Ford has Aston Martin up for sale, and I’m tempted, but the marque I’d really like to own is Jaguar. I’d put it back on track. The curvaceous cats from Coventry have been curled up, purring, in my soul since the day I first noticed them, and that’s been a long time. I don’t remember the year, but I remember the moment and even the name of the place: the Scotch Mist Inn.
This was a hilltop hostelry near the old Bridgehampton race course, way out on Long Island, New York. We Lyonses were in the habit of weekending out there, tent-camping at Montauk Point, because Pop loved the sports car races. On one such occasion, Mom, who loved fine dining even more than cooking on a camp stove, must have spotted the Inn.
