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After a full day of fun in the sun in the dunes of Lake Superior, my family and I were only too ready for some good food - white fish, anyone?

Over half of our large family ordered the white fish because, duh...that's the thing to order when you are within rock's throwing distance from any of the Great Lakes, right? Anyway, those of us who are not so fortunate to loooooove fish had a decision to make. Risk ordering a steak outside of our beloved Midwest? I think not. Ribs? Perhaps. Pasta? Having it the next night..., so I (foolishly, I might add...) settled on spare ribs - St. Louis style. Yep. St. Louis style ribs right here in the good ol' Upper Peninsula.

So, the waiter comes around to get our drink order first, and I (did I use the word foolishly once already?) ask him what kinds of beer they have on tap. The conversation that ensued went something like this...

"Oh, fer sure. We have slkhof, aodihgfosi, ahdoi, and  Back. Aoidhogif, dkfo, aoidhofijsd, andfkao, and of course, sldkjfodsijf."

I stare at him blankly, not quite certain what to say for a moment. It's as if he's been speaking in Dutch, and I am from Mars.

"Oh, OK, do you have an amber ale?"

"Fer sure, the Michelob Bock Amber Ale."

My BSM (that would be Big Strong Man for those of you not yet in the loop) encourages me to try that one, so I readily agree. (I'm super compliant that way...)

Off goes the waiter, and soon he's back with our drinks and ready to take the remainder of our order. When it's my turn, I politely tell the waiter that I have a question about one of the entrees.

"Fer sure. Shoot."

"OK, what's your vodka cream sauce? Is it a red sauce with a creaminess to it?"

"I don't know!"

OK, the ball's back in my court, apparently.

"Oh, OK. Well, could you find out if it has a red sauce or if it's just a cream sauce, please?"

At this, I get the knee jolt under the table from my BSM. He hates when I do this - especially in this sort of a restaurant where the servers might not be accustomed to picky little snots like me. Not so readily compliant this time and giving him a hard nudge back, I wait for the answer. Here's what I got.

"Oh, well, which one?"

I point to the item on the menu.

"Oh, yeah, well, there's not much vodka, just a little."
So not my question, but I give up, order it and hope for the best. Then, we're on to salad.

"What kind of dressing would you like?"

"Oh, what kind do you have?" This seems like a reasonable question to me. Again, I get the knee nudge.

"What kind do you want?"

"Ah, what kind do you have?"

"What kind do you want?"

OMG! Is it a secret what dressings they have?

"Well, if you could just tell me what you have, I can choose what I'd like."

"OK, fer sure. We've got Blue Cheese, Ranch, French, Italian, Honey Mustard, Raspberry Vinaigrette and Caesar."

That's quite a selection. I ask for the Raspberry Vinaigrette, and he's off to the next victim. My brother-in-law is astounded that I am ordering pasta when we'll be having pasta the following night, so I start doubting my choice of entrée. (I hate to admit it, but this is classic behavior for me.) After my BSM orders his beloved whitefish, I calmly tell the waiter that I will be his problem child of the evening, and could I please change my order to the ribs? More choices. I choose the St. Louis style.

 Well, the amber ale went down quite nicely, and since I wasn't driving, I asked for another. They were on special for just $1.00 until 6 pm. Our waiter, whom I can barely understand from a person speaking a completely foreign tongue, calls over to me, and says, "The Back, right?" (or so I thought...) I nod my head and holler back, "Yes, the Michelob amber ale." He nods approvingly and begins to dispense a brown liquid from a keg at the bar.

"Here you go, little lady."

Before I can say, "Boo," he's off again, but not before I've noticed that the new draw of beer is definitely not the same as the last one. Not to be deterred, I decide to hop up and follow him back to the bar.

"Hey, sorry, but I asked for another of the same as last time, the..."

He cuts me off and says, "Fer sure, the LaBatt's." So, that's what he had said - not the Back Ale. I thought he'd just mispronounced Bock.

He gets me the proper draw, and we're square again, though I'm certain that somehow spit will wind up on my ribs...

Our salads arrive next, and they are quite good, though my niece can't figure out why her Caesar salad has cheddar cheese on it, along with mushrooms and cucumbers. I tell her I think it's just Caesar dressing on their dinner salad, and is that what she ordered?. She's not altogether certain, since she, too, had trouble understanding the waiter.

Next, our main courses arrive. Everyone gets theirs, except my college-bound niece, who so far, has only gotten her "Caesar" salad. What arrived for her? Why, a Caesar salad, of course! A great big one, complete with Romaine lettuce, parmesan and no "hanger-on" veggies. Baffled, she wonders where the (very adult) hot dog platter she had ordered is. When it still hasn't arrived after about five more minutes, she inquires after it.

"Oh, fer sure, they're workin' on it."

A hot dog?

Only in the U.P. I will give them this. Everyone is super friendly, even if the things they do take two to three times as long as anywhere else you will ever go in your life. But where else did we have to go? Back to the cabins for another peaceful evening by the lake.