if it was lunch and then the show, or

the other way around.  It doesn't matter.  I

have a very selective memory of both events.  I'd have 

Snapper soup.  I'm sure my parents had the same, but

there were all kinds of other items on the menu, 

including oysters, of which both of them were fond.

I loved the soup, and I remember it being maroon in

color, with chewy pieces of turtle in it.  My Dad always

got the additional sherry to pour into it, and a few years

later, I adopted that habit and opted for the sherry to

add to any given dish with which it was offered.  There

was a huge glass jar with a lid that held fist-sized oyster 

crackers.  That I clearly remember.  When we left and 

went outside, I remember racks of clothes on hangers,

rolling on wheels, being pushed by men rushing around 

like they had to be somewhere quickly.  Garment type

district?  Then as I remember, it was off to Wanamaker's,

where the Christmas (not holiday) show was to be.

My brother and I would climb all over the pedestal,

trying to get up on the eagle.  The Christmas show

was an afterthought.  Apparently they had a great

pipe organ and played grand tunes which my old man

would sing and whistle all the way home and for days

afterward.  Whatever.  I wanted to ride the Wanamaker

Eagle.  This story is going somewhere.  Promise. 

Without getting too informative, John Wanamaker was 

an extremely successful department store magnate.

His son, Rodman, singly inherited his Father's entire

fortune.  Somehow or another, he got to liking sailing.

In turn, a race and trophy managed to be named after

him down Barnegat Bay, although I couldn't find the 

connection after 15 or 20 minutes on the Google, which

means there most likely isn't one.  But the race committee

liked the name, and the trophy is still competed for.

(My Mom told me never to end a sentence in a preposition)

Shit, I did it again.

Look at this crowd!  And we wonder why people think we're

snobs when we say we're sailors!

The Rodman Wanamaker trophy in the lobby? of the

Seaside Park Yacht Club. I don't think it's snobby, 

but that's because I've been around the sweaty crewmembers

of the A-Cats after the races, and heard them curse, 

and seen them pop open the cold PBRs from their 

styrofoam coolers in the trunks of their Ford Pintos,

moments away from exploding in rear-impact collisions.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.  Here's an A-Cat, racing on the Wanamaker course,

south of the Seaside Bridge on the Barnegat Bay.  Philadelphia

oyster house to sailing on Barnegat Bay.  That's the food-to-

sailing connection.  Hey, are you sleeping?