chowda, baby

Let's start off with the fabulous chowder we had at Mo's Chowder House in Florence, Oregon.  We had read about it in the book we bought about travelling down Highway 101 from Oregon to California.  I am a bit of a snob when it comes to chowder, and I get it from my Dad.  "None of that red crap!" as he says.  I want a thick, hearty soup, and no rubbery findings anywhere in sight.  What we got was amazing.  Scott got the bowl, and I opted for the bread bowl.  Both of us were plesantly surprised with the addition of melted butter off on the side of each of our bowls.  The fine sprinkling of paprika was another bonus.

Mo's crowded us all in to a variety of picnic tables with bench seats.  We were lucky enough to get the table in the back corner by the open door.  It was pretty hot in there!  The cheery gingham oilcloth, along with the large plastic cups for our drinks (raspberry-lemonade and traditional lemonade) really spoke to the Mom'n'Pop feel of this restaurant.  The wait staff were happy to serve us, even with the overflowing amount of people milling about.  I can't say the bathroom was any screamin' hell, but then again I wasn't there to use the loo.  I was there for the chowda baby, and that's what I got!