September 15, 2008
By: Ken Alan
kalan@aroundphilly.com
The orangey Labor Day weekend sun was sinking below the shady tree line along the nearby Schuylkill Canal, as geese and ducks skimmed over the water’s glassy surface. There, four of us were well on the way through our nearly three-hour dinner on the deck at Fitzwater Station, sipping our drinks while taking in the scenery as we waited for our entrees to arrive…and waited…and waited.
Usually, when I am partaking in such a slow-paced meal, it’s a multi-course affair, a skillfully prepared gastronomic long haul. After all, a three-hour dinner, most times, signifies an occasion to savor, right?
But this was the Fitzwater Station, “The Fitz” to its regulars who go to grab some grub within the quaint yet spare enclosed stony porch dining room, or, to throw a few back along the old bar that runs through its nitty-gritty saloon, or, like us, enjoy the deck scene as the canoes and feathered flocks go by.
“How many are youz?” was the initial backwoods greeting bestowed by the hostess upon entering. We knew we were in for a lengthy stay when she warned there would be a fifteen-minute wait because of short-staffing.
It was after the first waitress-less half hour when we realized that we were going to be here for awhile. A couple who had arrived before us got up with a huff and left; ten minutes later, a very pissed-off family of three followed suit.
No matter, we weren’t in any rush, quite enjoying the chance to relax in such a lovely outdoor setting. Another table, this one a group of older folks (they claimed to have been young when they arrived) laughed as I ran back from the car with a handful of books to keep us occupied. Thus began our first hour, so we hunkered down and made the most of it.
Fitzwater Station is one of those off-the-beaten-path joints that has been there for years. It’s location in “downtown” Port Providence off Egypt Road (cue the “Dueling Banjoes”) is secluded and seems very remote - more Berks County than Montgomery, yet this laid-back roadhouse is a mere six minutes from the Oaks exit of nearby Route 422.
You’re sure to see a fair amount of inked arms at the Fitz, a nice array of choppers and pick-ups out front along the gravelly parking lot. It’s a locals’ hangout as well as a favorite late-night spot for some of the nearby hotel/restaurant workers. Many-a-time was spent knocking ‘em back and shooting pool with buddies at the Station while in my early-20’s.
It also sees its fair share of older folk looking to enjoy an early meal, families during the dinner hour, and the tavern is a welcoming watering hole for canoeists and kayakers making the loop around the canal just out its back door.
It had probably been a good five or six years since I had been to the Fitzwater Station last, and the food there was just how I remembered it to be: not great, but good enough.
A dozen Buffalo wings were meaty and tangy, their coating a simple dousing of bottled hot sauce. The snapper soup (“an excellent choice for those looking for a diversion from the mundane” or so says the menu) was rich and earthy, a worthy rendition of the shelled fellows who were sunning themselves on a downed tree along the canal. I stifled a guffaw at seeing the accompanying sherry tackily presented in a little plastic cup. I get it: it’s The Fitz, not The Ritz.
Deduct a couple points for the sub-par Caesar salad and its skimpy romaine, bottled dressing, and feta instead of Parmesan cheese. The under-$20 king cut filet mignon was of decent quality, tough in spots, but enjoyable enough for my wife, who, in an ‘80’s moment, ordered it blackened. And my Maryland crab cakes (also $18.95), though not pure lump like the waitress proudly professed, were two tasty picked-meat crab pucks, sautéed nicely and properly seasoned.
The sun was dipping below the trees when the waitress (and I’ll call her a “waitress” and not a “server” as few actual serving skills were observed from her or the other harried young woman on that particular shift) finally returned, asking if we wanted dessert. I looked at the time, declined, and then looked yet again.
“Have we really been here almost three hours?”
The two guys at the table next to us overheard my question and laughed.
“It’s always like this,” he grinned as he took a pull from his draft of ale. “They’re constantly short-staffed and it takes forever to get your food, but at least the beer’s cold.” He toasted to his point-well-given.
On the ride home, the family agreed to give the Fitzwater Station another chance some time in the future.
“Let’s make sure we pick a day with nothing else on the schedule,” I advised.
“And several long books to read!” my son chimed from the back seat.
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