My friend and I were traveling between Halifax, Nova Scotia, and St. John's, Newfoundland, a quick two-hour hop over the Laurentian Channel. It was late January, and with a blizzard threatening delays, we arrived extra early and settled at the Firkin & Flyer pub for a pint before takeoff. One by one, all flights were grounded, and all passengers too: The highway had been closed, and it was impossible to leave the airport. We split an order of crisp fish and chips and a lobster roll with a creamy lemon sauce, and watched the world disappear behind the blizzard. After a while we put in another order: salt cod fish cakes and scallop chowder. It was dark now, and there was no idea of leaving before morning. But we were happy with our pints of Burnside, brewed in nearby Dartmouth, and the slices of fried kielbasa and potato skins (nachos made with tuber instead of chips) the waitress brought us gratis. “You might as well,” she said. “We're all set in for the night.” We slept fitfully and wo...
