Hungry, and having misplaced myself as soon as once more it is a dry, freezing night time after I arrive at The Native 63 in Watertown. I rummaged up and down the All-American Valley for many of February, dodging the high-speed site visitors of Route 8 and the hilly backroads that loom over the riverbanks to discover a place that exemplified getting back from the chilly.
It did not should be a tremendous eating dunk, or a New England inn with low beams and roaring hearth, the sort the place once-functional hitching posts with rusty iron rings are actually misplaced amongst overgrown azaleas. I used to be wandering, and simply sort of misplaced. This is what I discovered.