Dining on Memories

Today, I heard that a piece of my childhood was closing its doors forever. The Hilltop Steakhouse in Saugus, Massachusetts, a glorious, over-the-top restaurant with its shining gigantic cactus will be gone. And, although I haven’t dined there in many years, with its shuttering, I feel a touch of sadness as the pieces of my youth disappear in the rear view mirror.

In its day, the Hilltop was THE place to go, in fact, it was the only restaurant my grandparents would eat. We’d all pile into my father’s ’69 Chevy Impala, (yes, the car was THAT big) and we’d drive up Jerry Jingle Highway, often times on a Friday. Approaching the sprawling restaurant, the delicious smell wafted across its massive parking lot and my brother and I would race to the front, to see who would be the first to get a number from the old woman firmly planted in her hostess seat at the doorway. She was the guardian of the gates, the mistress who called your number and allowed you to enter one of the restaurants massive dining rooms. Sioux City, Kansas City, or the smaller Dodge City. And on those days when the place was unbelievably packed, Santa Fe.

Her voice would echo through her microphone above the buzz of the hungry crowd. “Number 2, 3, 54, 23, 64 for Sioux City….”  And my family would all take bets on what dining room we’d be assigned to. My favorite was always Sioux City. At times, we’d wait over an hour to be seated, the anticipation of lunch or dinner causing us to get even hungrier. Surrounded by the fake Western paraphernalia, the delicious aroma of the bread and the hustle and bustle of the waitresses dressed in white, we were together as a family. 

We were creatures of habit, my father and brother would order the chopped sirloin, well done for Alfred, of course, until there was certain to be no hint of life left in the meat.  I would order the cutlets with the sauce on the side, and my mother the steak tips. Always, French Fries, thick cut and crispy, baked potatoes, corn, mashed potatoes and massive salads would litter our table. We’d stuff ourselves and then my parents would order coffee and grape nut pudding for dessert. 

Years later, after my grandmother passed away, I can’t remember my grandfather ever joining us again there. It was the place my Great Aunt Lil loved to go, my friends and I went there after our high school graduation, and when I worked down the street, we’d eat a late night dinner and stuff ourselves until we couldn’t even move. When I got my Lasik surgery in 2000, we stopped in for lunch, where, wearing my giant protective sunglasses, I felt right at home with the now elderly clientele. 

As time went on, the ownership changed, the quality of the food declined and the cutlets disappeared from the menu. The plastic cows remained outside but there were no lines, no hostess holding the power to let you in the dining room. You could walk right in at any time of the day and the hustle and aromas of my youth were no longer. But what is there, and will always remain, are the memories of that glorious kitschy steakhouse on Route 1 - the place where my family came together to laugh and dine; to be together, to take bets on the wait time and to do what all Italians love to do. Eat.

When I return to Boston, I’ll drive by and see its emptiness, but as I watch in the rear view mirror, I will see and taste all those delicious memories.