Page 7 of On Tap for the Bear
"You're not planning to go back, are you?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "To the Bay Area, I mean. The food truck circuit."
"No." She says it with such certainty that I feel a pang of envy. "I'm staying. I've been looking at commercial kitchen spaces, actually. Thinking about opening a proper bakery. Calder—that's my..." She blushes, and I realize she's about to say husband but isn't sure if I know they got married. "My husband. He's a carpenter. He's been helping me look at properties."
Husband. The word settles between us with a weight that makes my chest ache. Not because I'm not happy for her—I am—but because it represents everything stable and permanent that I don't have right now. "That's amazing, Cilla. Really. I'm happy for you."
And I am. Genuinely, completely happy for her. The fact that her happiness makes me feel like a ghost isn't her fault.
"You should eat while you're here," Cilla says, her tone shifting into something more professional, more focused. "Like, really eat. We have some incredible restaurants for a town this size. There's The Rusty Fork—classic diner food, but elevated. Marcy makes a pot roast that will change your life. And...” She leans forward conspiratorially. "You have to check out the Bear Claw Tavern. Best burgers this side of anywhere, and Eli's brews are something special."
"Eli?"
"Eli Hayes. He owns the place. Does all the brewing himself—has this whole craft beer thing going on that's just incredible. Plus the food is amazing. He's got this burger with caramelized onions and a bacon jam that...” She stops, studying my face. "You okay? You look like you're about to be sick."
I'm not about to be sick. I'm about to cry, because Cilla is describing food with such enthusiasm, such joy, and I can't remember what any of it tastes like. I can't remember whatbacon jam tastes like. I can't remember what caramelized onions taste like.
I can't remember what anything tastes like.
"I'm fine," I manage. "Just tired. Long drive."
Cilla doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. "Well, when you're feeling up to it, definitely check out the Bear Claw. It's right on Main Street, can't miss it. Tell Eli I sent you—he'll take good care of you."
We talk for another twenty minutes, Cilla catching me up on her life here, carefully not asking too many questions about mine. When I finally leave, promising to text her soon about dinner, I feel both better and worse. Better because seeing Cilla happy reminds me that happiness is possible. Worse because it makes my own emptiness feel even sharper.
I drive back down Main Street slowly, cataloging the businesses like I'm writing a review. The Rusty Fork diner with its vintage sign and red vinyl booths visible through the windows. A coffee shop called Grounds for Happiness that makes me roll my eyes at the pun. A hardware store, a post office, a tiny library that can't have more than a few thousand books.
There's a rhythm to small towns like this, a pattern I've seen in dozens of places I've visited for articles and reviews. The locals who know everyone's business, the tourists who breeze through thinking they've discovered something authentic, the shop owners who walk the line between welcoming outsiders and protecting what's theirs. Usually, I can read a town in a short time, figure out which restaurants are for show and which ones the locals actually eat at, which "charming" establishments are tourist traps and which ones have soul.
There's an undercurrent to this town I can't quite identify. Maybe it's the way people on the sidewalk seem to know each other, not with the performative friendliness of a tourist townbut with genuine recognition. Maybe it's the lack of chain stores—everything here is independently owned, from what I can see. Or maybe it's just my exhaustion making everything seem slightly off-kilter, like I'm seeing the town through smudged glass.
And there, right in the center of town, impossible to miss: The Bear Claw Tavern.
It's housed in a building that looks like it might be the oldest on the street, weathered wood and stone with a hand-carved sign depicting a bear's paw. Flower boxes line the windows, and through the glass I can see dark wood, warm lighting, and what looks like a well-stocked bar.
I pull into a parking spot across the street and sit there, engine idling, staring at the tavern.
This is stupid. I'm a food writer who can't taste anything. What am I going to do, order a burger and pretend to enjoy it? Write tasting notes about texture and temperature while my broken palate mocks me?
But Cilla's words echo in my head.Something special.
And underneath my cynicism, underneath my defense mechanisms and my fear and my exhaustion, there's a tiny flicker of something that might be hope.
Maybe—and I know this is desperate, I know this is irrational—but maybe something in this town, something in this tavern with its craft brews and its famous burgers, might be the thing that breaks through this numbness.
Maybe something will finally taste like it should.
I turn off the engine. Take a breath. Another.
Then I grab my bag, cross the street, and push open the door to the Bear Claw Tavern.
The lunch crowd is just starting to filter in, and the smells hit me immediately—hops and cedar smoke and something savory my brain identifies as burgers even if my taste budscan't confirm it. The interior is exactly what I expected: exposed beams, a long wooden bar, tables scattered throughout, local artwork on the walls. It's rustic without being kitschy, comfortable without trying too hard.
And behind the bar, pulling a pint with the easy competence of someone who could do it in his sleep, is a man who makes my breath catch.
He's tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders that come from actual physical labor rather than gym memberships. Dark hair slightly too long, like he keeps meaning to get it cut but never gets around to it.
When he looks up, when his eyes meet mine across the room, something in my chest shifts. Not painfully. Not like the sharp ache of the last three days.
Like recognition.
