My chum was excited as I raved about the to-die-for clamcakes and clam platter.  The fish and chips dripping hot grease and malt vinegar never fail to please either!  By the time we pulled up in the driveway, I was ready to eat the paper bag!  Gene’s is homey, decorated with nautical stuff one would expect in a seafood gnoshery.  There are picnic tables both inside and outside and the place is squeaky clean.  We ordered from the counter and got our sodas from the cooler. I opted for a stuffed quahog, chowdah and the divine clamcakes- one dozen.  I warbled on to my midwest friend about the difference between steamers and quahogs and the different types of chowdah. I chatted with one of the cooks who had a moment to kill, about what type of chowder they made.  I learned clear broth Rhody style USED to be the chowder du jour for 40 years until some state contest placed Gene’s at the bottom for their chowder and now they make white New England style- not my fav.  He assured me it would not be the thick wall paper paste white chowder you can stand a spoon up in.  So, we waited with much anticipation. My pal was amused about the word “quahog” and more amused when I insisted he slather it with 2 pats of real butter.  The quahogs were divine- moist, buttery, spicy, flavorful.  They were a hit.  Then we tackled the chowdah and I must say I was a bit let down.

It was a bit thick for my liking but worst of all, there were not many clams and very little flavor.  The trick to good chowder is to fry the boiled diced spuds and onion in bacon fat- or at the least, salted pork cubes, and use clam juice, not so much water to thin it all out.  When I make white chowder I add light cream at the very end, just to color it.  I prefer the Rhode Island clear broth which also has a bit of thin-diced celery.  My dining buddy was charmed with the little packets of common crackers.  But then came the Culinary Waterloo.  The clamcakes, so fragrant and greasy and golden- alas, had NO clams. And I mean no clams. My friend thought they were meant to be a small muffin.  We dissected several just to see if the nuggets of chewy clam had escaped the top few clamcakes.  We had cakes- not clamcakes.  The batter was lovely, but the clams were missing in action.  We ate two each anyway and glanced around the room to see if anyone else had discovered the Awful Clamless Truth.  Monster plates of fried clams and cole slaw , fish and chips, and lobsta rolls were being washed down all around us, and then we spotted a nice young couple sitting near us with the same expression of dismay on their faces.  No clams.  It was a mystery.. We dissected a few more cakes. . .  

and peered forlornly in the bag  but no dice- clamless. Ah, well, –  it must be the economy for I had never been let down at Gene’s before.  Our bill came to $21. 30 with the two sodas.  You clean up after yourself, so no tip is needed.  If you go, skip the clamcakes and head for the fried clam platter!  I plan to give them another chance.  

So, while waiting for the red light to change at the corner of Pleasant and Plymouth Saturday, I had time to take in all the fast foodie joints along the way.  The sea gulls must love Plymouth Ave. The top of the Avenue starts off with KFC, Boston Market, D’Angelos (no photo as a guy in a passing car looked mad to be in my camera frame), Honey Dew, 99, Applebees, Burger King, MacDonald’s- and I probably missed a few whizzing by. And all of this is before you even get to Rodman Street- our destination for Rosaria’s.  First, there really IS a Rosaria (put the accent on the second syllable). She and at least one daughter rule the grill at the little corner eatery at Rodman and Lowell streets.  A native had to show me this place, and it is a real local secret.  The food is so good that it is easy to understand why the neighborhood folks don’t want a lot of ravenous tourists and foreigners taking up their table space!

Okay, so parking is plentiful along Lowell Street, and there are a few folks lounging comfortably in front of the restaurant. I think the family lives behind the restaurant as brightly-colored flower boxes and cozy curtains announce that homey look.  Then you enter the counter area where about 8 stools are filled and there is a television softly announcing the Biden-Obama ticket in the background.  Everybody there looks as if they eat there every day of their lives-one big, extended family.  All along the walls are adorable kitchen-y touches, a clock that looks like a toaster, another clock which is a coffee cup- sort of that 1940′s fun homemaker stuff like Leave it to Beaver’s Mom used to have in the kitchen. But the first thing you notice is that the place is SPOTLESS. Nothing is out of place. With all the grease flying around, there is not a spot anywhere, even the signs are pristine.

The place was jumping- Saturday morning between 10-11 a.m. I would bet half of Fall River is having breakfast in a restaurant, and the other half is thinking about it.  But Rosaria’s is Pancake Mecca, Flapjack Heaven, Home of the Better Batter- so who cares if you have to wait 40 minutes to get the object of your obsession? I sat on my stool caressing a large cranberry juice and watched the A-Team in action at the grill.

The key to any successful high-traffic restaurant is ORGANIZATION. Without it, the food suffers, the customers get tired of waiting, the waitstaff is snarly, and chaos reigns supreme. Rosaria’s has it down to a motion-efficient science. I had a great view of the kitchen and grill and never have 4 gals done so much cooking for so many so fast. There is one motherly-looking lady whom I took to be Rosaria, and three lean, youthful, and efficient gals, one of whom was a daughter of Rosaria’s. They are wearing immaculate jeans and cool cotton “muscle shirts” of bright colors and sensible shoes.  What follows is a veritable BALLET of kitchen choreography.  There’s no bumping into each other, no spills, no hits, no misses. Each member of the drill team sails in and out, balancing 4-5 dinner plates loaded, -then pivots, glides and exits as another twirls in with sheets of fresh orders, while yet another scrapes down what must be the cleanest industrial-sized grill in New England. I lost count of how many times it was cleaned, scraped, re-”Pammed” and made ready for the next onslaught. Did I say this place was spotless?  The back room is the main dining area and a gargantuan mob, all together, had descended as I arrrived.  My waitress, daughter of the Remarkable Rosaria, visited my place at the counter frequently clucking apologies and smiling hopefully.  I could see her checking my order in its place in line above the head of the GrillMaster. I appreciated that and was determined to be late to my appointment, because these ladies were hustling for my breakfast. If there were an Olympics catagory for Grilling and Serving (maybe a relay)-this team would get the GOLD for the USA-hands down.

While I wait, I check out the food everybody else is gnoshing and tune in and out to conversations.  I watch the grill action and notice the loaves of bread slices are all stacked like playing cards neatly by the toaster, a rich tub of room-temp butter with a rubber spatula at the ready hovers nearby, and all the tools of the trade are at hand.  Everything is efficiently organized.  No wonder the toastmaster can deal out 20 pieces of perfectly buttered toast like a Las Vegas cardsharp! While one of the Paragons of Perfection takes an order her hands automatically straighten the countertop, replace a menu, tidy the salt and pepper shakers. You can part your hair in the countertop. Nobody’s unsightly breakfast remnants stare at you- no oozy egg yellows, no dribbly coffee cups. Amazing. My daughters have yet to figure out where the dishwasher is located. I wonder if can adopt Rosaria’s?

Then- the cakes arrive. I watched them on the grill being toasted to the perfect shade of honey gold, and flipped only once when they were bubbled up. I had to ask- what was the secret?  Water. Just a little water added to the batter. Who knew?

The edges were thin and lacey- the centers tender as a first kiss, with little sighs of steam gently escaping.  I had asked for them “to go” as I was running late, but I opened my styrofoam box and decided on my priorities- cakes FIRST! Just looks at these cakes- fine-pored, not flannel-y, tender, not tough, thin but yet substantial. They go down like a whisper, so buttery that syrup is not even needed. You can get as many as you want, – plain, or fancy ones like walnut, pumpkin, berry, chocolate chip, etc. But always get them plain, who needs to gild the lily?  The bacon was a lovely accompaniment, grilled nicely and not flattened and dried out to crisps.

Five stars for Rosaria’s- 10 more for the cooks and unlimited stars for the pancakes. Sheer Heaven.  They open at 5:30 a.m.

So maybe we aren’t rising at 4 a.m. and going to plow the North 40 with a mule.  And maybe we don’t need to fortify ourselves with pancakes and eggs and a pile of meat and potatoes for breakfast.  I have probably watched the Amish with Harrison Ford in Witness once too often- but breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.  “Breakfast like a King, lunch like a Prince, sup like a pauper”. I forget who coined that phrase but it is not bad advice- after a long fast overnight, the gastric juices are flowing like Niagara Falls by 8 a.m. and Fall River has sprouted a great crop of little breakfast nooks fit to fortify the heartiest appetite. The Quest for Breakfast is best undertaken with a local inhabitant who knows all the best neighborhood hangouts -and there are dozens all over the city. some very obvious, some tucked into side streets, and some little gems so unobtrusive that only the “locals” seem to know where they are.  Highland Ave. Spa is not hard to find, being situated on the north end of Highland Ave., just across the street from Saint Patrick’s cemetery.  You can park on the street or in the closed gas station just across the street from the restaurant.  The Spa has been situated here for a good long time and has build up a real clientele of Old Faithfuls.  There seems to be a goodly number of fellas holding forth on a weekend- bachelors or divorced, or escaping the Wife!  They take possession of the coveted back room and have a fine old time! 

 The breakfast menu is extensive and features chourico as well as sausage and bacon, hash, homefries, waffles, -and did I say pancakes?  Now pancakes are a religion with me and I will go to the end of the earth for a thin, tender pancake. It needs to be somewhere between a pancake and a crepe.  Once upon a time such Food of the Gods could be found at Manila Jade on Locust Street. It’s all in the batter-not too thick, not too thin and only fresh ingredients. I hate those big, thick flannel-like blobs which must be drowned in syrup and butter just to choke ‘em down.  Well, the Spa has pretty good pancakes- but hold on to your hats- they are the size of Volvo hubcaps! I ordered the Highland Ave. special which is toast, three eggs any style, a meat choice, french toast or pancakes, juice, home fries and coffee- all for $7.99. It is really enough food for two people when you get the pancakes.  A small country could breakfast on the two steaming dinnerplate-sized flapjacks which will arrive at the table.  I had two strapping men tackle my leftover cakes, which is why there is no photo of them! The bacon is cooked just right- still a little chewy, not flattened to within an inch of its life by those awful grill bacon presses!  The spuds are firm, flavorful- not greasy, and a wonderful golden color. Wish I knew the spices used to get this shade. I think the taters were Yukon Golds- they held their shape and were a tasty mouthful.  I have a few gripes.  Where, oh where is the good old butter dish with a stick of marg or, better still- real butter?  Instead, one must beg for those irritating miniscule butter dabs which are packed in Chicklet-sized, inpenetrable plastic mini-tubs.  You will need about 20 of these just to cover one of the hubcap flapjacks.  Then there’s the syrup.  I asked for maple syrup-I mean it should be like mother’s milk to the Yankees.  But in the heart of Great New England, you get corn syrup flavored with imitation maple flavor, a whole lot of chemicals and preservatives, and artificial maple-like colorings.  Vermont’s only a stone’s throw away- all those sugar maples just begging for tapping.  The restaurant which has real maple syrup AND a stick of butter will have my undying devotion and patronage for LIFE!  If I were back in Dixie I would slather the cakes with molasses, but you will never find THAT in a restaurant north of the Mason-Dixon! I am thinking of carrying a hip flask of it.

One last pet peeve.  POACHED EGGS.  I have yet to order my favorite egg treatment and have any cook get it right.  I love to see those golden orbs of goodness perched high and firm atop their sea of whites.  I always ask for “poached firm”.  What I get is a well-done egg white harboring beneath its milky skin, a sea of oozing, near-raw egg yolk.  So, I have adopted the British way of coping, sopping it all up with a strip of toast, and trying not to think about salmonella in raw egg yellow.  So far- so good.  No trips to the Charlton Hospital emergency room from raw eggs- yet. Eggs any other way are perfection at the Spa.  The place is tidy, clean tables, great, fast service, friendly folks, plenty of paper napkins, no rush and hurry- and the prices are great. Bring a huge appetite. My #2 favorite place for breakfast in the city.

While technically not in Fall River, Magoni’s is literally a stone’s throw from the end of the Brightman Bridge which connects Fall River to Somerset (better check to see if the bridge is open this week- it’s always an iffy thing). Fall Riverites have been chowing down for ages at the popular Italian food eatery. Naturally Italian food is the specialty but the seafood is pretty darn good, and the menu entree choices cover all the bases. The prices are reasonable too, and the portions are always generous.  I like the wait staff, some of whom have been there for eons.  The restaurant seems to cater to the “older set” and there are plenty silvery heads munching appreciatively. Keno, of which I know nothing- is some sort of gaming attraction which goes on all around the restaurant. I don’t pretend to understand it.  Something to do with numbers. Lottery tickets are prominently featured in the entry vestibule and can be bought from a vending machine.

The only complaint I have in summer months is the mildewy smell which knocks you in the nostrils upon entering.  We deduced it must be from the lobster tank.  After being inside for about 20 minutes, you become accustomed to the odor- still, it is a turnoff initially.  Try to get the back room if you can- the large main dining salon is noisy and crowded.  The main diningroom is also very drafty in winter months.  All that being said, the crowning glory of Magoni’s has got to be the little pillows of cinnamony goodness which arrive before the salad course.  It is a little odd having a dessert-like confection before the meal, but nobody complains.

I ordered the Italian Platter this time around.  Magoni’s red sauce is of the sweet-fennel variety.  My plate arrived with a large sweet sausage, one manicotti, a very large meatball, a veal cutlet (which screamed “frozen”) and a big side of ziti. I would have put this on a contrasting plate. The bright orange sauce on a bright orange plate was not too appealing.  Presentation is not a strong suit at Magoni’s- but abundanza is, and the feeling is “family style” so if you are looking for pretty fancy and Gourmet Magazine, this is not the place for you.

But the salad was crisp and cold, the bread basket full (although I had to beg for butter twice), the dressing was excellent, and the service was prompt and aimiable. I went home with a doggie bag and the price of the meal did not break the bank.  If you order a Margarita though- be prepared for the table salt rimming, which was just sodden and yucky.  All in all, not bad if you are going with a big crowd. I recommend the fish and chips and almost anything Italian. Four stars for those Cinnamon Pillow Things- they should sell those on the side for breakfast snacks!

 Passing by the Charlton Hospital, New Boston Road is the address for a little jewel box of an eatery which serves light lunch and pastries, The New Boston Bakery. If you’ve ever been to England, this little gem is reminiscent of the teashops for which England is famous. Dainty decor of china teacups and pots festoon the walls, mismatched antique tables and chairs, and crisp green and white striped curtains make the shop feel like a great-aunty’s Sunday parlor. Everything is spotless, tidy, and cozy.

This is the place for a confidential chat over cream puffs and hot tea or a sandwich wrap and lemonade on a summer’s day. The pristine display cases are filled with toothsome morsels from the pedestrian chocolate brownie to the supreme confection of confections- the cream puff.  The puff pastry is made of air by angels and the cream whipped inside must be only minutes away from the Moo. The justly-famous cream puffs don’t hang around long, so get to the store early in the day to seize the prize! I would post a photo of these culinary dreams but alas, the case was already empty.

There are treats to please every palate from turnovers to sugar cookies shaped like little ice cream cones for the tykes- but my favorite cookie has to be the sweet hearts which are butter-rich shortbread, piped into the shape of hearts, baked to a mouth-watering golden color, then filled to the brim with raspberry jam! The soups are homemade, the sandwiches divine- and joy of joys, you can fill up a white cardboard box tied up with string with delectable treats to take home and share with the loved ones.

The views over the flower boxes are charming, the service is cheerful and accommodating, and best of all, nobody is hurrying you out the door.  This is the sort of place you might want to come with Aunt Mary, a favorite niece in her best birthday dress and hat, a best friend for coffee, or just anybody, anytime. Closed on Sundays. Charm, whimsy and cream puffs- who could ask for anything more?

 Portuguese music plays softly in the background as you are ushered with ceremony to an impeccable white cloth-covered table. I appreciate a table cloth as I get older. All around are happy family groups, great-granny and scads of youngsters, aunts, wives and husbands, with Papa at the head of the table. They are speaking in that divine shushing sound full of vowels which is Portuguese to me- and I don’t understand a word of it, but it sounds great and everyone is loving being together for a meal which is the way all civilized people should DINE. 

The list of entrees is staggering, from seafood to beef, but I always get the same thing here- bisteca Portuguesa. I hope this is spelled right. After an enchanting interlude of trying not to eat all the fabulous warm bread and butter( you can live by bread alone) , the bisteca arrives.  I had been told the poached egg perched saucily on the top was a good luck talisman. It sure sounds like a good story, so I gobble that down first. The beefsteak is large, cooked to perfection and aromatic with fresh garlic.  It swims in the most heavenly sea of brown sauce- which is neither gravy nor au jus. It is a magic potion all its own. A melange of crisp seasonal squash perches enticingly to one side- but the piece de resistance has got to be the POTATOES.  If ever a lowly spud deserved an ode, a psalm, a symphony- these are praiseworthy. 

Imagine an ivory disk about the size of a small potato chip- but thicker. There is just a glimmer of the skin clinging appreciatively to the outside. What mysterious process is perpetrated upon these tremendous tubers is unknown to me. They are neither boiled nor baked. I suspect they may be quickly deep-fried, but they are not greasy or oily.  Whatever the secret in cooking may be, this place could forget about all other menu items and make a bundle on these potatoes alone. Why, they could send French Fries right back to Gay Paree! At first I lower the divine morsel into the brown liquid which is lapping against the beefsteak with a fork.  Pretty soon, the fork is forgotten and one finds oneself merrily seizing the taters with fingers and dunking away maniacally with reckless abandon and brown sauce dribbling down the chin. 

Was there room for dessert?  When it is flan- there is always room.  The Portuguese have cornered the market on fabulous flan it would seem.  Not a pudding, not a custard, not creme brulee- but a sort of dense velvet ambrosia which slips like cold satin down the gullet with a whisper. It is pale golden, creamy, and crowned with a caramel-ly sauce which begs to be savored somewhere on the back of your tongue forever.  Take it home for breakfast if you can’t manage to slide  one down on the premises!  Recently I had a fever of 105 and all I wanted was Terra Nostra flan. Yes, it could be patented for invalid food, baby’s delight, everyday gourmet- and should be considered a food group all its own.  There is no bad flan in Fall River.

The service was tenderly rendered by staff who seem to love doing what they do. The owner (whose name I believe was Gus) stopped by each table, as if each of us were his extended family, making sure we had been well-fed. I liked that.  Gus was beginning to feel like the Good Uncle.  262 Rodman Street- open for lunch and dinner. Go solo or take a loved one or the whole clan- and don’t forget the flan.

p.s. Also recommended: saffron rice with garlic shrimp and Paella

Yes, it is probably a little cheeky of a non-local to presume to know all about the great little out-of-the-way eateries around the city.  It has taken a good many years of sleuthing around on my own or annoying locals who are “In the Know” about Fall River’s top eateries and bakeries.  I have been blessed to know FR natives who willingly inpart these pearls to an Outsider, and even share more than a few meals.

First thing to know- you will NEVER starve for want of plain good cooking in this town- and the options are diverse and mouth-watering.  Whether it is the Meatloaf Special at Almac’s Diner on President’s Ave. or  the choicest prime cut at Giorgio’s on Third Street- it’s all GOOD.  One of my favorite haunts for lunch is Roger’s Coney Island, pictured above.  It’s always tidy, usually you can get lucky and find a comfy booth in one of two dining areas, you can pick up some baked goodies from the case to take home, and the food is consistently dependable.

Naturally Coney Island Dogs, in all of their incarnations, get top billing. The hot dog specialties have catchy names and are served with fries or baked beans. There is something magical about that meat sauce they sling on those dogs. I am still trying to figure out that secret spice which leaves the unique after taste.  I understand there used to be a guy in the city who would line up the dogs all along his fore arm, managing 6 at a time while he loaded the redhots with all the extras.  Wish I could have seen THAT!

I never miss the kale soup- winter or summer. The savory broth, thick and brown, chock full of potato and chourico and green kale is a poem in a bowl. Chourico itself is a wonder of the world.  I had it all mixed up with Linguica, which apparently is a sausage of another breed.  But then my knowledge of Portuguese food is still at the toddler stage.  Kale soup and sweet bread were my intro to all things Portuguese- and if you can’t find the best of Portuguese food in Fall River- well, then there’s no hope for you! Yes, there is great kale soup all over the city, but for my buck, it has to be Roger’s, with Sagres’ on Columbia Street off South Main coming in at a close second.  The Sagres kale soup is a paler, thinner version, – delicious, yes, but not as stick-to-your-ribs as Roger’s. 

Roger’s has the addition enticement of homemade artwork which changes with the seasons and holidays, and if you visit on a lucky day, you can watch the staff paint leprechauns or bouquets of flowers on the windows while you glance with satisfaction at the dessert case laden with grapenut pudding or gooey chocolate cake.  Families come to Roger’s.  Old friends come to Roger’s to gab over coffee and omelettes and the morning Herald newspaper.  Nobody rushes you out the door, and the staff seems to stay the same-and they know their Regulars!  So for my maiden post, I give Roger’s my highest rating for casual and tasty eats, served in a homey and happy environment.  My last soul-satisfying nosh was an open-faced hot turkey sandwich layered with sage-ful bread stuffing, served with smashed red bliss potatoes swimming in gravy and crunchy carrot coins.  Could I get a side of cranberry sauce?  You bet! Go for breakfast, or go for lunch- but do GO to Roger’s Coney Island.