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Who knows best: Ever since a local website here began running a series of on-line polls for readers to vote on the best this-or-that in town, tempers have been flaring. Oh, “Best Cheeseburger” went off smoothly enough, I suppose. But when it came time to award “Best Dry Cleaner,” things got touchier. “Why run these stupid surveys if you’re not going to include Sanda’s?” wrote in one partisan, who no doubt became even more irate when his place ended up coming in second after it was finally added to the list. (“If we’d only been given adequate ballot access!” I can hear him yelling at his computer as he scrolled through the final results.) Next came “Best Pre-School.” After the dust settled on that, half the parents in town weren’t speaking to each other.

So there’s been more heat than light. I sometimes wonder whether computer voting is even the right way to go about this sort of thing. Are there not enough real experts around (on dry cleaning, say) that a board of them can’t be assembled to bring some discipline to the process? The judges would sample every place in town and, free of the lingering resentment a layman might harbor over the odd cracked button years ago or mysterious bleach stain, objectively determine once and for all which is the town’s champ. Kind of like how they do it on Throwdown. At the very least, the people at Sanda’s must be itching for a rematch.

And who picks the categories? More to the point, what in the world are their priorities? Mrs. Banks and our older daughter spent last week in Florida visiting my mother (don’t ask), which meant my son and I went out for dinner every night. In a situation like that it can be useful, I suppose, to have some idea where we could get New Canaan’s top-ranked pizza. But it would have been much more helpful to know in advance which bar mixes the best Manhattan. Yet, so far, nothing. If I hadn’t done my own prior field research, I wouldn’t have had a clue.

Now that I think of it, a New Canaan Board of Manhattan Tasters, modeled on the committee of dry cleaner judges committee I described before, would provide a valuable public service. I wonder where I can go to apply.

Back to basics: It pains me to report that my campaign to open a late-night bar here in town isn’t gaining any traction. Part of the problem seems to be that no one shares my unique vision for the place. “No food, just three kinds of beer, and bottom-shelf liquor only,” is how I described it to one would-be partner.

“In New Canaan?,” he asked, then looked at me as if I’d just grown a second head.

“We’ll be the bargain-drink alternative!,” I explained. “That, and we’ll stay open until 1:00 a.m. every night. Two-o’clock on weekends! Customers will beat our doors down.” At which point my investor, who for some reason has suddenly stopped returning my calls, informed me that, in his view, “opening a run-down gin joint in a town like this is the most idiotic idea” that he had ever heard (even though I’d specifically said I was going for something homey), and that life is too short for this sort of nonsense (I must not have been expressing myself well that day). Then he announced he was late for his next appointment and bolted for the door. “Domestic vodka only!,” I called to him as he ran out, but it didn’t look like he heard.

I don’t understand this indifference to economy-mindedness on the part of the town’s cocktail set. There’s a recession on! People should jump at the chance to save money. And as I mentioned, the place wouldn’t be completely austere. The flat-screen TVs would be plenty big, for example, and the barstools will all have backs. We’ll stick a room air-conditioner in the wall, and maybe a jar of pickled eggs on the bar.

But as I say, I’m getting nowhere. “It’s the same as when you wanted to open a Taco Bell in town,” Mrs. Banks told me later. She thought at the time that was a dumb idea and, in truth, isn’t so crazy about this one, either. “It sounds,” she said after I described to her the kind of place I had in mind, “like it will be a dump.”

Some people just don’t have any vision. But I’ll keep plugging away. Sooner or later, I’ll come across some like-minded neighbors who understand the value there is in a low-priced glass of low-priced beer, and a comfortable place in which to sit and drink it. Ah, it would be paradise!

This year was different: At Franco’s last Saturday, Mrs. Banks performed one of our family’s special Easter traditions, a practice I’ve come to refer to as “The Exchanging of the Wine.” “Please, please, don’t let him choose by himself anymore,” she begged the fellow at the counter as she handed over three bottles of the Latvian rosé I’d picked out (and which I still say looked like a real find) to go with dinner. “What was he thinking? Last Thanksgiving, he brought home a case of Chablis that came in gallon jugs. [Another good value. --CB] I could barely lift it to get it back in the car. Next time, just follow him around the store and don’t let him touch anything.”

Years ago, Mrs. Banks’ wine vetoes put my nose out of joint. No longer. I see now my talent for picking spirits exists mainly in the realm of tracking down low-priced whiskey. (I’m especially strong in the under-$20-a-handle segment. Helpful hint: plastic bottles mean quality.) As for wine, no one else in the family seems to go in the way I do for offbeat regions or screw-on caps. Don’t ask me why.

But our routine this Easter were all bollixed up anyway, on account of the golf. I blame the people at Augusta. It’s a little much, in my view, for them to ignore the libational burden they’re imposing on the country’s golf fans when they let the Masters fall on Easter weekend. (Do they think it’s up to the Vatican to reschedule?) So on Sunday, we stayed busy all day. Right after church, it was off to the club for brunch (Bloody Marys and beer for the men, Bellinis and champagne for the women, followed by a round of Planter’s Punches for everyone and decaf Irish coffee). Usually afterwards, we all go take naps and the rest of the day takes care of itself. But not this year. (Thank you, Billy Payne!) Instead, we raced home to the television to spend the day watching golf. That meant—there is of course a certain inevitability to these things—more beer for the men (punctuated with a double gin and tonic after Mickelson took that double-bogey on the 4^th), and champagne for the women. When it went to a playoff, I worried I might have to rustle up more bottles from down in the basement.

You might be able to keep up a pace like this, but it got to be a struggle for me, believe me. We all had a great day, but I was in bed by 9:00, and happy to be there. I slept like a baby. All hail Bubba Watson!

Upstream all the way: Mrs. Banks has given up bread for Lent, so there hasn’t been so much as a frankfurter roll in the house since the middle of February. I’ve reacted by trying to think up loopholes. “Does pizza count?,” I asked her Sunday night as we tried to decide on dinner. She told me pizza certainly does count and that–as she says she’s reminded me for what must be (hyperbolically, I’m sure) the ten-thousandth time–she doesn’t really think of ordering in pizza as a serious dinner option in the first place, if I must know. Which, given the way she looked at me after I came up with the suggestion, you’d think I would by now.

Normally when we’re at loggerheads over what to eat, we just head into town, stop at the first set of barstools we come across, and take it from there. But by late Sunday afternoon I was in no shape to travel. I’d spent the day smoking salmon (I’ll explain later). I’d never smoked fish before, but understood perfectly well that the project involves checking the fire from time to time to keep the temperature at a set, low level. What I didn’t expect was that I’d consigned myself to spending the day locked in hand-to-hand combat with my formerly beloved grill. Every five minutes, I was either adding charcoal to heat things up or shuffling the embers around to cool them down. The ritual heaving-in of the hickory chips never stopped. By 4:00, I understood why most people just buy their smoked salmon at the grocery store. By 5:00, I started to smell my hair burning.

Bobby Flay makes these things look so easy! He’s never covered in charcoal dust and burn blisters at the end of each show. So while the fish came out well enough, I did not. Mrs. Banks, I have to say, was not at her most Florence-Nightingalesque. “Not that door! Go in through the garage!,” she called to me by way of offering comfort and encouragement when I went to deliver my masterpiece into the kitchen. “And don’t touch the cabinets!”

I mixed myself a Tanqueray and tonic (“Not the crystal glasses!”) and headed upstairs to take a shower and find the aloe cream. But I was pretty darn pleased with myself, just the same. My do-it-yourself smoked salmon may not be a perfect specimen, but neither was it a bad first effort; it will surely be worth serving this weekend when our daughter and her pals come up from New York for Easter. And Mrs. Banks’ and my dinner plans, in the meantime? I decided on sushi. I was in the mood for fish, believe it or not–as long as it wasn’t anywhere near a flame.

Rolling Wonder: My evening commute is something you might see in an old Tony Randall movie. I put on my hat and coat every night at 5:45 sharp, head down the elevator and through the lobby of the old Pan Am building, pick up a Post, then make a beeline to the 6:08 to sit myself down in the second-to-last car and proceed to make a hash the crossword puzzle. Clues about European rivers in particular tend to do me in. “‘Seine’ has only one ‘n’,” Mrs. Banks will tell me after I get home and hand the puzzle over to her for cleanup and repair. “And it’s it’s a French river, not a Swiss river. You really shouldn’t be doing these things in ink.” At which point we both hear her saying silently to herself, “Actually, you might consider not doing them at all.”

But puzzle fiascoes aside, I enjoy my evening train routine  The only times I vary it are days I’m feeling zippy and decide to treat myself to a beer and a bag of pretzels on the bar car. Have you ever ridden it? The bar car on the 6:08 to New Canaan is a little slice of heaven here on earth, placed, as improbable as this may seem, inside a piece of MTA rolling stock. It has all life’s necessities: beer, wine, spirits, and mixers, plus a full selection of salty snacks and a bathroom. The regulars on the car—especially the small group that stands in the vestibule at the bartender’s end—seem like they’re old, old friends. They may never even even see each other except for when they’re on the train. Yet when the regulars are sharing drinks on the ride home, they’re the happiest people on earth.

I sometimes envy them, and wonder how one becomes part of their circle. Do you get proposed by an active member? Is there an essay to write? For all I know, to even raise the topic publicly is to disqualify oneself forever. (“The first rule of the bar-car club,” I can hear the Grand Schooner reminding the initiates at the annual induction ritual, “is that there is no bar-car club.”)

But then I come to my senses and remember that the bar-car life isn’t the life for me. My arches wouldn’t take all the standing, for one thing. And crossword puzzles don’t do themselves. Mrs. Banks has been badgering me about salt. So I’m happy enough to just visit from time to time. I’ll stand in the corner with my pretzels and my beer, read my paper, and soak up the joy.