Kimi and Rob Brunham, owners of The Rusty Porthole
For this transplant from the Midwest, the Antioch Bridge will always signify the long slow sweeping entrance to the north side of the Delta. Its endless expanse draws the traveler from the suburban sprawl of the eastern edge of the Bay area into the rolling vineyards and gracious curves of the river valley. So perhaps I can be forgiven for my growing confusion as I made that journey in reverse, bound for Bethel Island and the unexpected charm of a small cheerful bar called The Rusty Porthole. How could I still be in the Delta, I asked myself.
I had never been to Bethel Island. As I headed east through the traffic of Oakley, I repeatedly checked the broader view on my GPS. Suddenly, a sign announced that a left turn would take me there. I began to climb a smaller bridge with the same sensation of coming home that this St. Louis gal first felt crossing the San Joaquin two years ago. The descent brought me to narrow streets with familiar sights such as boats and RVs pulled by pick-ups with dusty fenders and drivers who nodded and tipped one hand on the steering wheel. I recognize the universal sign for “Welcome, stranger; you’ll soon be a friend.”
The Missouri Ozarks taught me the promise of anywhere that requires a walk over a little gangplank onto a patio smelling of fish and freshwater. I had no trouble believing that the dark door would lead to a dockside dive, comfortable and unpretentious. 
The wide windows showed a view of what everyone would tell me was Franks Tract. I didn’t think to ask who Frank had been or why the slough bore his name. The theme decor on the walls distracted me: Brass ships, pirate’s skulls with menacing snarls; and what I could only assume were bottles of rum. Long swaths of rope, life savers which looked as though they had seen genuine service, and lanterns completed the tableau. I had no doubt that I had found the right place.
Then a deep chuckle and an extended hand brought me into the 
presence of co-owner Kimi Brunham. I found myself starting to understand the popularity of the Rusty Porthole. Boston might have its mythical Cheers and smiling Sam, but here you have Brunham’s down-to-earth Delta charm to make you feel at home.
Brunham told me that she came to Bethel Island twenty years ago. Here she met her husband and eventual cohort, who at the time had a pizza place on the island. They ran that restaurant together before buying the Rusty Porthole ten years ago. Her only regret is a kitchen too small for pizza. But the extensive menu provides something for everyone, including breakfast and even a veggie burger. The Rusty Porthole serves customers seven days a week. Menus vary from weekday to weekend. When asked about the cook,Brunham laughed about her first meeting with Chef Renee, whom she described as seeming too timid to last six months in the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of a bar kitchen. But she’s endured far longer, and now turns out a couple of hundred dinners on an in-season Friday night and countless Saturday breakfasts to boat-loving folks seeking to wash away the City’s grime.
Raucous fun sometimes permeates the place and its scores of regular customers. A Wall of Shame testifies to years of participation in the Frozen Bun Run. But the bar a variety of regular entertainment, like Ladies’ Night, painting parties, and karaoke. Moreover, like other folks whom I have met who are loyal to their Delta communities, Brunham and her husband help their neighbors. They participate in Santa’s Sack, a local effort to provide Christmas dinner and children’s gifts for hundreds on Bethel Island. They also help with the local Meals on Wheels, and organize fundraisers for long-time customers facing catastrophes or major illnesses.
That community spirit partially explains the quick answer when I ask customers about the appeal of the place
. “It’s the owners,” one man offers without hesitation. But he and his companion hasten to endorse everything else. “And the food,” they both simultaneously crow, laughing, grinning, pausing in their pursuit of the daily crossword to introduce themselves as an engaged couple. Buzz and M.J. looked at home on their bar stools, with coffee and pencils at hand. Buzz said he used to live on the Island, until M.J. stole his heart and whisked him away to her home in Antioch. Now retired, they come to fish and work the puzzle each morning. “Good food and good people”, Buzz repeated, and his lady smiled her concurrence. I found myself wanting to return day after day to sit at the end of the bar and listen to their conversation about fishing, M.J.’s grandchildren, and the probable answer to four-across, an eleven-letter word for the happy coincidence of finding an agreeable place in unexpected quarters.
On a Friday morning, a half-dozen folks enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, munching toast with their eggs. But on a Saturday night, with a band and scores of regulars, the place would certainly rock. Boaters would come alongside, tie up, and ease themselves onto the deck. People might dance a little, or at least tap their feet in time to the lively music. Regulars would briefly turn their heads when the door opened, nodding to strangers and calling out to neighbors. Stools would be slid forward; chairs jostled; and the barkeep would be summoned to bring a cold brew or something stronger. Plates heaped with Guinness-battered cod, prime rib, or juicy Philly-cheese steak sandwiches would stream from the kitchen. Laughter would waft to the ceiling and drift out over the dock. And soon enough, everybody would know your name.
Guy Fieri has not profiled the Rusty Porthole on his iconic show, despite the framed photo jokingly displayed on a timbered pillar near the front door. But he should, for the place personifies a dive such as anyone in America yearns to frequent. When I left, I found myself wondering when I could return. I wondered whether I’d find that couple once again, smiling, thinking about the fish waiting in the river, or the lunch they’d soon order, from their regular seats at the bar overlooking the fresh waters of the San Joaquin.
