The Waterford Hotel looms kindly over Waterford, Pennsylvania, three stories of stout brick as inviting as Grandma’s cookie jar. The Hotel’s history in Waterford stretches back a hundred and fifty years; some locals claim that George Washington stayed at the place, but he stayed on the grounds when it was Fort LeBouef, before the Hotel was even an idea.

The wrought-iron gate is open; management keeps it for decoration rather than defense. Step through it and onto the brick patio. Patrons are welcome to eat here during the summer beneath one of the dozen colorful parasols, but today a cool breeze and ominous clouds make that a risky prospect.

Ascend the wooden stairs to the porch. The door has been propped open to allow fresh air into the building. An ornate white staircase wends upwards and out of sight to the former rooms. In the winter a local charity assembles a Christmas display upstairs, which you can view for a small donation, but there is nothing to see up there right now.

You can rent one of the rooms for $200 per night, if you so desire. The price is high because it is so uncommon a request that special arrangements must be made to allow for renters to stay.

The restaurant is to your left. During busy periods, a hostess seats you to preserve order. It is not busy at the moment, however—half the seats at the bar are open, and there is but one small family in the room beside you.

The sign asks you to “please seat yourself.” There is a glass door between the bar and the restaurant, the better to enforce local anti-smoking efforts. The bar is darkly colored, but beautiful, like Gothic architecture.

There are four televisions in the bar—depending on the time of year, there may be a Steelers game or NASCAR race on, or whatever the barkeep likes if there are no objecting customers—but often the volume is low or off and closed-captioning crawls across the screens. The Waterford Hotel is a highly sociable bar, and groups of friends often cluster together to converse over drinks; the screens merely add some color to the room.

There are, however, numerous chain smokers at the bar right now, and some casual smokers at a table by the rear public entrance. You’d probably like to be able to smell your food when it arrives, so you head right, into the non-smoking section.

The non-smoking area’s white woodwork and light wallpaper contrast sharply with the deep tones of the bar. Even the dark wood and carpeting on the landing in the back room seem to add color to a generally chipper section of the restaurant.

There is a four-top open in the back dining room that may interest you. A local artist’s endearing sketches of local buildings adorn the walls; there are price tags on them for those interested. Local radio plays softly back here. Antique china and small wrought-iron trinkets rest on a shelf above you. The clinking of dishes and clattering of pans emanates soothingly from the kitchen entrance, and as you hear the grill flare from the beef cooking you can almost smell it. A waitress appears and takes your drink order without writing it down.

The menu is formal, but colorful and inviting. The appetizers are right up front, followed by sandwiches and other quick dishes like salads and wraps, then a page of entrees and steaks. The back cover features a menu “on the lighter side,” but you never go to restaurants for a mere snack, so you open the menu back up.

The waitress comes back with your Coke and your Manhattan. She isn’t surprised that you need a moment to peruse the menu—even regulars sometimes have difficulty choosing a meal.

The Hotel is famous for its Reubens, and few burgers rival the Hotel Burger either in quality or size, if you are in the mood for a sandwich. Head cook Tracy Sanders is a masterful beef cook if you favor a steak. The pot pie and the stir fry are each so vast that the kitchen staff have joked about offering an award to the few who manage to finish them—the puff pastry alone that sits atop the pot pie is the size of a loaf of wheat bread.

You are hungry today and the weather is a bit cool; you opt for the chicken Parmesan dinner, in search of the rich, filling pasta and the tang of the marinara sauce. The dinner comes with a salad, made fresh in the kitchen moments before it is brought out to you, and a roll, also handmade and baked in the kitchen this afternoon.

The meal does not disappoint, the mountain of spaghetti perfectly complimenting the generous breast of chicken, the cheese molten over the chicken but not liquefied, the sauce flavoring the pasta without drowning it.

The waitress appears, offering you a refill of Coke and another beverage, perhaps a slice of Dee’s cheesecake. The size and density of the meals only leaves room for dessert in the heartiest of diners, though, and Tracy’s entrée has bested you.

The check has not—you have, in fact, spent less than you would have at The Texas Roadhouse or any similar restaurant nearby. As you step outside, you look over your shoulder to check the hours of operation, so you know when you can come back. The Waterford Hotel looms kindly above you like a kindergarten teacher reading to her pupils, and her similar warmth makes you miss her before you even fully leave her.