While I can’t remember how old I was when I first read the Jules Verne classic “Around the World in 80 Days” I do remember falling in thrall with its protagonist, Phileas Fogg.

Fogg was the perfect British gentleman, who made a 20,000 Pound bet with members of his club that he could circumnavigate the world in 80 days or fewer, a seemingly impossible feat in 1872, when the book was written. (FYI: 20,000 Pounds then is today’s equivalent of $2.5 million.) Fogg wins the bet, returning to Old Blighty with mere minutes to spare. The movie was chock-full of wild adventures in exotic locales, as Fogg got into, and then out of, one scrape after another — always with his (and the audience’s) eye on the clock. It starred David Niven, who personified both the sophistication and SANG FROID that defined Phileas Fogg.

The reason Fogg succeeded was because he was a creature of unwavering habit and ritual. Everything in his life was done precisely the same way, day after day. An example of his finickiness is he fired one of his man-servants because the shaving water he’d heated was a degree or so off. So when he sets out on his trip, everything is planned precisely and thus succeeds — even with all the things that went wrong or were unseen.

A Seide-note: If he tried to pull a similar stunt today, the chances of success would be pretty lousy, since with air travel as crappy as it is, he could conceivably spend two weeks sittin’ on his dupa in Heathrow, waiting for his first flight to be called.

I channeled Phileas Fogg, as represented by David Niven, to become the Dope I am today.

OK, so I can’t compare to his dashing good looks, worldliness or intellect. But when it comes to being a Master of Routine, I am every bit his equal. My entire life is a tribute to ritual so unvaried it’d make a medieval monk turn green with envy.

Every day, I do almost everything the same way, in the same order, at the same time. I might change it up a bit, but even then it’s ritualized. For example, I had Grape Nuts with fruit and honey for breakfast every day for probably 25 years. For the last 10, it’s been grilled cheese with Frank’s Hot Sauce. You get the picture, I’m sure.

And I’m just as rigid with my choice of dining establishments. Take cafes, for example. I know which ones I like and all the things I like about them and I’d rather sit through a Yoko Ono fest than try a new place.

Actually, that’s not exactly true. I will try a new place to eat — but rarely. The way I see it, if I like a cafe, it has to be good. So if I try a new one, there are only two possibilities: It can either be better, or worse. By definition, it can’t be the same since it’s a diff place — so at best it can only be comparable. But, hey, I’ve been around — especially when it comes to cafes, diners, food trucks and stalls, and restaurants. I know the odds of another place being better than my rave-faves are slim indeed, so I figure Why bother?

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Tupper Lake takes the cake … and the pie too

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Last week I was off to an adventure that took me to a place Phileas Fogg never even knew about, but is as exotic as any locale he visited — Tupper Lake.

Tupper is my second favorite town for a multitude of reasons. First, of course, the people. I’ve found almost everyone there friendly (but with just enough grumps to keep the mix interesting) and not only willing to carry on a conversation, but ABLE to as well. And beyond that, I always know where I stand with a Tupper Laker. I’m sure there are some some phony baloneys there, but I’ve never met one. A final beauty of Tupper Lake is I’m not from there and have no family there. Thus I can’t be involved in any of the clan wars and rivalries that have simmered there since the days of French Louis.

So what was last week’s adventure, you ask?

It was a coffee confab with three TL stalwarts at my fave TL cafe — The Main Street Restaurant. The Main Street makes almost all its food from scratch and is renowned for its pies. I’m a diehard fan of its french fries.

The stalwarts were Carol Fuller, JJ Maroun and Brother Numero Uno of The Demars Boulevard Demimonde, Pat Bentley.

All three of them are great company singly, but in one group, they were a delightful melange of repartee, anecdote, local history and, of course, a wee bit of gossip for good measure. Another highlight of being with them was it was the first time in a long time that, by comparison, I felt so young.

Because those guys have known each other since Big Wolf was a pup, I was more an observer than a participant in the convo, and for good reason: I knew if I waited long enough I’d hear at least one story worth remembering, and I was right. While the telling of the tale was shared by Carol and Pat, Pat had the starring role.

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Gaming the system

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Some vital background: When he’s not griping, Pat can be a funny fellow — especially when it comes to personal anecdotes. It’s not just because he’s a good storyteller (which he is) but that he and his puckish sense of humor create the tales as well.

This story took place Way Back When. And while I don’t know the exact date, I think it was during FDR’s second term. Anyhow, at the time, Pat and Carol were dating (at least Pat thought so). Carol was the kindergarten teacher at Holy Ghost Academy, a job she held for years or so. Holy Ghost, like most North Country Catholic schools, was always strapped for money, and one way they raised it was raffles.

Carol, being the dedicated type she his, hustled the raffle tickets to one and all — of course including Pat. Pat, being the good sport he is (or at least can pretend to be) bought tickets, but never won anything. According to him, it wasn’t because of bad luck, but because the raffle was rigged: He claimed the only winners were Catholics.

He further claimed they did this by writing on the back of his tickets the following: P, PS, D. The P stood for Protestant; PS for Public School; and D for Divorced. So, the fix was in.

But Pat is nothing but resourceful, and he he decided to beat the HGA scoundrels at their own game.

How did he do it?

Simple: Before he handed in his tickets he wrote on the back of each one, “Cardinal Bentley.”

They held the drawing and — lo and behold! — he won 40 bucks!

Now that he had his system, there was no stopping him: On the next drawing, he wrote on his tickets “Archbishop Bentley.”

Unfortunately, either due to the raffle peeps getting hip to his skullduggery or the remote possibility that the drawings really were run honestly, he won nothing.

Pat, being the determined soul he is, then adorned his next tickets with “Cardinal Bentley.”

And again, he lost.

And that’s where his recounting of the story ended, except to say he never won another one of their raffles.

What he didn’t say was whether he wrote “Pope Bentley” on any of the other tickets, nor did I ask him. Let’s face it: There are some things about your friends you just don’t want to know.