(July 1993)
By WILLIAM C. HITCHCOCK
I dream of finer things I truly deserve.
Ring.
Dom ’81, Chateau Haut Brion ’61, Le Bec Fin, sushi in Tokyo, café au lait in Paris, 6 months around the world on the QEII…
Ring.
My parents always thought they had picked up the wrong kid in the maternity ward. A “Prince and the Pauper” kind of deal.
Ring.
Unfortunately, my paychecks usually are more of the size of a six of Rock and a folding chair on the back patio. Sunscreen optional.
Ring.
I can still daydream at work, so at least I get paid for it.
“Hitchcock! Wake up and answer that goddamned phone!”

“Hello, Big Shout Magazine. How can I help you?” I say with a grin so my boss appreciates me being ‘round here.

From the other end of the line, a sweet-voiced public relations person named Therese, says hello and starts to ask about whom she could talk to about writing a story on B&M Baked Beans and when that person could be available to cover the story, etc.

I honestly only heard maybe 30% of what she said. I just kept verbally nodding.
She hung up. Goodbye.

Back to the Dom in Paris. Or how about a nice Barola in Rome? Yes…

TWO WEEKS LATER – Therese is back on the phone again.

“Bill, did you get my fax?” she asks oh so politely.

“Hang on,” I mumble, hit hold, and start rummaging through the pile of papers on my desk, hoping to find the fax that I never looked at.

I start reading it: A water tour of Portland, Maine; a five-course dinner; ’78 William Hill Cabernet Sauvignon; accommodations in one of Portland’s finest bed and breakfasts…

THIS IS WHAT I DESERVE. Act calm, my man. Don’t blow this one. With my best overworked, arrogant, journalist voice I utter, “Yes, I found it. Let me check my calendar to see if I could squeeze these dates in.” I stare at the blank wall and imaginary calendar. “Oh, I think I might be able to make it. Yes. See you next week.”

I bounce around the office. This is the type of vacation I deserve. Two days in Portland. Fine wine. Good food. I’ll skip over to New Hampshire, say “tah” to the grandparents.

I call my roommate and tell him the good news. In his ever-so-weasely way he instantly asks,
“Dude, take me.”
“How?”
“I’ll be your photographer.”
“Do you even own a camera? And if you own one, do you know which end to point at the subject?”
“Come on, dude, you can do it.”

I call Therese back. “Um, I forgot one thing. Could I bring my photographer along?”
“We’ll have someone from AP here,” she says.
Long silence. That’s it, I’m done.
No trip. I’ll kill the weasel for his lousy idea when I get home.
“Mr. Hitchcock, your photographer’s name so I can reserve his room?”
Roadtrip.

After approximately two lifetimes traveling up the I-whatever superslab, we wrestled the Isuzu Pup of Doom with multiple dents in front to the rather imposing-looking edifice known as the Pomegranate Inn. Bill and I had argued the whole way up about why and how these people had invited us here. Bill’s answer – “Who cares?”

We walked in the door of the Italian-style inn to be confronted by an immense collection of modern art slapped over every square inch of the home. Up shuffled a dapper older man in a white cable wool sweater who introduced himself in a tremendous English accent as Arthur Smiley, inn keeper.

(A long aside here – Arthur Smiley and his wife Elizabeth are genteel. Their inn is a home. When my bedraggled roommate came down to breakfast looking like he had spent the night being dragged behind a pickup truck by a rope, Mr. Smiley asked if he might need an aspirin, before he could even ask for one. These were wonderful people.)

As we checked in and badgered poor Mr. Smiley about his home, I looked over his shoulder and made an unfortunate discovery as to how we got invited. Next to my name, it said “Big Shout, New Hampshire Monthly.” Uh, oh.

Bill was screwing around with his camera, looking professional like, while actually trying to figure out why the damn thing wasn’t turning on. I grabbed him.
“Bill, conference time. We got problems,” I explained the specifics.
His response – “Who cares?”
Yes, he is almost as helpful as he is articulate.

Down the stairs came a rather regal-looking, hip, hard-suited New Yorker. This would be Therese. Another woman, a taller blond, kind of L.L. Bean-looking female was her boss, Heidi.
“Hi. You must be Bill and Bill. How was the ride? Did you both ride the motorcycle?”
“Naw, after 10 hours that would have turned our kidneys to goo,” said I. Great, I slipped in the first sentence. Gee, I wonder if there’s a Salvation Army we could stay at if we’re done.
“10 hours? Where did you come from?” Therese asked.
Bill finished it. “Delaware,” he blurted.

Pained looks passed between the two ladies. I said we needed a battery for the camera. Bill tried to reassure me, but I was convinced we would spend the night shivering in the cab of the truck. The Pomegranate was just what I deserved.

Back at the Inn, several other journalists had arrived. Heidi asked us over to the garden and introduced us to John, her boss and account rep for B&M. Wonderful. He asked us about the magazine. I pretended to soak up some sun.

Bill babbled about B&M and how he loved the beans. Well, I thought at least I can say my career as a journalist ended on a nice day. John started to explain the reasons for this trip.

“B&M does things in a distinguished and dignified manner.” He asked for a copy of our magazine. I hedged. The only copy I had with me featured in it had a cover with a ‘50s pin up girl, a fish with the head of a cat, and a condom. Yet another Big Shout distinguished and dignified cover. Bill said, “Sure” and told me to get one. How I love my roommate.

John said he liked it. I bullshitted. John said some more nice things. I smiled and prayed for lunch. Heidi wandered up and asked if we would like some lunch. We sat down and opened a little box lunch. Heidi unwrapped a sandwich and asked if we minded lobster.
Oh, I thought, I think I am in love with this woman.

Of course, Bill was right. Once we were there, the PR people were entirely too nice to throw us out. We became known as “the boys” and a never-ending source of amusement for the rest of the entourage.
After lunch, we were taken to the B&M factory.

First off, if the only thing that B&M represents to you is a rather off-color joke, pause for a moment. Where I grew up in New England, beans were served every Saturday night. I grew up on the things. Besides that, they’re cheap and can be eaten cold right out of the can.

B&M goes through 400,000 pounds of beans and one million cans and jars of beans per week. This was a phenomenon. This was a story. Or it better damn well have been or I’d end up sleeping in the truck.

The factory was actually pretty cool. It was built in 1913 and looks it, in a good sense. Everything has a patina of age about it, but it’s in use and working. Many of the floors are made of polished hardwood. The beans are still baked in huge 500-lb. black caldrons.

The plant manager kept emphasizing that this was the difference between their beans and the others who just steam them these days. He did say you’d be insane to set to make the beans this way now.

As for those other baked beans, or worse yet… Campbell’s Pork & Beans … they suck. B&M rules.

After the tour of the plant, we took a leisurely tour of old Portland. We returned to the inn to freshen up for dinner. There is no way I’ll spare you the decadent details. The meal was prepared by Daniel T. Bruce, executive chef for the Boston Harbor Hotel, and probably the best chef in New England.

The meal started with an amusee (fancy pre-hors d’oeuvres, you barbarian) of thinly-sliced, lightly-seared tuna, and lamb slices topped with a reduction of red wine. This was served with a 1983 Reims-style champagne.

One of the other journalists, who assured us she was a nutritionist, while sucking back more food than the two “boys” could manage, said to us, “Oh, I’ll bet you two don’t eat like this very often.”

Like she did every other night. Bill looked up from his champagne and chirped, “No, we usually go to Taco Bell.” She didn’t come near us again.

Four hours and several bottles of wine later, Bill and I retired to my suite for several bourbons and MTV. Life was good. The rest of the crew had waddled off to their rooms to sleep (read: passed out) and dream of baked beans.

Fortunately, we had run into the owner of the coolest bar in Portland, Grizzly Bill Beasley, and we were off to see the Zuzu’s Petals at his club, Granny’s Industrial Drink House.

Portland has a population of only about 70,000, but instead of being a boring, dried-up-and-left-for-dead country club, golf mecca a la Wilmington, it feels just like Newark.

Skate rats clamor over any inclined surface as soon as school lets out. Body piercing abounds. There are very upscale tattoo parlors. Clothes lean towards Goodwill.

Yet, Grizzly informed us his and one other are about the only game in town for cool music. Everything else is either yuppie chic fern bars — “Is that your cellular phone or are you just happy to see me?” – or mediocre college, cretin, meat markets.

Granny’s may only be in a cement bunker, but what it lacks in atmosphere is more than made up for by intimacy… and very good beer on tap.

The Zuzu’s Petals raged. The nice thing was you could sit at a bar comfortably, no more than 10 feet away from the stage. People gig, dance and flail about, but everything is a little slowed down and a lot less tense and edgy than Philly. At least five guys were playing pool at the back of the room, but would stop to groove for exceptional songs.

Staggering about Portland until the wee hours led to Bill’s grateful encounter with Mr. Smiley’s Tylenol bottle in the morning. Heidi, Therese, and the remaining journalists set off to go outlet shopping in Freeport before catching their flights.

Needless to say, Bill and I said our goodbyes, with promises to send an article in July. We headed off to block traffic while sightseeing through the White Mountains.

Heidi, I don’t know if this is what you and B&M expected, but it was what Bill and I deserved. Thank you.