It was our 61st anniversary; time flies when you’re having fun.

We felt like newlyweds out on the town, and after almost three years of seclusion, like two lost souls rescued from a desert island. So cautiously, we donned matching masks and ventured out to celebrate.

The Last Unicorn in the old days was always the place to go. It’s closed now. 18 Below was always good, but at my age going underground is too soon. We’re partial to Mexican chow and Buen Apetito seems to please all, but only Augusta’s Margarita’s suits us.

So She and I hit the hot new spot, the Lockwood Hotel’s “Front and Main” restaurant, the new girl in town.

First, the surprise. We booked weeks in advance for 4:45 in late afternoon, the time and day when we assumed Mainers would be at home with Sunday chicken dinners in the oven. Fuddgitaboutit.

A new day has dawned, and North and Main was hopping.

She and I, who have been hiding out for three years waiting for the “rain” to stop, were taken here two Fourth of Julys, and again for my birthday last month, by my better heeled L.A. daughters and their beloveds.

All were pleasant occasions, except on my birthday when a nearby restaurant had a noisy Friday night outdoors jazz recital. Folks in Albion complained.

It’s been three years since we’ve eaten out, and I can’t tell you how much money we’ve saved, or at least until everything in Maine grocery stores went Beverly Hills on their prices.

Way back then before a corner café in Wuhan, China, put the bat leftovers out in the alley with the noodles and took the Earth of course, there was 18 Below, Last Unicorn, Silver Street Tavern, Opa, Amici’s Cucina, with lots of Chinese American restaurants. All fine.

Then along came Front and Main and the reaction has been electric, much like the time a blonde moved into the Italian section of Flatbush, and all the home boys started shaving twice a day.

I’m happy to report that the new girl in town has an angora sweater and a big string of pearls and qualifies as the new blonde.

The waitstaff is well trained and feminine, all in clean aprons and starchy white shirts, and moving along like they’re on skates. The bar looks way uptown, but not drinking anymore keeps me away, and they don’t serve Stella Artois.

I’m not a restaurant reviewer; I’ve been out of the game for too many years for that. But this old horse has been around to some fine dining races, and Front & Main has left the gate and is running well on a dry track.

I will say only that the grilled ribeye, at $45, is big enough for two of us, and the spectacular key lime pie is a Disney ride.

It was a risky ride, this adventure. I wear masks to bed and to confession to the priest. I don’t care how holy he is; I wear them in every crowded space. And last night, we only wore them eating key lime pie. So much for caution.

My regrets to the lovely, tall, back door lady from somewhere called the “Panhandle,” who didn’t know how to start a Prius. Nobody’s perfect.

Happy anniversary.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer. 

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