Monday was the day we would finally head home. We finally tried our B&B's breakfast, and I must say it was quite good. David the innkeeper served what he rather preposterously called “French toast crème brûlée.” There was no trace of either French toast or crème brûlée, but it was delicious nonetheless. It was sort of an egg soufflee, baked until puffy, with a layer of something made of apples in the middle. The coffee was excellent as well.
I had a full-blown cold by Monday morning, and was feeling moderately miserable, but it was another beautiful day. After checking out, we spent an hour or so at the Asheville Botanical Garden, a peaceful little park adjacent to the UNC Asheville campus. It was beautifully quiet, and the wildflowers were beautiful. Afterwards, we stopped in at a store J. wanted to go to; by the time we were done it was lunchtime, and I was determined to visit one more local institution before leaving – the Asheville Pizza and Brewing Company. The pizza was generic, but wasn't bad when hot and fresh from the oven. Despite my cold an an impending eight-hour drive, I allowed myself a beer, and asked our waitress, amazingly with-it by Asheville standards, to recommend one. I was glad I did – though it was merely their red ale, usually a boring style, it was hoppy and refreshing, with a floral aroma that I could detect even with my malfunctioning sinuses. J. opted for the IPA, which was even better. The space was full of character (and characters, I am sure, come nighttime) and featured a movie theatre in the back.
From then on, it was driving and more driving. We got home close to midnight, sick, exhausted, dreading work the next day, but delighted with the trip.
Showing posts with label Asheville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Asheville. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Asheville, Day Three
On Sunday, we missed our B&B's breakfast again to leave early for a whitewater rafting trip on the French Broad river. The French Broad is generally believed to be one of the three oldest rivers in the world and is one of the few in the Northern hemisphere that flows North.
This was my first time rafting, and J.'s first as an adult (she had done some decades ago as a Girl Scout). On J.'s cousin's recommendation, we booked a trip with the Nantahala Outdoor Center. One of the larger outfits in the area, they offer trips around the entire Western North Carolina and Tennessee. We were the first to arrive, but by the time everyone gathered our group was sizeable. A church group of teenagers from Alabama with their two chaperoning adults, another couple a few years older than ourselves, and two twenty-something women in high-tech REI gear. The morning was cool, and most people, including J., availed themselves of wetsuits. Citing my heritage, I passed. Wisely, it turned out – the day grew very warm quite quickly and J. had to peel hers off on our first stop. The water was very low, about 40% below its average level for the season, so the lead guide offered people an option of what he called duckies – one-person inflatable kayaks that are more maneuverable in shallow water. A few of the teens, one of their chaperons, and one REI woman took him up. After a not particularly confidence-inspiring safety video, we piled into an old school bus and headed for the put-in. Once assembled, we ended up with a half-dozen duckies, two guides in kayaks, and three rafts. The raft J. and I were in brought up the rear, and we were the only ones with two guides on board, Brandon and Spitzer (got to be a nickname). Both college-age, they were unfailingly nice and friendly. Spitzer was the more experienced one and quieter, while Brandon was still learning the more advanced skills, called out the paddling commands, and narrated the river lore as we floated down the slow sections between rapids.
Rafters and kayakers classify the rapids' difficulty using numbers from one to six, but the procedure for assigning a class to a rapid is a bit of a black science. It seems to have less to do with the height, width or the speed of the current and more with how many people got killed trying to paddle it. A class six rapid is one that has never been successfully negotiated, successful in this case meaning alive and still in the boat. Once a rapid is successfully negotiated, it is downgraded to a five-point-something. According to our guides, we were going to go through several class two rapids and two class-threes. I am not sure I was ever able to tell the difference. Some of the class-twos sure seemed more exciting. Overall, the experience was fun. The water was indeed low, and we scraped a lot of rocks. Several times, Brandon had to get out of the raft (the river was shallow enough in most places) and push us off. On the bigger rapids, however, it was quite a bit of fun. The excitement lasts only a second or two, but it's intense while it's there. Towards the end, a couple of times our guides would purposely point the raft into the rapid backwards and we would not only tumble but also spin through the roaring water. The biggest challenge in terms of technique was having to paddle as fast and furiously as we could manage. Most of the time, we floated along with only an occasional paddle to keep the raft on course, but once we reached a rapid, there was usually several in succession, and we had to steer the raft quickly from one to the other and keep it pointed in exactly the right direction to avoid allowing the current to drive us onto a rock. We did ok for the most part, no doubt due to the fact that the professional-to-amateur ration in our raft was the highest of our entire expedition. Brandon mentioned at one point that the worst kind of customer is a raft full of guys. Apparently, as a species we tend to convince ourselves quickly that we know what we're doing and stop following commands. “I'll take a raft full of Girl Scouts over a raft of grown men any day” were his exact words.
After the trip was over I contemplated a bit the extreme nature of the sport, and how much further I would be willing to go, if at all, before I decided that the risk was too high. Having an admittedly low tolerance for risk (hence my fascination-trepidation relationship with motorcycles), I decided that I would not want to go much further than what we did on Sunday. Class two and three were fun, but anything much past that, I think I my mind would go into a survival mode and I would miss out on the fun. But you never know.
We had only one truly hair-raising moment during the trip. At one point, we switched positions with the lead raft and propped ourselves up against a big rock so we could spot the duckies coming through a series of rapids and help them stay on course by pushing them – the turn was too sharp for beginner paddlers to negotiate on their own. Spitzer got out of the raft, and while bracing himself against the rock in about four feet of water, got pulled under. He was under for a good three or four seconds, and the rest of us, including Brandon, were completely petrified. The safety video must not have been for naught, however, since following instruction both J. and I extended our paddles for him to grab onto. He managed to pull himself up just as we did that.
The views along the river were breathtaking. On the section we paddled both banks were high, another unusual feature of the French Broad, and covered with vibrant early-summer greenery. There was no evidence of civilization on the banks until at one point we rounded a turn and saw a clear-cut patch on top of a mountain with a mansion at the very summit. The land is private in that section, and open to development. There were other similar houses in the vicinity, according to our guides, but this one was the only one visible from the river. Needless to say, the universal feeling among river people was to lament any evidence of human activity and to badmouth the owners if the house. I certainly understood the sentiment and wanted to agree, but to be perfectly honest I failed to be deeply offended by the house. The house, while probably large, at least made an effort at not being vulgar. It was no Frank Lloyd Wright, but being low to the ground and built of unpainted wood, it seemed somehow appropriate for its site. It could have been much worse. Besides, even without the house, there was plenty of evidence of human presence just then – twenty people in a bunch of rubber boats floating down the river. I suppose that if I was there completely alone, I would have probably felt differently.
We stopped along the way a couple of time, once to go swimming (lovely water, invigorating but not at all cold), and once to have lunch. Having covered five miles of river, we were back at NOC's post by early afternoon, where we changed into dry clothes, tipped our guides and headed to Hendersonville to pay a visit to J.'s elderly aunt. We spent about an hour at the aunt's house, she and J. catching up on family gossip, me not doing much of anything other than petting the extremely friendly and boisterous dog, then drove back to Asheville for dinner.
We had planned to eat dinner at Tupelo Honey where we had breakfast the previous day, but as luck would have it they were not open for dinner on Sundays. Ravenous and out of research, we defaulted to a New Orleans-themed place next door called Mayfel's. For a shot in the dark, it proved to be quite good. I had local trout, or at least it claimed to be local, with a maple-butter sauce. The fish was excellent – fresh, tender, and seared with a nice crust. The sauce was cloyingly sweet, but most of it was pooled in a corner of the plate away from the trout. The fish came with the dreaded vegetable and starch of the day, but on this occasion they turned out to be roasted sweet potatoes and grilled asparagus, both delicious and the asparagus even somewhat seasonal. J. went with jumbalaya, which she was less excited about, but I didn't think it was bad. Excellent beer selection, too. Still in a local mood, I had the Kashmir IPA from Highland Brewing, the only local brewery that bottles, from what I understand. Good stuff, hoppy but balanced and an excellent food beer. The service left a lot to be desired – our waitress had a deer-in-the-headlights look about her, kept trying to give us other people's food while taking ours to someone else, and everything took forever to show up, but for once we didn't mind. Mellowed out on the patio and tired after the river trip, we were happy to order another beer and chill. Thankfully, the kitchen was apparently lagging behind to match the servers, so when our food did eventually show up, it was reasonably warm and tasted very fresh.
Unfortunately, I felt that I was coming down with a cold by this time, and we were exhausted after the long day of adventure anyway, so after a short stroll through downtown, we walked back to the inn and collapsed into bed.
This was my first time rafting, and J.'s first as an adult (she had done some decades ago as a Girl Scout). On J.'s cousin's recommendation, we booked a trip with the Nantahala Outdoor Center. One of the larger outfits in the area, they offer trips around the entire Western North Carolina and Tennessee. We were the first to arrive, but by the time everyone gathered our group was sizeable. A church group of teenagers from Alabama with their two chaperoning adults, another couple a few years older than ourselves, and two twenty-something women in high-tech REI gear. The morning was cool, and most people, including J., availed themselves of wetsuits. Citing my heritage, I passed. Wisely, it turned out – the day grew very warm quite quickly and J. had to peel hers off on our first stop. The water was very low, about 40% below its average level for the season, so the lead guide offered people an option of what he called duckies – one-person inflatable kayaks that are more maneuverable in shallow water. A few of the teens, one of their chaperons, and one REI woman took him up. After a not particularly confidence-inspiring safety video, we piled into an old school bus and headed for the put-in. Once assembled, we ended up with a half-dozen duckies, two guides in kayaks, and three rafts. The raft J. and I were in brought up the rear, and we were the only ones with two guides on board, Brandon and Spitzer (got to be a nickname). Both college-age, they were unfailingly nice and friendly. Spitzer was the more experienced one and quieter, while Brandon was still learning the more advanced skills, called out the paddling commands, and narrated the river lore as we floated down the slow sections between rapids.
Rafters and kayakers classify the rapids' difficulty using numbers from one to six, but the procedure for assigning a class to a rapid is a bit of a black science. It seems to have less to do with the height, width or the speed of the current and more with how many people got killed trying to paddle it. A class six rapid is one that has never been successfully negotiated, successful in this case meaning alive and still in the boat. Once a rapid is successfully negotiated, it is downgraded to a five-point-something. According to our guides, we were going to go through several class two rapids and two class-threes. I am not sure I was ever able to tell the difference. Some of the class-twos sure seemed more exciting. Overall, the experience was fun. The water was indeed low, and we scraped a lot of rocks. Several times, Brandon had to get out of the raft (the river was shallow enough in most places) and push us off. On the bigger rapids, however, it was quite a bit of fun. The excitement lasts only a second or two, but it's intense while it's there. Towards the end, a couple of times our guides would purposely point the raft into the rapid backwards and we would not only tumble but also spin through the roaring water. The biggest challenge in terms of technique was having to paddle as fast and furiously as we could manage. Most of the time, we floated along with only an occasional paddle to keep the raft on course, but once we reached a rapid, there was usually several in succession, and we had to steer the raft quickly from one to the other and keep it pointed in exactly the right direction to avoid allowing the current to drive us onto a rock. We did ok for the most part, no doubt due to the fact that the professional-to-amateur ration in our raft was the highest of our entire expedition. Brandon mentioned at one point that the worst kind of customer is a raft full of guys. Apparently, as a species we tend to convince ourselves quickly that we know what we're doing and stop following commands. “I'll take a raft full of Girl Scouts over a raft of grown men any day” were his exact words.
After the trip was over I contemplated a bit the extreme nature of the sport, and how much further I would be willing to go, if at all, before I decided that the risk was too high. Having an admittedly low tolerance for risk (hence my fascination-trepidation relationship with motorcycles), I decided that I would not want to go much further than what we did on Sunday. Class two and three were fun, but anything much past that, I think I my mind would go into a survival mode and I would miss out on the fun. But you never know.
We had only one truly hair-raising moment during the trip. At one point, we switched positions with the lead raft and propped ourselves up against a big rock so we could spot the duckies coming through a series of rapids and help them stay on course by pushing them – the turn was too sharp for beginner paddlers to negotiate on their own. Spitzer got out of the raft, and while bracing himself against the rock in about four feet of water, got pulled under. He was under for a good three or four seconds, and the rest of us, including Brandon, were completely petrified. The safety video must not have been for naught, however, since following instruction both J. and I extended our paddles for him to grab onto. He managed to pull himself up just as we did that.
The views along the river were breathtaking. On the section we paddled both banks were high, another unusual feature of the French Broad, and covered with vibrant early-summer greenery. There was no evidence of civilization on the banks until at one point we rounded a turn and saw a clear-cut patch on top of a mountain with a mansion at the very summit. The land is private in that section, and open to development. There were other similar houses in the vicinity, according to our guides, but this one was the only one visible from the river. Needless to say, the universal feeling among river people was to lament any evidence of human activity and to badmouth the owners if the house. I certainly understood the sentiment and wanted to agree, but to be perfectly honest I failed to be deeply offended by the house. The house, while probably large, at least made an effort at not being vulgar. It was no Frank Lloyd Wright, but being low to the ground and built of unpainted wood, it seemed somehow appropriate for its site. It could have been much worse. Besides, even without the house, there was plenty of evidence of human presence just then – twenty people in a bunch of rubber boats floating down the river. I suppose that if I was there completely alone, I would have probably felt differently.
We stopped along the way a couple of time, once to go swimming (lovely water, invigorating but not at all cold), and once to have lunch. Having covered five miles of river, we were back at NOC's post by early afternoon, where we changed into dry clothes, tipped our guides and headed to Hendersonville to pay a visit to J.'s elderly aunt. We spent about an hour at the aunt's house, she and J. catching up on family gossip, me not doing much of anything other than petting the extremely friendly and boisterous dog, then drove back to Asheville for dinner.
We had planned to eat dinner at Tupelo Honey where we had breakfast the previous day, but as luck would have it they were not open for dinner on Sundays. Ravenous and out of research, we defaulted to a New Orleans-themed place next door called Mayfel's. For a shot in the dark, it proved to be quite good. I had local trout, or at least it claimed to be local, with a maple-butter sauce. The fish was excellent – fresh, tender, and seared with a nice crust. The sauce was cloyingly sweet, but most of it was pooled in a corner of the plate away from the trout. The fish came with the dreaded vegetable and starch of the day, but on this occasion they turned out to be roasted sweet potatoes and grilled asparagus, both delicious and the asparagus even somewhat seasonal. J. went with jumbalaya, which she was less excited about, but I didn't think it was bad. Excellent beer selection, too. Still in a local mood, I had the Kashmir IPA from Highland Brewing, the only local brewery that bottles, from what I understand. Good stuff, hoppy but balanced and an excellent food beer. The service left a lot to be desired – our waitress had a deer-in-the-headlights look about her, kept trying to give us other people's food while taking ours to someone else, and everything took forever to show up, but for once we didn't mind. Mellowed out on the patio and tired after the river trip, we were happy to order another beer and chill. Thankfully, the kitchen was apparently lagging behind to match the servers, so when our food did eventually show up, it was reasonably warm and tasted very fresh.
Unfortunately, I felt that I was coming down with a cold by this time, and we were exhausted after the long day of adventure anyway, so after a short stroll through downtown, we walked back to the inn and collapsed into bed.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Asheville, Day Two (Part II: Savoy)
We had made dinner reservations at Savoy for Saturday night. We discovered Savoy on our last visit and loved it so much that we had to go back. If anything, our latest meal there proved to be even better. Savoy's regular menu is very appealing, but to us the chief attraction was their chef's tasting menu. They offer a three-course and a five-course version, with optional wine pairings. According to the staff, both amount to about the same amount of food, though I find that difficult to believe, the chief difference is the relative presence or absence of dessert (not sure what the remaining course is). You have absolutely no say over what comes out of the kitchen. A nightmare scenario in a lot of places, but in the right hands, like those at Savoy, it could be one of the best meals of your life. We opted for the three-course version.
First up was a salad of spring pea shoots and duck confit with goat cheese, roasted beets and toasted pumpkin seeds. I had had duck confit -- made by braising duck legs in nothing but their own fat for many hours -- only once before, and I was not wild about it. On that occasion it was gloppy and gelatinous, large globules of the cold, aspic-like fat still clinging to the meat. Savoy's could not have been more different. Made right in their own kitchen, it was rich and full of flavor but with a surprisingly dry texture, almost jerky-like, without a trace of external fat. It was pleasantly salty, and there was just enough on the plate to get a good idea of the flavor without having the rest of the ingredients overwhelmed. The pea shoots -- another green I didn't know could be eaten -- were fairly bland but worked great as a base for everything else. I wondered if the leaves of all plants from which we normally consume other parts are actually edible. I discovered beet greens the same way just last year and now love them. I suspect we'll see more of these kinds of greens in restaurants in the near future as the chefs look for ways to cut costs while continuing to be innovative in a craft fundamentally limited by the selection of raw materials. Speaking of beets, they were very good, though possibly not the best ever, but again, it was the function they served that made them shine. The whole salad was an exercise in making a harmonious whole out of contrasting parts. The beets provided the much-needed sweetness, again in perfect balance. The tangy goat cheese and the smoky, crunchy pumpkin seeds completed the picture in the same way. The salad wasn't dressed so much as garnished with a few drops of a thick balsamic reduction, for appearance more than anything else. There was enough flavor and variety in the ingredients to make dressing superfluous.
The wine we ended up with -- the pairings are done by the individual servers at Savoy, so two tables having the same tasting menu are likely to end up with different wines -- was a Cava from Castelblanco. It was very good, far better than the budget Cavas we drink at home (most often the dirt-cheap Cristalino and occasionally a marginally better 1+1=3). It tasted more like a decent Champagne (based on my extremely limited experience of it, anyhow), without the thin sourness common in inexpensive sparklers.
Next up was the fish course -- seared ahi tuna with panzanella salad, garnished with flash-fried calamari. The tuna was very good, completely raw in the middle, with about a quarter-inch cooked layer around the outside, just enough to provide some contrast. It tasted milder than what I'm used to getting at sushi restaurants, probably because this was ahi tuna as opposed to whatever variety the sushi shops normally use, and noticeably less salty. A piece of really good tuna is one of those basic flavors that I don't think I could ever tire of, and the fewer other ingredients there are to interfere with it the better. Savoy's chef, however, took some bold steps, and quite risky if you ask me, by combining things the way he did, and he pulled it off.
Panzanella sounds bizarre on the surface. It's one of those old-world dishes (if you can even call it that) born out of necessity and gourmetified by contemporary chefs, mostly because it has an exotic-sounding name that looks good on fancy restaurant menus. It is essentially cubes of stale bread mixed with olive oil, chopped garlic and salt. It was used to make day-old bread palatable. Most Mediterranean countries have a version. If you were lucky enough to have other things available, you could throw them in. Bits of bell pepper maybe, or some fresh herbs, to attempt to lift the thing out of its humblest-of-the-humble essence. But at bottom, it's just chunks of stale bread. If that wasn't enough, bread with rare tuna would seem like an odd combination, too. Most of us think of tuna in Asian contexts, and Asian cuisines use virtually no bread. Tuna fillet sandwiches in upscale sandwich shops rarely work, in my opinion, and in any case, the tuna is usually far more cooked, which gives it a completely different flavor and texture. At Savoy, however, the combination worked, probably because of the good olive oil the bread was soaked in, the herbs, and the perfectly balanced seasonings. The calamari -- little baby ones; I picked out a few tentacles, always the most delicious part -- added that little bit of extra something that made it memorable. They were exceptionally tender, perhaps the best squid I've ever had, certainly in the top three.
Wine number two was a California rosé from Lys. I have a vague recollection of having had a Lys on our first visit to Savoy, a red of some kind. The rosé was good -- dry, fairly big on the palate, with some berries on the nose and a slightly chalky mouthfeel. It went well with the tuna. I neglected to ask what grape varieties were in it.
We finished with the meat course of Wagyu flatiron steak (Kobe grown outside of Japan; our example came from Texas). Seared to medium-rare, with a delicious crust around the outside, it was well marbled, tender but not flabby, and exceptionally flavorful. There wasn't much of it, and thank goodness for that -- a little went a long way, and we had had two sizable courses already. The beef was served over potato "risotto" -- another recent trend, a good one unlike some others, I think. A dice of vegetables -- potatoes in this case -- is cooked the way a risotto would be, by making it gradually absorb liquid in a pan. It did taste more similar to risotto that I expected, though there was also a pronounced potato flavor and a starchy texture. There was also some locally grown swiss chard, simply sauteed, and the whole thing was finished with what our server described as a crème fraîche-peppercorn sauce. Much like the salad dressing, there wasn't much of it, but there didn't need to be. There was a ton of flavor in the dish already, and everything was perfectly moist.
.
The wine was a a Spanish old-wine Grenache from Alteca. The server did let it slip that it was only about $12 a bottle retail, which sounded like a disappointment initially as I was hoping for a glass (and a scant one at that -- the wine pairings are not full glasses) of something I couldn't afford to drink in any other context. It proved to be delicious, however -- big and fruity, with solid but not overwhelming tannins. Sturdy, but approachable. An example of European wine makers catering to American tastes, some might complain, but I loved every sip.
The service throughout the meal was exceptional. Our server, whose name is escaping me for some reason, explained every course including the parts of the country the non-local ingredients came from, clearly answered the one or two questions we had, and was authoritative without being condescending. Once each course was served and described, he disappeared, and magically reappeared exactly when we needed him. Sounds easy, but so many restaurants can't get that part right that it can ruin an otherwise excellent meal. Savoy definitely got it right.
We took a glance at the dessert menu, out of curiosity more than anything else. I was amused to find a fancy dessert based on zeppole -- Italian fried dough balls I used to get at local pizzerias in Queens when I was a kid. They were five for a buck in those days. We lingered over coffee, surprisingly good and fresh -- another thing that most otherwise excellent restaurants usually neglect -- then headed back to the inn, the most memorable meal in recent memory sadly, but also very pleasantly, over.
First up was a salad of spring pea shoots and duck confit with goat cheese, roasted beets and toasted pumpkin seeds. I had had duck confit -- made by braising duck legs in nothing but their own fat for many hours -- only once before, and I was not wild about it. On that occasion it was gloppy and gelatinous, large globules of the cold, aspic-like fat still clinging to the meat. Savoy's could not have been more different. Made right in their own kitchen, it was rich and full of flavor but with a surprisingly dry texture, almost jerky-like, without a trace of external fat. It was pleasantly salty, and there was just enough on the plate to get a good idea of the flavor without having the rest of the ingredients overwhelmed. The pea shoots -- another green I didn't know could be eaten -- were fairly bland but worked great as a base for everything else. I wondered if the leaves of all plants from which we normally consume other parts are actually edible. I discovered beet greens the same way just last year and now love them. I suspect we'll see more of these kinds of greens in restaurants in the near future as the chefs look for ways to cut costs while continuing to be innovative in a craft fundamentally limited by the selection of raw materials. Speaking of beets, they were very good, though possibly not the best ever, but again, it was the function they served that made them shine. The whole salad was an exercise in making a harmonious whole out of contrasting parts. The beets provided the much-needed sweetness, again in perfect balance. The tangy goat cheese and the smoky, crunchy pumpkin seeds completed the picture in the same way. The salad wasn't dressed so much as garnished with a few drops of a thick balsamic reduction, for appearance more than anything else. There was enough flavor and variety in the ingredients to make dressing superfluous.
The wine we ended up with -- the pairings are done by the individual servers at Savoy, so two tables having the same tasting menu are likely to end up with different wines -- was a Cava from Castelblanco. It was very good, far better than the budget Cavas we drink at home (most often the dirt-cheap Cristalino and occasionally a marginally better 1+1=3). It tasted more like a decent Champagne (based on my extremely limited experience of it, anyhow), without the thin sourness common in inexpensive sparklers.
Next up was the fish course -- seared ahi tuna with panzanella salad, garnished with flash-fried calamari. The tuna was very good, completely raw in the middle, with about a quarter-inch cooked layer around the outside, just enough to provide some contrast. It tasted milder than what I'm used to getting at sushi restaurants, probably because this was ahi tuna as opposed to whatever variety the sushi shops normally use, and noticeably less salty. A piece of really good tuna is one of those basic flavors that I don't think I could ever tire of, and the fewer other ingredients there are to interfere with it the better. Savoy's chef, however, took some bold steps, and quite risky if you ask me, by combining things the way he did, and he pulled it off.
Panzanella sounds bizarre on the surface. It's one of those old-world dishes (if you can even call it that) born out of necessity and gourmetified by contemporary chefs, mostly because it has an exotic-sounding name that looks good on fancy restaurant menus. It is essentially cubes of stale bread mixed with olive oil, chopped garlic and salt. It was used to make day-old bread palatable. Most Mediterranean countries have a version. If you were lucky enough to have other things available, you could throw them in. Bits of bell pepper maybe, or some fresh herbs, to attempt to lift the thing out of its humblest-of-the-humble essence. But at bottom, it's just chunks of stale bread. If that wasn't enough, bread with rare tuna would seem like an odd combination, too. Most of us think of tuna in Asian contexts, and Asian cuisines use virtually no bread. Tuna fillet sandwiches in upscale sandwich shops rarely work, in my opinion, and in any case, the tuna is usually far more cooked, which gives it a completely different flavor and texture. At Savoy, however, the combination worked, probably because of the good olive oil the bread was soaked in, the herbs, and the perfectly balanced seasonings. The calamari -- little baby ones; I picked out a few tentacles, always the most delicious part -- added that little bit of extra something that made it memorable. They were exceptionally tender, perhaps the best squid I've ever had, certainly in the top three.
Wine number two was a California rosé from Lys. I have a vague recollection of having had a Lys on our first visit to Savoy, a red of some kind. The rosé was good -- dry, fairly big on the palate, with some berries on the nose and a slightly chalky mouthfeel. It went well with the tuna. I neglected to ask what grape varieties were in it.
We finished with the meat course of Wagyu flatiron steak (Kobe grown outside of Japan; our example came from Texas). Seared to medium-rare, with a delicious crust around the outside, it was well marbled, tender but not flabby, and exceptionally flavorful. There wasn't much of it, and thank goodness for that -- a little went a long way, and we had had two sizable courses already. The beef was served over potato "risotto" -- another recent trend, a good one unlike some others, I think. A dice of vegetables -- potatoes in this case -- is cooked the way a risotto would be, by making it gradually absorb liquid in a pan. It did taste more similar to risotto that I expected, though there was also a pronounced potato flavor and a starchy texture. There was also some locally grown swiss chard, simply sauteed, and the whole thing was finished with what our server described as a crème fraîche-peppercorn sauce. Much like the salad dressing, there wasn't much of it, but there didn't need to be. There was a ton of flavor in the dish already, and everything was perfectly moist.
.
The wine was a a Spanish old-wine Grenache from Alteca. The server did let it slip that it was only about $12 a bottle retail, which sounded like a disappointment initially as I was hoping for a glass (and a scant one at that -- the wine pairings are not full glasses) of something I couldn't afford to drink in any other context. It proved to be delicious, however -- big and fruity, with solid but not overwhelming tannins. Sturdy, but approachable. An example of European wine makers catering to American tastes, some might complain, but I loved every sip.
The service throughout the meal was exceptional. Our server, whose name is escaping me for some reason, explained every course including the parts of the country the non-local ingredients came from, clearly answered the one or two questions we had, and was authoritative without being condescending. Once each course was served and described, he disappeared, and magically reappeared exactly when we needed him. Sounds easy, but so many restaurants can't get that part right that it can ruin an otherwise excellent meal. Savoy definitely got it right.
We took a glance at the dessert menu, out of curiosity more than anything else. I was amused to find a fancy dessert based on zeppole -- Italian fried dough balls I used to get at local pizzerias in Queens when I was a kid. They were five for a buck in those days. We lingered over coffee, surprisingly good and fresh -- another thing that most otherwise excellent restaurants usually neglect -- then headed back to the inn, the most memorable meal in recent memory sadly, but also very pleasantly, over.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Asheville, Day Two (Part I)
Saturday morning found us being bad B&B guests once again – we skipped David's breakfast. We told him after we checked in that we would be doing that, so he wouldn't have to waste ingredients, and he seemed disappointed and kept trying to figure out a way to accommodate us. All I wanted was for him to let us do our own thing. Anyway, we headed instead to a local institution -- Tupelo Honey Cafe downtown. We had first eaten there on our first visit and have been wanting to go back ever since. I even remember what I had on that occasion – sweet-potato pancakes, which were amazingly delicious.
We arrived about twenty minutes before the 9:00 a.m. opening time, and there were already a few people milling about. Soon, a line formed. “The world starts at nine o'clock” a passerby mumbled as she elbowed her way past us. Our breakfast ended up being as delicious as we remembered. J. went for the sweet-potato pancakes this time, while I opted for French toast, served with skillet-cooked blackberries. Both were excellent, but it was the pancakes that once again took the cake, pardon the pun. Moist, fluffy, and brimming with the slightly starchy flavor of sweet potatoes, they were quite possibly the best pancakes either J. or I have ever had. The coffee was excellent, and the service very good as well – far from a guarantee in Asheville.
Sated, we headed out of town toward Dupont State Forest. Dupont is the newest state forest in North Carolina. The land was formerly owned by the DuPont corporation. A factory was located on a small portion of it, but most of it was a private hunting preserve for the company's executives and their guests. The factory site is still closed to the public as DuPont is finishing up some toxic waste cleanup there, but the rest of the land has been sold to the state and turned into a public forest. There is apparently some talk of turning it into a state park (this would presumably disallow hunting and allow an admission fee to be charged).
Dupont's chief attraction is its waterfalls. There are several, and the trail we had planned to hike would allow us to see three of them. The morning was overcast and it started to rain right as we pulled into the parking area, but luckily the rain was short-lived and the rest of the morning and afternoon proved to be gorgeous. The early part of the trail, as far as Triple Falls, was quite crowded, but worth it. Triple Falls were spectacular – falling more than 120 feet in three sections, they were apparently used to film The Last of the Mohicans. Once we made it to the top and crossed the covered bridge, the crowds disappeared as if by magic, and we were left to hike the rest of the way to High Falls and Lake Dense in glorious solitude.
We covered about six miles in all, not an enormous distance, but by the end were were ready for a refreshment. We headed into town and stopped at Jack of the Wood Pub. It was a pleasant place to chill out on a hot afternoon -- dark, cool and cave-like. They brew their own beer under the Green Man label, in addition to serving some other locals. I tried the Porter. Pleasantly dry and slightly smoky, it was good but not particularly memorable. J. opted for the ESB, which was also a solid but not really distinctive brew. By this time, it was time to head back and get ready for dinner at Savoy, which really deserves its own post.
We arrived about twenty minutes before the 9:00 a.m. opening time, and there were already a few people milling about. Soon, a line formed. “The world starts at nine o'clock” a passerby mumbled as she elbowed her way past us. Our breakfast ended up being as delicious as we remembered. J. went for the sweet-potato pancakes this time, while I opted for French toast, served with skillet-cooked blackberries. Both were excellent, but it was the pancakes that once again took the cake, pardon the pun. Moist, fluffy, and brimming with the slightly starchy flavor of sweet potatoes, they were quite possibly the best pancakes either J. or I have ever had. The coffee was excellent, and the service very good as well – far from a guarantee in Asheville.
Sated, we headed out of town toward Dupont State Forest. Dupont is the newest state forest in North Carolina. The land was formerly owned by the DuPont corporation. A factory was located on a small portion of it, but most of it was a private hunting preserve for the company's executives and their guests. The factory site is still closed to the public as DuPont is finishing up some toxic waste cleanup there, but the rest of the land has been sold to the state and turned into a public forest. There is apparently some talk of turning it into a state park (this would presumably disallow hunting and allow an admission fee to be charged).
Dupont's chief attraction is its waterfalls. There are several, and the trail we had planned to hike would allow us to see three of them. The morning was overcast and it started to rain right as we pulled into the parking area, but luckily the rain was short-lived and the rest of the morning and afternoon proved to be gorgeous. The early part of the trail, as far as Triple Falls, was quite crowded, but worth it. Triple Falls were spectacular – falling more than 120 feet in three sections, they were apparently used to film The Last of the Mohicans. Once we made it to the top and crossed the covered bridge, the crowds disappeared as if by magic, and we were left to hike the rest of the way to High Falls and Lake Dense in glorious solitude.We covered about six miles in all, not an enormous distance, but by the end were were ready for a refreshment. We headed into town and stopped at Jack of the Wood Pub. It was a pleasant place to chill out on a hot afternoon -- dark, cool and cave-like. They brew their own beer under the Green Man label, in addition to serving some other locals. I tried the Porter. Pleasantly dry and slightly smoky, it was good but not particularly memorable. J. opted for the ESB, which was also a solid but not really distinctive brew. By this time, it was time to head back and get ready for dinner at Savoy, which really deserves its own post.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Asheville, Day One
J. and I took a trip to Asheville, NC over Memorial Day weekend. We went there for the first time two years ago. It was under far less than ideal circumstances, but we managed to have a good time even then, and have been wanting to go back ever since.
Asheville is a curious place. Though known primarily as the location of the Biltmore Estate, which we visited on our first trip, it is far more than that -- an artsy, politically and socially liberal college town in the middle of remote and desperately poor rural Appalachia. It is surrounded by breathtaking country and offers world-class hiking, whitewater rafting and mountain biking, making it a great place to visit for outdoorsy types, but the influx of tourists and a concomitant increase in the variety of shops and restaurants downtown makes it a welcoming place for urbanites. It is the best of both worlds, creating a colorful if occasionally uneasy mix of college kids, aging hippies and affluent boutique shoppers. The single image that encapsulates Asheville for me dates from our first visit two years ago: a girl on the street corner, no older than twenty, punked-out to the n-th degree with purple dreadlocks and at least half dozen ear and nose rings, her skimpy tank top revealing a chest, neck and arms completely covered with tattoos, playing the most amazing bluegrass fiddle I have ever heard.
I frequently have trouble figuring out where to stay when we travel. Lodging is expensive, and short of camping, which we do occasionally, anything that seems cheap usually comes with the kind of character you don't necessarily want. Chain hotels are ugly, sterile and still expensive, and everything else being equal, I would rather spend my money at an independent local place, but those are few and far between nowadays. A historic downtown hotel, something form the golden age of railroads maybe, would be ideal, but those are truly rare, and the only one in Asheville – the Princess Anne – was all booked up. That leaves Bed and Breakfasts, which would seem perfect at first blush and can be a surprisingly good value for the money. The problem is that neither J. nor I really care for the idea. We stayed at one only once, many years ago, but I remember being uncomfortable with the unspoken expectation to socialize with other guests at breakfast. J. and I are both fairly asocial, especially J., and especially when traveling. We are terrible at making small talk, wary of strangers, and in any case, a vacation, however short, is an opportunity to catch up on quality time with each other. Plus, we go into overdrive when we travel, packing as much activity into every day as we can, so we never really spend any time at the place we're staying. This time, however, J. wanted to give B&Bs another chance, and with nothing more attractive available in the center of town anyway, after a little research we settled on the Carolina Bed & Breakfast in the Montford Historic District just North of downtown.
We left home Friday morning, and after a long and uneventful drive pulled up to the front of the Carolina around 4:00 p.m. The place was an imposing house build in 1900 by Richard Sharp Smith who worked for Richard Hunt, the chief architect of the Biltmore, and was the supervising architect during Biltmore's construction. It showed some patina, but generally seemed to be well-preserved. We were meet by the innkeeper, a friendly, robust, round-faced transplanted midwesterner named Sue who showed us around the building and our room. The room was spacious and the décor not particularly frilly.
Showered and changed, we settled on the giant front porch to take advantage of the Carolina's complimentary glass of wine and wait for dinner plans to gel. There, we met Sue's elfin-looking husband David and some of the guests – a middle-aged couple from California exploring the Carolinas for two weeks and another, slightly younger couple. They apparently had already met earlier and were chatting like old friends while they sipped their wine.
J. has some family in the Asheville area (Hendersonville, to be precise) – her cousin D. and an elderly aunt, and it is the cousin we had plans to have dinner with Friday night. D. has been living in the area for over twenty years and is a trained chef, so although there was a bunch of restaurants we had been wanting to try, we willingly took his recommendation. He chose a place called Pomodoro and said they served both Italian and Greek food. Red flag number one – more than one ethnic cuisine in the same restaurant is never a good idea, with a possible exception of Korean places that also make sushi, and one with a name that could not be more clichéd is even more dangerous. He gave us directions, bad ones as it turned out, but we found it after stopping to ask. Even Asheville has a sterile layer of chain restaurants and faceless strip malls between its colorful core and the surrounding countryside, and that is precisely where we found ourselves. Red flag number two.
My fears proved to be mostly unjustified, however, and I was pleasantly surprised by the food. I opted for the goat cheese ravioli, which were respectable. The pasta was quality and cooked to a proper degree of doneness. The filling showed no trace of the roasted peppers the menu promised, but the cheese tasted fresh and flavorful, though it could have used more goaty tang. Our waiter was a serious-looking guy in early middle age, and seemed trustworthy, so on his recommendation I chose the pesto-cream sauce over the tomato. I don’t really understand the idea of a pesto-cream sauce. The whole point of pesto is not to be creamy. But Pomodoro came close to pulling it off. It could have been less rich and could have definitely benefited from an extra spike or two of garlic. But for a generic suburban place, it acquitted itself reasonably well. It pays to have low expectations sometimes.
The conversation with D. was something of an experience, too. He brims with energy and talks non-stop at a hundred miles an hour. He loves to lecture and has an opinion about absolutely everything. Sometimes it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise. On Friday, for some bizarre reason, the conversation turned to classic rock bands. D. turned out to be a huge fan of early Genesis, the lineup that had Peter Gabriel and Steve Hackett, and he had recently seen them in concert. Apparently they have been touring, without Gabriel but with Hackett. It was amusing though somewhat sad to hear a man in his mid-forties talk about Genesis and their long-standing defiance of commercial expectations in the seventies like a starry-eyed adolescent. I attempted to express my views on the sad spectacle of geezer band reunions, but he was not listening. I mumbled something about having seen Gabriel on Austin City Limits a couple of years ago, and that he looked too fat and old to be doing his unicycle and his shiny suit thing. “Ah, but you see, Genesis would never even be seen on Austin City Limits,” D. said with the earnestness of a geeky college freshman discovering the wonders of progressive rock for the first time. No amount of irony or snide comments on my part got through, not even my trademark assault on sixty-year-old Mick Jagger in a belly shirt and tight jeans. Periodically, I attempted to steer the conversation away from D. and music and towards his girlfriend whom we hadn’t met before, stunningly beautiful and as far I could tell exceptionally nice, but quiet and resigned under D.’s overpowering performance. Most of the time I failed, and we found out little beyond the fact that she was native to the Asheville area and is an accountant by profession.
Exhausted both by the drive and by the dinner conversation, we drove back to the inn and collapsed into bed, hoping to get as much rest as possible for the hike we had planned for Saturday.
Asheville is a curious place. Though known primarily as the location of the Biltmore Estate, which we visited on our first trip, it is far more than that -- an artsy, politically and socially liberal college town in the middle of remote and desperately poor rural Appalachia. It is surrounded by breathtaking country and offers world-class hiking, whitewater rafting and mountain biking, making it a great place to visit for outdoorsy types, but the influx of tourists and a concomitant increase in the variety of shops and restaurants downtown makes it a welcoming place for urbanites. It is the best of both worlds, creating a colorful if occasionally uneasy mix of college kids, aging hippies and affluent boutique shoppers. The single image that encapsulates Asheville for me dates from our first visit two years ago: a girl on the street corner, no older than twenty, punked-out to the n-th degree with purple dreadlocks and at least half dozen ear and nose rings, her skimpy tank top revealing a chest, neck and arms completely covered with tattoos, playing the most amazing bluegrass fiddle I have ever heard.
I frequently have trouble figuring out where to stay when we travel. Lodging is expensive, and short of camping, which we do occasionally, anything that seems cheap usually comes with the kind of character you don't necessarily want. Chain hotels are ugly, sterile and still expensive, and everything else being equal, I would rather spend my money at an independent local place, but those are few and far between nowadays. A historic downtown hotel, something form the golden age of railroads maybe, would be ideal, but those are truly rare, and the only one in Asheville – the Princess Anne – was all booked up. That leaves Bed and Breakfasts, which would seem perfect at first blush and can be a surprisingly good value for the money. The problem is that neither J. nor I really care for the idea. We stayed at one only once, many years ago, but I remember being uncomfortable with the unspoken expectation to socialize with other guests at breakfast. J. and I are both fairly asocial, especially J., and especially when traveling. We are terrible at making small talk, wary of strangers, and in any case, a vacation, however short, is an opportunity to catch up on quality time with each other. Plus, we go into overdrive when we travel, packing as much activity into every day as we can, so we never really spend any time at the place we're staying. This time, however, J. wanted to give B&Bs another chance, and with nothing more attractive available in the center of town anyway, after a little research we settled on the Carolina Bed & Breakfast in the Montford Historic District just North of downtown.
We left home Friday morning, and after a long and uneventful drive pulled up to the front of the Carolina around 4:00 p.m. The place was an imposing house build in 1900 by Richard Sharp Smith who worked for Richard Hunt, the chief architect of the Biltmore, and was the supervising architect during Biltmore's construction. It showed some patina, but generally seemed to be well-preserved. We were meet by the innkeeper, a friendly, robust, round-faced transplanted midwesterner named Sue who showed us around the building and our room. The room was spacious and the décor not particularly frilly.
Showered and changed, we settled on the giant front porch to take advantage of the Carolina's complimentary glass of wine and wait for dinner plans to gel. There, we met Sue's elfin-looking husband David and some of the guests – a middle-aged couple from California exploring the Carolinas for two weeks and another, slightly younger couple. They apparently had already met earlier and were chatting like old friends while they sipped their wine.
J. has some family in the Asheville area (Hendersonville, to be precise) – her cousin D. and an elderly aunt, and it is the cousin we had plans to have dinner with Friday night. D. has been living in the area for over twenty years and is a trained chef, so although there was a bunch of restaurants we had been wanting to try, we willingly took his recommendation. He chose a place called Pomodoro and said they served both Italian and Greek food. Red flag number one – more than one ethnic cuisine in the same restaurant is never a good idea, with a possible exception of Korean places that also make sushi, and one with a name that could not be more clichéd is even more dangerous. He gave us directions, bad ones as it turned out, but we found it after stopping to ask. Even Asheville has a sterile layer of chain restaurants and faceless strip malls between its colorful core and the surrounding countryside, and that is precisely where we found ourselves. Red flag number two.
My fears proved to be mostly unjustified, however, and I was pleasantly surprised by the food. I opted for the goat cheese ravioli, which were respectable. The pasta was quality and cooked to a proper degree of doneness. The filling showed no trace of the roasted peppers the menu promised, but the cheese tasted fresh and flavorful, though it could have used more goaty tang. Our waiter was a serious-looking guy in early middle age, and seemed trustworthy, so on his recommendation I chose the pesto-cream sauce over the tomato. I don’t really understand the idea of a pesto-cream sauce. The whole point of pesto is not to be creamy. But Pomodoro came close to pulling it off. It could have been less rich and could have definitely benefited from an extra spike or two of garlic. But for a generic suburban place, it acquitted itself reasonably well. It pays to have low expectations sometimes.
The conversation with D. was something of an experience, too. He brims with energy and talks non-stop at a hundred miles an hour. He loves to lecture and has an opinion about absolutely everything. Sometimes it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise. On Friday, for some bizarre reason, the conversation turned to classic rock bands. D. turned out to be a huge fan of early Genesis, the lineup that had Peter Gabriel and Steve Hackett, and he had recently seen them in concert. Apparently they have been touring, without Gabriel but with Hackett. It was amusing though somewhat sad to hear a man in his mid-forties talk about Genesis and their long-standing defiance of commercial expectations in the seventies like a starry-eyed adolescent. I attempted to express my views on the sad spectacle of geezer band reunions, but he was not listening. I mumbled something about having seen Gabriel on Austin City Limits a couple of years ago, and that he looked too fat and old to be doing his unicycle and his shiny suit thing. “Ah, but you see, Genesis would never even be seen on Austin City Limits,” D. said with the earnestness of a geeky college freshman discovering the wonders of progressive rock for the first time. No amount of irony or snide comments on my part got through, not even my trademark assault on sixty-year-old Mick Jagger in a belly shirt and tight jeans. Periodically, I attempted to steer the conversation away from D. and music and towards his girlfriend whom we hadn’t met before, stunningly beautiful and as far I could tell exceptionally nice, but quiet and resigned under D.’s overpowering performance. Most of the time I failed, and we found out little beyond the fact that she was native to the Asheville area and is an accountant by profession.
Exhausted both by the drive and by the dinner conversation, we drove back to the inn and collapsed into bed, hoping to get as much rest as possible for the hike we had planned for Saturday.
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