Sweet mint and bourbon placate us all day long

Refreshing in the bright blue spring heat

The trumpet blares again, triumphant kickoff song.

In the country club where Blacks don’t belong,

Rows of flowered feathered hats line the street

Sweet mint and bourbon placate us all day long.

Deep purple at the center of filet mignon,

Raucous laughter as wealthy patrons meet,

The trumpet blares again, triumphant kickoff song.

Three forks set the table and heavy curtains drawn,

Muscled stallions brave a dreaded, mighty feat,

Sweet mint and bourbon placate us all day long.

Explosive shouts of drunken mirth within the throng

I searched for a moment of silence so sweet

The trumpet blares again, triumphant kickoff song.

Laughter yields terror as we learn of something wrong

The filly’s fallen, pockets empty, drowning in the heat

The trumpet blares again, triumphant kickoff song

Sweet mint and bourbon placate us all day long.

-GG

If Tony Soprano ate anywhere in Asheville, it would be Vincenzo’s.  The downstairs bar seating always reminds of the 80’s show, “Moonlighting,” with Bruce Willis and Cybil Shepherd.  The air is filmy, faces look airbrushed, the hairstyles are 20 years old, and although the ambient sounds are coming from the cheesy guitar licks of a live musician, I can almost hear the echo of a saxophone playing underneath it all.  I sat down alone late last night, ready for a glass of dry white, trying not to breath too deeply as the smoke from various Pall Malls, Mistys, and other such brand cigarettes swirled around the room.  Five or so older folks gathered at the bar, their discussion mirroring reports from the flat screened Fox News show behind the bar.  The Austrian Family Dungeon* was on everbody’s lips, as though they’d been waiting through the bright light of day until they could finally discuss this despicably enticing news event in a dark, smoky bar, their clinking glasses and crude laughter cutting into chords of “Sweet Melissa.”

I tried a glass of their house Pinot Grigio, at least I think that’s what I ordered.  The waitress clearly wanted me to eat and run, and when I ordered “something dry” I don’t think she ever told me what it was.  Since it was late on a Monday, I just wanted to eat light, and I ordered the antipasti platter.  If they had served Tony this dish, I don’t think the chef would have made it home that night.  The olives could have been from Ingles, the proscuttio-wrapped asparagus tasted like it had been cooked yesterday and left in the fridge all day, the meats were florescently hued atrocities.  The cheese option, provolone maybe, was completely forgettable and belonged on a deli sandwich, not on a antipasti platter.    Mostly, the plate was abundantly sprinkled with slivers of red onion.  This was a complete waste of $7.50, and I really expected much better.  In fact, I remember just a few years ago when I ordered the antipasti and it arrived with whole marinated artichokes, tender asparagus, exotic olives, authentically cured meats, and a cheerful array of pickled vegetables.   Next time I want antipasti, I’ll stick with La Catarina on Elm.

I moved on to the Wild Boar Ragout tossed with tagliatelle.  The DJ is going mostly vegetarian, so we thought Wild Boar might be a nice sendoff.  I find this dish among the more interesting on their tried and true menu, pairing gamey boar with sweet, heavy dark tomato-based sauce.  The boar was too rich for this late at night, but the tagliatelle was cooked just right, and the sauce was more of a broth.  I appreciated the deep, sensual sweetness of this meal, but the boar just wasn’t quite right for our mood in that moment.   However, I would definitely recommend this dish to anyone who still believes Vincenzo’s has something substantial to offer to Asheville’s ever-blossoming culinary pantheon.

I may return to Vincenzo’s once again if I’m up for some late night slumming.  A drink and an appetizer could be a nice summer evening, especially if the music improves.  I also appreciate that nearly all of their dishes come as half priced half portions, a marvelous idea that can cut both your costs and waistline expansion in half for a night out.  As I said, I’ve had much better nights there before, and I’m open to that possibility again.  Vincenzo’s is a restaurant with something to say, I just may not often be there to listen. 

*I was going to link to this story on Foxnews.com, but then I decided a.  I don’t ever want to link to Fox News, b. If you don’t know about this story, you really are better off

Last Saturday we ventured out to the shiny new farmer’s market, the one located off of South Charlotte Street.  I didn’t understand the concept, except for the potential for tons of farmstands and great parking.  But most of the vendors also had a stand at either the North Asheville market or the French Broad market.  Anyway, I can easily walk to the North Asheville market, and the French Broad is my CSA dropoff on Wednesdays, so unless there’s some other reason to go to the new S. Charlotte one, I’ll probably stick with the two former markets.  Not that choice is a bad thing. 

Here’s what we picked up at the ginormous S. Charlotte farmers market that was mostly selling small trees, plants, and jellies. 

-Asparagus!!!  ($4 for 1/2 pound)  I was thrilled to find asparagus being locally grown and sold, but the taste was not too different from store bought asparagus, and it cost twice as much.

-Bratwurst and lamb chops from Hickory Nut Gap Farm’s Springhouse Meats.  The brats were phenomenal.  I also thought the brats were the most decently priced choice they had to offer.  I’ll be back for them many more times this summer.

-Radishes and spring onions from Green Toe Ground.  I used to have a CSA with them that turned out to be mostly greens, but I applaud them for having more variety of veggies than anyone this early in the season.  They also were selling lettuce and garlic. 

In other news, still no garden.  We never heard from our landlord, and then some professional people came and mulched over everything that wasn’t grass.  So now the garden prospects look extremely grim.  I did plant an herb garden and some tomatoes in some large pots, and that may have to be sufficient for one more summer.  The irony is, the in-laws are giving us a tiller and a bunch of other fancy shmancy gardening tools we won’t be able to use. 

I don’t know, maybe it’s just as well I start with pot gardening.  Perhaps the smaller successes will feel nicer and somehow more significant than the potential grand failure of real vegetable garden. 

At least our yard is beautfully landscaped for the first time ever. 

Thursday, April 24, is Dining Out for Life day in Asheville (and many other cities).  This is a great day to go out to eat for all three meals, because 20% of your food and drink bill will be donated to the Western North Carolina AIDS Project to help people living with HIV/AIDS achieve a better quality of life.  WNCAP also provides education and prevention programs across Western North Carolina. 

Pretty much every Asheville restaurant is doing it, and if you want to have a real blogger celebrity sighting, come to Doc Chey’s for lunch, where I will be the host for the day.  For a full list of all the participating restaurants including Hendersonville, Waynesville and Brevard, go to www.wncap.org/dofl

If you are a blogasheville blogger, can you please crosspost this onto blogasheville.  I’ve forgotten how.  Thanks!

I love a food ritual. 

Thanksgiving, Passover, those are my days. 

Passover is the only night I ever eat slowly.  The ceremony is simply wonderful.  We flick drops of wine with our fingernails to represent the 10 plagues brought on the Israelites by the Egyptians.  We spill more wine to represent the loss of the Egyptian opressors’ first born sons.  We eat tasteless, cardboard-like unleavened bread because opressed people don’t get yummy fresh baked bread.  There is no time for bread to rise when you are escaping a land for freedom.  We eat bitter herbs to remember the bitterness of slavery and oppression, we dip parsley in salt water to remember the tears of the Egyptians when God inflicted 10 plagues upon them, and the tears of the enslaved before that.  We ate sweet charoset (made by yours truly): apples, wine, walnuts and cinnamon to remember the sweetness of freedom.  We flicked more wine on our plates to remember each oppression and war and enslavement that is currently taking place around the globe today.  And then: 

Homeade matzoh ball soup!!!!

Homeade organic grass-fed brisket, roasted all day long!!

Honey carrots

Turnip greens

Edamame salad

fresh green salad

sticky sweet kosher wine

hazelnut flourless chocolate torte

peanut butter and chocolate bars

Once a year is not enough for this glorious ritual of feast. 

So, no garden yet.  Let’s not talk about that right now.

I’ve been eating at home, which I consider boring and unworthy of blogging, but apparently the rest of the world mostly eats at home, and therefore disagrees.

In a valiant attempt to save money (in order to blow it all on an awesome summer), I have had to eat at home.  But it’s okay.  Because I’ve had fun.  It’s been potlucks, and grilling out and crazy sandwich inventions and my favorite. . . cereal!  Seriously, I really really really love cereal.  Especially the following cereals: 

Corn flakes, crispix, Crunchy Corn Bran*, Honey Puffed Kashi, GOLDEN GRAHAMS, COCO PUFFS, FROOT LOOPS, Cheerios, Chex, Total, TRIX, and finally, Kix.

*This cereal no longer exists and the way more expensive version can be found at healthy stores:  Barbara’s Puffins

Best sandwhich invention so far:  ham, melted cheddar, sprouts, red onion, tomato, mayo on a whole wheat pita.  It’s not real special, but everything was all organic and clean-tasting.  Tried the same thing with pimento cheese and a bread-and-butter pickle with ill effects. 

Potluck Superstar Dish of the Week:

Mushroom Medley Quiche

Sautee four portabello mushrooms and a large handful of fresh shitake mushrooms with diced white onions and garlic

Mix:  6 eggs, one package of whole leaf frozen spinach, parmesan, cheddar, mozzarella, and pecorino cheeses, salt, pepper, basil, dill, half-and-half.  Add sauteed mushrooms and onions.  Spoon mixture into pie shells, sprinkle with paprika and bake at 350 degrees for 50 minutes. 

This quiche was the first potluck dish to be completely picked through.  The people raved.  I therefore became the potluck superstar.    You could also add sunchokes to this recipe, and it will also be a huge hit.  Or sausage or bacon.  Or a lot of things, I guess. 

I’ll save the adventures in grilling for another post.

I’m going to have a garden this year. 

I’m going to call my landlord and ask if I can have this geriatric-swingers-sounding gardening phenomenon known as a “raised bed.” 

I’m going to read The Postage Stamp Gardening Book that I have owned for over a decade but have never cracked open-not once.

I’m going to buy a hoe and a shovel, dig a ditch, and plant seeds in it. 

I’m going to weed my garden every week.

I’m going to water it every week. 

I’m going to love it. 

Assuming that writing this down is akin to revving an engine before putting it into drive, then all will be well, and I will document my progress for you because I am a city-dwelling, sushi-loving, cocktail-drinking gal about town who has historically found little use for a garden, and even less desire to tend it.    Can history be altered?  Can this Carrie Bradshaw wannabe be tamed into domestic, wholesome goodness?  Only time will tell.  But I am wondering, is the jury still out on drunken gardening, or has that been deemed lowly and depressing?  Also, could a “garden party” mean than everyone comes over and plants my seeds for me while wearing all white, or would that leave me friendless and void of garden?

Lastly, is it wrong to want a community garden but keep all the food for myself?  Because I only need the community for the work part, really.

In food news, I’ve been cooking.  Just simple things that bring me joy.  Tuna casserole with roasted garlic, sauteed mushrooms, scallions, baby peas, corn, and loads of cheese throughout.  Egg sandwiches late at night with extra sharp cheddar, sauteed onions, tomato, and thick ham.  Tonight we’ll be having Pasta Carbonara, and then it’s time to pat myself on the back for my weekday cost-cutting and treat myself to the lunch buffet at Mela for my weekly lunch date.  Taking myself to lunch on Fridays cannot be understated in its capacity for creating harmony in my life.  Since I’ve instituted Friday lunch date, I haven’t stood myself up a single time.  I highly recommend it. 

How are you slowly kissing your winter menus goodbye? 

The only thing better than the opening of a new ethnic restaurant in a small mountain community is discovering a great deal at an old stand-by!  Enter:  Sunny Point for Saturday Night Dinner. 

1/2 price bottles of wine make the food taste so much better going down.  Careening down Haywood Rd on a Saturday night, feeling hungry for new-American cuisine but bored with Table, Usual Suspects, Early Girl, etc., we stopped off at Sunny Point to see what was what.  I have a standing brunch date there every Saturday morning so I pretty much get my SP fix for the week, but we missed it that day so we decided to roll in.  Their wine selection was very decent and well-priced with 1/2 off bottles, and the menu surprised me.  New Zealand beef does not make this locavore happy, but I know the cows were, and I understand those Hobbit-cows are supposedly mighty tasty.  

Holding on to the last strands of winter, I ordered the Fall Vegetable Platter.  I have love for their thick and crispy panko-crusted potato cakes, the greens and beets tasted basic but lovely, and the creamy parmesan risotto in butternut squash was divine.  My partner-in-dine ordered the pork tenderloin in Mediterreanean cream sauce with olives and raisins, his eyes widening with glee after the first bite.  I returned this past Saturday evening for the beef tenderloin with mashed potatoes, and I was equally pleased.  They need to change over their seasonal menu soon, however, because I could make short work of it in another visit or so, and then I’ll search elsewhere for more exciting options.   

Oh, the best part was the bill- half of what I would have paid at Table, far less than a dinner at Early Girl (although without EG’s fierce commitment to local foods), we were thrilled with our secret discovery.  Secret no longer! One more fun fact about Sunny Point’s fine dinner experience:  If you are a freaky starchophile who just can’t get enough of that atrocity we call breakfast, you are free to order off of the entire menu at the dinner hour.   A bottle of merlot with banana pancakes?  The friendly-ish staff of Sunny Point might indulge you, but I will offer the hearty and well-deserved “whatever” to such a request.  Either way, I suggest you get your kicks at Sunny Point after six.  

I was asked this past week to consider my passion.  Passion being the driving force for all actions and the meaning behind the menial.  Like most people, I probably can’t narrow the answer down to one overriding passion, but when I stepped up to the mic, only one word erupted from my lips:  feast. 

For as long as I can remember, I have loved a raucous family supper.  I have loved “doing lunch.”  I have relished the brunch portion of a daytime party.  My idea of hell is a pb and j with an apple in a brown bag eaten alone at my desk. 

I can recall being as young as eight years old, scanning a menu with my family staring down at me, always the last one to decide as the waiter tapped his foot.  Without fail, I would go for the most expensive menu item.  This was before I understood money, yet the inetivability of my choice was uncanny.   I knew where the fanciest foods were located on a menu.  I knew just where to go for maximum excitement factor.  Did I want the cheeseburger and fries or the filet mignon with sherry sauce and wilted broccoli rabe?  Even back then, the right choice was obvious.   It’s not that my tastes were overly refined, it’s more like I never wanted to taste the same thing twice.  I wanted something new, different, and out of my league.  This has not changed.  Tasting Thai red curry for the first time was on par with my first glimpse of the Sistine Chapel.  It just wasn’t my eyes that were confounded, but my tongue.  Some people pay hundreds to see Radiohead, or the New York Philharmonic play Bach, but I save and save for a chance to taste foi gras in a fancy French restaurant.  

 For this reason, I hold tapas restaurants, buffets, and dim sum to high esteem.  I prefer to taste as much food as possible all at once, better yet to see it all spread before me in all its glory.  I find pure delight in sharing plates, tasting alongside others’ tongues, comparing and contrasting like we’re political analysts in the midst of a heated election.  Like everything else, I enjoy food more with others. 

I remember “Knits and Grits,” in college.  We would all gather at one of the group houses, and someone would cook up an industrial amount of cheese grits, enough to feed a large peace protest.   Folks would bring instruments, some would bring their knitting, and we’d while away the Sunday morning slurping up grits, playing acoustic favorites, knitting hats, and drinking tea.  A wholesome and lovely contrast to Saturday night’s debauchery. 

Family meals at my house growing up were filled with passionate arguments, tension over spilled lemonade, and lots of laughter.  I loved setting the table, and I still do.  A beautifully set table is the perfect catalyst to induce proper excitement and anticipation for the night’s activities.    

My life is a series of memories rolled up into meals.   Remind me what we ate on that family trip to Wisconsin ten years ago and I’ll remember all the rest along with it.    Some things will never fade:  the omlette maker my friend bought from an infomercial for my ladies brunch the day before my wedding, the salmon and asparagus we ate the night before as the Christmas lights and stars twinkled over our heads.  That first night in Rome when we stumbled down into that brick walled cafe and I discovered Pasta Carbonara.  Eggplant parmesan Monday, Tuesday, and spaghetti on Wednesday at home every week.  Skinny burgers with cucumbers, milkshakes and skinny cheese fries from Tasty Dog after school.   Cold canned sodas from giant barrels every year at hte block party.  Angel food cake every year at that same block party.  Thin Mints every year of my life reminding me that spring is not far off if I can just hold on and spend the winter’s dying days shoving cookies down my throat. 

That I said “feast” makes perfect sense to me now. 

Have I mentioned I love soup?  I long for an Asheville restaurant 100% devoted to the production of soup.  Imagine:  Every day for lunch, six or so homemade soup options, homeade breads, and salads.   A chowder, a seafood option, two vegetarian choices, a vegan soup, a beef soup, and a chicken soup.  Le sigh.  My dream come true. 

But we don’t currently enjoy such a venue, so here’s a wonderful article to augment your home cooking endeavors.  Thirty soups in under thirty minutes, and the few main ingredients you must keep stocked in your pantry to achieve these heartwarming gastronomic creations.

I know I’m late in the game, but now that I’ve had multiple and varied experiences at both new Asheville venues, I thought I would give my two cents. 

The French Broad Chocolate Lounge

The decor is nothing short of brilliant, in my opinion.  The earnest young couple who gave birth to the Chocolate Lounge (among other things, we’ll get to that later)  have an eye for design.  Chocolate brown and eggshell blue is one of my all-time favorite color combinations, and the brick and chrome accents all gracefully collide to create a chic urban haven of peaceful decadence.  The white-marbled tables and comfy leather chairs are adorable and cool, like the owners themselves, I suppose.  I did think it was too bright, and they could stand to remove half the spherical paper lanterns and create a more intimate atmosphere.  I hate to gush but I just really love being in this place.

I tried the truffles, which were high-quality, organic chocolate featuring odd and inventive flavor pairings: Indian kulfi was my favorite, then smoked salt and maple, etc.  But the texture of the truffles were not quite rich enough for me.  The flavors didn’t linger as I’d hoped they would, and I still would go to The Chocolate Fetish for the best truffles around.  Of course, the Chocolate Fetish has had plenty of time to perfect their craft, and I will defintely stick around to see if the FBCL improves their recipes.  I was particulary disappointed by the raspberry truffle, in which I hardly detected any raspberry flavor.  I prefer my truffles to offer more robust contrasts in flavoring, but instead I mostly just tasted the chocolate. 

The chocolate disks were more successful, simple chocolate mondiants with different flavor pairings: lime and coconut, pistachio and lavendar (I think), coffee bean and salt.  These mondiants were cheaper and slicker than the heavier truffles, and I had a lovely time letting them melt in my mouth while I sipped their exquisite french-pressed coffee.  The caramels are equally impressive, hard and buttery caramels engulfed by dark chocolate with a little salty zing to them. 

My biggest politically incorrect rant about the French Broad Chocolate Lounge: the screaming babies who were planting their flag when I arrived for the first time.  Let the record show:  I am a HUGE kid fan.  I work with children, I love kids, I have wonderful rapport with children of all ages, my niece and nephew are the lights of my life, and I anticipate the day I will bring home my own little future critics.  But when I want to escape to a pricey, urban, fancy, hip land of chocolate relaxation, I don’t want to do it with children.   When I shop for candy at Mast General Store, I expect the barrage of screaming babies, toddlers, and youth greedily digging in the voluptuous wooden barrels.  But with a glass of wine, a sip of cafe au lait and a dark chocolate Peruvian 75% cacao truffle, I would rather not have to navigate the babies on the floor around me, screaming endlessly and ruining the vibe and mojo of a pleasant atmosphere.  This may have been a one time occurance, and I can sympathize with the young working parents in the world, but I’m just saying.  If you’re trying to create something specific, then I think it’s a good idea to be thorough and precise.  Or maybe I’m just going through a phase, which is certainly a possibility.  I assume when I have children I will want to leave them at home occasionally, but I may be eating these words along with chocolate, wine, and other foods served at venues inappropriate for children. 

The Thirsty Monk

This is my new Cheers.  Well, it would be if it wasn’t so damn expensive.  Not only are the draft Belgian ales pricey ($4.5 or so), but the cheerful bartender uses his laid-back prowess to push the even more expensive bottled beers on less savvy customers.   But if you keep your guard up, you should close out the night with some money left in your wallet.  Maybe.  It just tastes so darn good.  Seriously, I am a wine drinker.   I haven’t enjoyed beer this much since I was living in Mexico, sipping a fresh Pacifico with fish tacos.  My current favorites at the Monk: The Double White, and the Frambois Lambic on tap.  The Chimay is also a good one to start of the night, and they have this unbelievable honey ale that brought squeals of delight to our table, until the bill showed up- $19 for a 30 oz. bottle!!!

The cheese plate is decent and fun for a happy hour splurge, and I have yet to sample the Belgian chocolate tasting plate.  Again, their interior designer got it exactly right, and I enjoy generally hanging in this well-lit bar.  Another detail I appreciate about The Monk, when the decibals of conversation rise to ear-ringing, they simply turn off the music rather than try to battle it out with their patrons.  Even though I love a great jukebox or band as much as the next girl, mostly I go to bars to talk with my friends, which I can’t do at the Westville Pub EVER, and I find it difficult in other venues. 

The Thirsty Monk is a happy, happy bar full of delicious and copious Belgian beer options, seemingly brewed by happy Trappist Monks who love us and want us to be happily toasting to them with their delicious yummy beer.   

For All Those Voting Along Foodie Lines: 

Barack Obama- Chicago style pizza

Hillary Clinton- Chocolate

John McCain- Shrimp

Mike Huckabee- Fried Chicken (when he was fat)

                              Grilled Salmon (now that he’s not fat)

Mitt Romney- drumroll please. . .  Meatloaf Cakes!

 I think you know what to do from here.