The participants in the big retirement started to flee the lovely Island while the Super Bowl was still in progress. I didn’t. There was a marvelous dinner in Waikiki I mentioned, and there was one last thing I wanted to do before departing, since one never knows when one will pop up in the Mid Pacific again.

Jameson’s, in historic Haleiwa on the North Shore.

Sure, the destination could have been Bellows Air Force Station and that lovely beach under the jagged spines of the steep side of the Ko’olau mountains. Or Kaena Point on the northwest corner of the island where the big surf lies, and Dillingham Field where we saw a polo player get killed one summer long ago. Something over the Dole pineapple fields away from the history of Pearl Harbor, and the sprawl of Honolulu and the bright lights of Waikiki.

At some point I will get back to the Aviation Museum of the Pacific- that was grand fun. But yesterday I let Washington peter out to their close of business and took off in the Mazda, not bothering to look at the map. There are only a certain number of places to go on an island, after all, and the reference points are about only two directions- toward the mountains (“Mauka’) and toward the ocean {“Makai”).

Everything will eventually take you Makai, even if you start Mauka. I intended to split the difference between the Ko’olaus and the Waianai range, hitting the ocean again at the historic old town of Haleiwa. Along the way there are some historic places, but I did not slow down to look. From Here to Eternity is at Schofield Barracks, home of the 25th Infantry, “Tropic Lighting.”

Kunia, home of that long underground bunker and the Cryppies. Wheeler Field, where the P-40 Tomahawk fighters were shot up on the ground by the rampaging Japanese.

But I have done enough of that for this trip. I just wanted to do a late lunch at my favorite bar on the island- or at least what I hoped was still my favorite bar- Jameson’s on the beach, and look at the surf and the end of the land to the northwest.

Haleiwa is a funky tourist town. You can feel how different it is from the urban southeast part of the island. You can feel that all just slide away once you are past the Dole Plantation visitor’s center. I didn’t feel like joining the throngs looking for shave ice, the commodity for which Haleiwa might be most famous. The signs warned of high surf, which was good, and I pulled off the road to look once I was across the bridge at the north end of town.

Jameson’s was sill there, and it being after the lunchtime rush, the lot was only part full. I steered the Mazda into an open spot, hoisted my back pack, and went in. The porch had a few open tables, but you never get any good stories at a table by yourself, and I nodded to the hostess and told her I was just going to get a seat at the bar and have lunch.

She nodded and smiled, and I walked in. Bree’an was the duty bartender, and things were just the way I remembered. Judy was next to me, she had been there thirty years doing the books for the restaurant, she was next to Bill, a restaurant manager from down the road on his day off, and Malia, a local lady with a big smile and a personality to match.

I got a drink and settled in to listen and learn. I could tell you the stories about how everyone wound up here in this pleasant little place. But though they are all different, they are all the same. I was led through one about birth-mothers being re-united with kids given up to adoption long ago to a discussion of how fresh the food was, and whether or not the sashimi was as good as it sounded. Here is the presentation:

Here is the verdict:

I remarked to Bree’an that the wasabi dipping sauce was spectacular. She gave me a sly smile and placed her index finger next to her nose.

“It is not Wasabi,” she said. “It is a specialty here at Jameson’s.”

“Don’t be coy,” I said. “What is it? Tastes as hot as wasabi.”

“It is soy and Coleman’s mustard powder,” she said brightly. “It brings the heat and just the right texture.”

I smiled right back. “That is something I can take back to the east coast. I am going to need the heat. It is still winter back there.”

I had an Irish coffee to finish lunch, and enjoyed the banter with the locals. Then I paid the tab and walked out to look at the ocean. The North Shore is something special. The surf rolled, the mist rising above the breakers.

Who would have thought the taste of aloha was actually Coleman’s hot English mustard?

Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303