

A Sunday in October. Leaves skittering across the patio at PopStroke The Colony, a nip in the air, football murmuring from somewhere inside. My father-in-law, a retired dentist with opinions about everything, had agreed to play eighteen with me.
He believed putting was a matter of character. Mine was under review.
On the 9th I faced a short, slippery downhill putt, four feet, maybe less. He watched me the way he once watched molars. I hit it too firm. It rattled in anyway, hard against the back of the cup.
"Lucky," he said. Then, after a pause: "Let's eat."
The buffalo chicken dip came out to our patio table warm and bubbling. A creamy blend of slow-roasted chicken and cream cheese, rich and comforting as an old wool blanket. Over the top, a scattering of pico de gallo, bright and fresh, a little confetti thrown over a quiet celebration. Alongside, crispy house-made tortilla chips, sturdy enough to scoop, light enough to forget you've had fourteen.
He scooped first. He scooped again. He said nothing for several minutes, which, from him, is a standing ovation.
On the back nine he started calling me by my first name. On the 16th he offered me his putter to try. I sank a long lag with it. He told me to keep it until next Sunday, which I understood to mean there would be a next Sunday.
Customer reviews
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Surf instructors are out of this world. Kind and make people want to join in! My little brother came to town this week and Ryan showed him some sauce baby, he was absolutely shredding. Food was heat the mahi tacos are so buss, sliders are fire, and the Kona big wave, let me just say “Heat in the cold of winter” that’s how she makes me feel.
Dave H.
Dallas @ The Colony

