

Munich, 1998. A beer hall the size of an aircraft hangar, a brass band, a man in lederhosen who insisted, at great length, that I was holding my pretzel wrong. I have thought about that pretzel for most of my adult life.
I thought about it again on a gray October afternoon, on the 9th green at PopStroke The Colony, staring down a sidehill putt that broke a full foot and then, out of pure spite, broke back.
I left it short. My brother-in-law said nothing, which is worse than saying something.
So at the turn I steered us to the patio and ordered Pretzel Bites & Queso. Soft pretzel bites, little Bavarian-style pretzels, golden brown and burnished, lightly salted, the salt catching the light like frost on a green. Soft and pillowy inside, a gentle chew on the outside. And beside them, a cup of warm queso dipping sauce, smooth and molten, the color of a harvest moon.
You dip. You eat. You dip again. Nobody holds them wrong. There is no wrong way.
My brother-in-law reached for one. Then three more. By the 12th we were speaking again. By the 14th he was asking my advice on reading grain.
I sank a twelve-footer on the 17th, uphill, dead center. I raised a pretzel bite to the sky, a small salute to a stern man in lederhosen, wherever he is tonight.
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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

