by Mark Schatzker
The question “Would you like iceberg ice in “your water glass tonight?” is the kind typically reserved for destinations of rarefied pomposity. A boutique Japanese cruise liner, say, or a nightclub in Moscow that only the oligarchs know about. But not in the interior of a Dodge Caliber doing the speed limit on Grenfell Drive, a highway lined by fir trees, the odd birch and an almost ridiculous number of moose.
You find Grenfell Drive on the Northern Peninsula, a tip of land that shoots northward off the shore of Newfoundland, Canada. I was not here to see, or taste, icebergs. My quarry, also of the ocean and also having to do with dinner, was far more rare. I was on my way to a fishing lodge to eat an Atlantic salmon.