A Facebook meme went around last week asking people what restaurants they remember from childhood and if the joints are still around. I remember the usual because they were unusual in many Nova Scotia towns in the 80s. (There was no McDonald’s in New Minas in the Annapolis Valley until the mid-eighties.) The other night, another restaurant popped into my head, a place that has almost been eaten away by my brain.
The Colonial Inn was on Main Street in downtown Wolfville. It was a 10-minute walk from Wolfville Junior High, where I attended Grades 7 to 9. As a student who was bused to town every day from the countryside, I always brought my lunch: a nutritious meal prepared lovingly by my mother. However, sometimes I didn’t want my milk or apple or sandwich. Sometimes, I wanted to go to the Colonial Inn.
For two dollars, my friend Angela and I could get a hot and greasy plate of fries to share. At 14 years old, two bucks was a lot of money. It was such a treat when one of us had the cash or we each had a dollar to chip in for an oily mid-day meal. Off to downtown we went.
My parents had never specifically told me that downtown was off-limits. I was probably told to stay on the school grounds. While town students got to home for lunch, rural kids like Angela and I had nothing to do for an hour. We were allowed to eat lunch in our classrooms and then we had to go outside, rain or snow or shine. That often meant walking around Wolfville.
Wolfville is a quaint and cute university town (home of Acadia University), and the Colonial Inn wasn’t a seedy bar or a filthy diner: it was a nice brick-faced restaurant. The servers wore long mustard coloured skirts, peasant blouses and “Colonial-style” white caps. I only remember women as servers and one in particular because she used to ride the bus with me. To me, she was an adult but she would have only been at most, 18. Her name was Dora and she often brought Angela and me our one plate of fries that we split down the middle. Angela smothered her chips in ketchup while I liked mine plain.
We hoovered down our shared lunch, always aware that time was ticking away and we had to go back to class. After the last chip was gone, we’d run up the hill to school, wondering where we’d get two bucks for tomorrow’s fries.
When we moved on to Grade 10 (high school), we moved schools and communities. I didn’t go back to the Colonial Inn and one day, it wasn’t there. There was a new restaurant in its place. Angela and I had moved on too and met new friends. We’ve never lost touch though and I see her when I go home. Maybe next visit we should go get some fries.