Locavoracious Weblog

My last post was all about Pedro, the miniature donkey from Marion.

Puts me in mind of another donkey: Gumdrop, the guard donkey.

Gumdrop is a regular-sized donkey, not a miniature like Pedro. She’s a working donkey, and has a full-time job guarding sheep. Gumdrop lives and works at Biltmore, and she spends all her time grazing pseudo-peacefully in the pasture with her flock. I say pseudo-peacefully, because Gumdrop has a secret: she’s an undercover donkey-ninja among the sheep.

The Biltmore sheep occupy a quiet hillside pasture on the estate. They move around some, creating the quintessentially pastoral “sheep-dotted-landscape” that you might expect to see on a farm. If you glance at the pasture, you just see sheep. Look more carefully, though, and you’ll see that “one of these things is not like the others” (remember the Sesame Street song that helped generations of kids differentiate between similar things?). One of these things is Gumdrop the guard donkey, efficiently cropping grass, apparently unconcerned with the world around her. Mess with her sheep, however, and it’s Gumdrop en garde!

Unbeknownst to me, donkeys have a reputation as reliable pasture guardians. I knew they were smart and stubborn, but I had no idea they could be trained or encouraged to be watchdogs (watchdonkeys?). Gumdrop keeps a constant watch on her sheep and her pasture; whether friend or foe, nothing goes there without her approval. Over the years, Gumdrop has protected the flock from a number of dogs and coyotes with less than honorable intentions toward her wooly constituency.

Hark! Who goes there? With Gumdrop on the job, not nobody, not no-how. Gumdrop also has a sister in the rent-a-crop business; her name is Jelly Bean. Between the two of them, if you can’t stand the hoof, stay out of the pasture.

Sad news today from Marion, North Carolina: Pedro the donkey passed away yesterday. He was an old donkey; he was a miniature donkey, and it was a warm day, but it was neither age nor size nor temperature that did him in: it was grief, pure and simple. Grief at the loss of his favorite goat.

Pedro lived on the family farm of one of my co-workers. Ever since we’ve worked together, I’ve been aware of Pedro’s existence, his pastoral life among a flock of goats, and his occasional odd behavior–like the time he went missing, and we feared the worst. Pedro was lucky that time; he wasn’t really missing, he was just out of sight in the back pasture.

So, Pedro has always lived among a flock of goats. He’s bigger than they are, but not by much. Pedro and his goats spend (spent!) days grazing in a field in Marion. Pretty good life for a miniature donkey and some goats. Goats tend to multiply, however, and eventually some had to be sold off (how many goats does one farm need?).

Unfortunately, Pedro had developed special friends among the goats. When the flock was thinned out by a sale several years ago, Pedro’s goat friends left the farm for other pastures. Pedro moped at their loss, if you can imagine such a thing, and went into a general depression. A burro with a furrowed brow, if you will.

My co-worker tells me that for weeks, “Pedro was a real-life Eeyore. He was completely depressed and moping around without his goat friends.”

Eventually, Pedro’s depression lifted and he was able to enjoy life in the pasture again. Over time, however, the ranks of the goat herd began to build up, and once more, Pedro developed a noticeable fondness for one particular goat. Picture it: an elderly burro and a young goat, hanging out by the fence, nibbling new spring grass, maybe kicking up their heels together.

Enter the goat-buyer. The family had a surplus of goats; a local entrepreneur wanted new, unpetted stock for his petting zoo; a deal was struck. Nine goats were chosen from the herd…including Pedro’s goat. The family had misgivings: was it right to sell Pedro’s friend and render a little-old-burro goatless once more?

The decision was made, however, and the bargain struck. Half the herd, including Pedro’s friend, went away with the goat man to join his petting zoo. They’ll be living a pretty cushy life with plenty to eat, including any snacks they can nab from unsuspecting toddlers. (Don’t ever give a kid an ice cream cone at a petting zoo–it’s too much temptation for your average goat!)

Yesterday, Pedro was discovered dead in the pasture, having apparently expired from his goat-loss grief. His exodus may have been hastened by his age and the heat, of course, but the family is pretty sure he just couldn’t face the recent loss of another goat-friend. Under most circumstances, the family would receive visitors who wanted to pay their respects to the deceased, but in this case, Pedro’s friends are mostly behind bars, and efforts to liberate them have “stalled.” (Puns definitely intended, I’m sorry to say.)

I’ve seen bored burros draped in shoddy serapes and sombreros, waiting to be photographed with tequila-laden tourists in Tiajuana. I’ve seen stubborn little beasts of burden toting huge loads (or sometimes, a huge backside) up dusty streets in quaint towns. I’ve even witnessed an alarming display of rolling eyes and stretching neck and snapping yellow teeth as someone tried to force a donkey to do something against its better judgement. This is the first time, though, that I’ve heard of a donkey that grieved itself into the grave. Rest in peace, Pedro, and maybe you’ll make new friends complete with hooves, horns and halos.

Some people freak out at the thought of fried pickles–they just can’t imagine how the combination of the those two tastes could possibly work. For me, it’s like the old Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups slogan: Two Great Tastes That Taste Great Together!

I admit to not having had fried pickles until about 2004. There used to be a Cajun-style restaurant called Thibodeaux’s Kitchen on Biltmore Avenue, just a few doors up from the Fine Arts Cinema, and it was the first place I ever had the pleasure of pickles frite.

Sidebar: This location is what I think of as a “hard luck location”, meaning it’s had too many businesses come and go in too short an amount of time. For whatever reason, nothing can stick there too long.

I think it started as The Golden Horn, which was a mix of Mediterranean/Moroccan/Greek–very good! (I still have fond memories of the Moroccan Chicken with apricot and pistachio cous-cous.)

The Golden Horn departed unexpectedly and was replaced by some restaurant with Rooster in the title, I think, but I never had time/inclination to eat there before it was gone. Then it became Thibodeaux’s Kitchen, which served New Orleans (N’awlins)-style cuisine and was given to lots of shiny Mardi Gras beads draped over every surface. I went there with a former beau and his friends just prior to a Robert Earl Keen show at the Orange Peel, and that entire bizarre evening deserves another whole sidebar all to itself. Maybe another time.

Thibodeaux’s Kitchen gave way to Ed Boudreaux’s Bayou Bar-B-Que (http://www.edbbq.com), which has good food and allows you to choose your own sauce (out of a wide variety of choices). They seem to be having more luck than previous occupants, so good for them. I don’t think, however, that they serve fried pickles.

So back to the now-defunct Thibodeaux’s Kitchen and fried pickles: I love most kinds of pickles and most types of pickled things (maybe not pig’s feet, unless I was personally pickled enough to try them!), so I thought fried pickles sounded okay. (Sometimes gastronomy and intuition combine to make our palates even more receptive, perhaps.)

The pickles were ordered and arrived…heavily breaded and fried brown discs that completely disguised their internal character (as a hefty does of battered and fried tends to do). They were smoking hot, so I bit in cautiously–and was instantly hooked! Something about being battered and fried changed the humble pickle chip into a nibble-worthy addiction. Hallelujah–another fried food to love and adore!

Fast forward to St. Patrick’s Day 2007–a blue-cold day of snapping winds and huddling into coat collars–and an evening get-together with a group of friends at Burgermeister (http://www.burgermeisters.com/) at 697 Haywood Road in West Asheville. I hadn’t been there before but had heard the burgers were definitely worthy of consideration, and suprise–there were fried pickles on the menu!

I talked my friends into trying them, and Burgermeister does it up right with a huge basket of freshly-fried dill pickle slices served with some sort of ranch-style sauce for dipping (I’m not a fan of ranch dressing/dip/flavor, but the others assured me it was really good, so I’m willing to take their word for it). The burgers were top notch, as well, but I could have eaten the whole basket of fried pickles and gone back for more!

Several months ago, I went to Cinebarre to see “Sweeney Todd”. If you haven’t tried Cinebarre, it’s a nice mix of theater seating and casual dining (http://www.cinebarre.com/). You can order before or during the movie, the staff is really good at serving without disrupting your viewing, and the appetizer menu includes fried pickles! Cinebarre makes pickle magic a little differently–they use pickle spears instead of chips.  Tastes good, but I believe I prefer the higher breading-to-pickle ratio of the traditional pickle chip. Here’s another factor: the opening scenes of “Sweeney Todd” featuring Mrs. Lovett’s dirty, roach-infested kitchen and the creation of her truly repulsive meat pies (forget the later ones made from Todd’s victims!) at the beginning were enough to make my stomach feel curiously resistant to the allure of too many fried pickle spears…

My next fried pickle destination is The Fiddlin’ Pig  (http://fiddlinpig.com/) on Tunnel Road. It’s another hard-luck location, unfortunately, so I hope it stays in business long enough for me to indulge!

Fast forward 20 years to my recent trip to Miami. Versailles is still in business, but the concierge at the conference hotel where I was staying did NOT think it was a good idea for me to go there by myself.

(Note: I travel alone to lots of different places and have never been one to skulk in my room rather than explore my surroundings, but I also ask for recommendations and pay attention to advice. It’s a strategy that’s worked well for me over the years.)

The concierge advised me to try Larios* on South Beach for authentic Cuban food and the safety of a crowded tourist district. Not knowing what the past 20 years had done to or for Versaille’s neighborhood, I took his advice and hailed a cab for 820 Ocean Drive. The driver (Balthazar Lucien–I hope you or the Miami Taxi Board read this!) argued with me about the street address, but finally agreed to take me there. He apparently still thought I was wrong since he dropped me at 120 Ocean Drive (the address he had insisted on in the first place).

By the time I figured out the mistake (no visible street numbers until I was out of the cab and in the wrong hotel) and hiked eight blocks in heeled sandals, I was hungry enough to eat anything. Found Larios at last and put my name on the waiting list guarded by a visibly bored hostess who looked like the love child of Victoria’s Secret and Darth Vader.

Went inside to anesthitize the stumps of pain that were once my feet (thanks again, Mr. Balthazar, for taking me eight blocks out of my way!) with a mojito. Twenty minutes later (the wait time offered by Victoria Vader), I asked a different member of the staff if the inside wait was shorter than the outside wait. Turns out there was no inside wait–the outside wait was due to limited seating (and probably the discretion of Ms. Vader).

Long post short: I started with a corn tamale appetizer, then an entree of shrimp creole with rice and plantains (tamal de maiz, entonces el camarones criollos con arroz y platanos). Good food, fast service, loud atmosphere. Wait staff was attentive, which is not always the case when dining alone. Do servers fear they won’t get a big enough tip when it’s a lone diner? I tend to leave more, because I know they’ve gone to as much trouble for my single table as they would for several diners–so don’t judge this book by its lone cover! 

Certainly didn’t need dessert…but ordered tres leche cake anyway. It arrived in short order and I jumped right in. Perfect cake texture and richness, perfect “soakiness” in each bite (cake was completely saturated, but completely firm), pure heaven, just like I remembered.

I had to leave a little on the plate (even a locavore has her limits), and I regretted not being able to finish it. The plate was whisked away, I paid my tab, and prepared to stand back up on my heeled sandals and take another cab back to my hotel. Had to walk a couple of blocks (ouch, ouch, ouch!) until the crowd thinned out enough that I could see/hail a cab. Luckily, this guy believed me when I gave him the hotel address, and even pointed out some sites along the way (like Al Capone’s last house). I arrived back at the hotel in good shape (aside from the soles of my blistered feet) and thanked the concierge for his advice (mostly to let him know I was still alive).

As I said, I have no idea what the neighborhood around Versailles is like these days. It’s probably fine and I would probably not have had any trouble…and maybe the cab driver would have taken me directly to Versailles without argument. But, whatever. We live, we learn, we indulge in tres leche cake. Can’t wait for the next opportunity!

*Larios is owned by Gloria Estafan and/or her family, and like Versailles, it gets mixed reviews in most of the sites. My dinner was good, if not incredibly authentic, and less expensive than I expected–although the mojito was pricey. Definitely better than staying in and wishing I’d gone out!

Visited Miami recently for a Word of Mouth Marketing Association conference (visit www.womma.org for the scoop on all things word-of-mouth related); had not been there in almost 20 years (not counting a brief stop at the airport a little more recently).

Yes, the town has changed. More traffic, more people, more of almost everything. A chatty cabbie gave me a rundown on real estate prices since he moved to Miami almost 30 years ago–they’ve changed, as well.

But the tres leche cake hasn’t changed, thank goodness!

Twenty years ago, I was on assignment in Miami, working for an NC-based company (said company, owned by some of the most wretched people on the face of the earth, shall remain nameless!) in the swanky Bal Harbor district. Most nights, a group of us went out in search of more authentic Cuban food than what we’d found the night before.

We visited Versailles in Little Havana (check reviews at http://www.yelp.com/biz/versailles-restaurant-miami), and I still remember the criollo platter: slow-cooked chunks of seasoned pork served over saffron rice and black beans–so good you could just roll in it! And teeny cups of inky-dark espresso–one sip was enough to keep you awake for three days.

When the meal was over, we were offered tres leche cake for dessert. No one in the group spoke Spanish, so we asked for a description: a plain-but-rich cake (made with milk/cream) soaked in a milk-sauce, then topped with a milk/cream sauce, which is where the tres leche/three milk title comes from. Sounded too good to pass up…and it was!

The cake itself was very plain, but very, very rich. It had a somewhat coarse texture, like a large-grained poundcake, which allowed it soak up all the milk sauce (something like a thinned-down condensed milk) without falling to pieces. The creamy “sauce” on top was somewhere between whipped cream and frosting. Result: complete and total satisfaction, and a taste I *never* forgot.

Now that you know a little more about tres leche cake, I think I’ll post the rest of the story next time. Never hurts to have dessert first–or to save the best for last!

1) Jimmy, one of the nice guys that runs Three Brothers Restaurant in Asheville, asked for my business card so he could call me when the restaurant plans to offer the hallowed Feta Burger special. He called last Thursday to let me know it would be the special on Friday–how’s that for customer service in this day and age? Needless to say, I made plans to go. Three of my office mates joined me and ordered the special, as well. (Warning: this post contains photographic evidence that may cause some readers to salivate!) 

2) A reader asked me about the pronunciation of huitlacoche:  It sounds like HWEET-luh-KOH-chay, more or less (emphasis on first and third syllables). Can also be spelled cuitlacoche and mean the same thing.

I have been straying, lately, from the locavorism of my own town, but I figure that wherever you are at any given moment, that’s where you should be locavorating. Kind of like “bloom where you’re planted,” but more like eat/drink/observe/chronicle what’s happening around you, regardless of where it’s happening.

Could be construed as an excuse, of course, but I have had the local customs and foods and whatnot of other places on my mind recently. Elotes, huitlacoche, and now I’m feeling the pull to discuss the tres leche cake I enjoyed in Miami a couple of weeks ago.

Food is just so good, and such an easy way to keep memories fresh and connected, that I like to start writing about it and see where my locavoraciousness takes me.

Speaking of food: tried to order the fried-green-tomato-with-pimiento-cheese-and-bacon sandwich today at Magnolia’s (corner of Market and Walnut in downtown Asheville). They’ve enlarged their menu, and this sandwich is a really nice addition. Looking forward to it…but they had no green tomatoes to fry, so I had to revise my lunch game plan. Rats.

Put me in mind of an experience, years ago, at the Arby’s on Four Seasons Blvd. in Hendersonville. Went in to order a sandwich, but they were out of roast beef. Now that I think about it, that happened nearly 20 years ago, but it clearly made a lasting impression.

Puts me in mind of the following unconnected-to-food silliness: One night in class, we were covering different forms of mediation in the court system.

• Me (whispering to study partner): “What’s an arbitrator?
• Study partner: “Well, it’s when two disputing parties go to a third party for–”
• Me: “Nope! It’s someone who refuses to sell roast beef!”

Enough, already. Restaurants do run out of things. Even Arby’s. Even roast beef.

I left off at Adobe Guadelupe, which has to be one of the most beautiful, peaceful places imaginable. The air, full of flowers and vines; the textures of light and shadow draped across washed plaster walls; a sanctuary of both hush and whisper. (Visit http://www.adobeguadalupe.com/; you’ll see what I mean!)

Then back on the bus, to another winery, dinner, and a small, wood-paneled hotel with fountains twinkling in its tiled courtyard. But dinner is the meat of this story, so to speak. We went to Ensenada to visit the retail outlet of another winery (I have notes on all these wineries, but haven’t dug them out in a while, so just know that I can, with help, give proper details on each visit and tasting!) and to have dinner in an old distillery that had been converted into a restaurant.

For dinner, we enjoyed a lovely cut of grilled beef surrounded by vegetables and a potatoes-mashed-with-garlic side dish. (Yes, Ensenada is known for its seafood, but unbeknownst to us, our hosts want us to enjoy their huitlacoche specialty.)

So…we’re a bunch of happy, relaxed, slightly sunburned, slightly-tipsy-from-too-much-tasting-not-enough-spitting wine tourists all eating dinner and toasting anything that moves, or anything that stays still long enough for us to focus on it–and we suddenly realize that this meal we’re eating is absolutely amazing. The beef is grilled to perfection and the sides are excellent–but WHAT is the sauce that accompanies the beef and spills over onto the vegetables and potato? It’s light, but has a definite consistency; something like a homemade vinaigrette, but not oily at all. It’s transparent, but has an appealing black-brown tint reminiscient of a good balsamic emulsion. It has a piquant quality, but not overwhelming–it sort of “lights up” the taste of the beef like a marinade or steak sauce should but usually doesn’t.

I look around; many are mopping their garlicky potatoes (papas con ajo?) in little leftover puddles of sauce. Some are holding it aloft on fork tines, looking at it in the dim light; others are simply hunched over their plates with looks of dazed good fortune. Normally, this type of description would be an exaggeration, but the sauce really is extraordinary, and no one can “place” the taste. We begin questioning our guide: what is this? How is it made? Is there any more in the kitchen?

Our guide–a very nice man who teaches the chemistry as well as the appreciation of wine–smiles at us. Do we really, really want to know what it is? Do we want to deconstruct the recipe, or do we prefer the mystery?

We demand deconstruction–we have to know!–and thus begins our education in the tradition of huitlacoche: a very traditional ingredient in Meso-American culture. The main ingredient that gives our heavenly sauce its indefinable-but-addictive taste: the humble (and completely repulsive) corn smut.

If you’ve ever seen an ear of corn afflicted with the type of blight known as corn smut, you were probably *completely* horrified by it. When corn acquires this particular blight, the kernels puff up into grotesque, blackish-gray lumps on the corn–sometimes so vigorously that it pushes the husks out of its way to peek out at the world. Ugh! If you (and by you, I mean me) were to discover it unexpectedly on your corn, you’d probably throw the ear down in disgust, thinking it was rotten and ruined and…well, blighted.

You begin to understand the scope of the situation: we’ve just enjoyed a fabulous meal with a silky, exotic sauce that we practically licked off the plate–and now we know it was made from corn smut. Most of us on this trip have enough experience with home-grown corn to know what this means…and the looks on our faces clue the clueless in that this is disturbing. We digest the news. Literally.

There’s nothing else for it. We must accept huitlacoche for what it is (a fungus) and get on with our lives. We raise our (replenished) glasses to our new discovery, take a deep breath, and drink (deeply) to the dark mysteries of cultural gastronomy. !Salut!

(Psst…mozo? Hay un huitlacoche mas en la cocina? Es muy maravillosa!)

In 2003, I had the distinct pleasure of attending the annual Wine Society of America Conference in Anaheim, CA. For a little extra, you could go on a pre-conference field trip–an overnight hop through some of the vineyards and wineries of Baja, Mexico. Sign me up!

We departed Anaheim on a bus to Baja, driving down the coast past San Diego and Tijuana and farther along the Baja peninsula. We had lunch *somewere* on the coast at a neat little spot with amazing views. Our guide (a wine expert) said all the new construction in the area was based on second homes for SoCal residents.

Entrance to our brunch destination overlooking the Pacific...

Another view of the spot where we ate.

 

 

Our first tasting stop was Casa de Piedra; a boutique winery specializing in a few fabulous vintages and a very appealing shooting star logo. Then we traveled to Mogor Badan for an outside tasting in the vineyard–all windy, flapping tablecloths and a Chasselas that I never forgot. (It’s a wine of Swiss origin, believe it or not, and I still have a bottle and can’t bear to drink it because I’ll probably never have another. Yes, that’s a stupid reason, but…)

On to another family-owned winery whose name I cannot remember, but there was a friendly black dog in the tasting room. Then we fetched up at Adobe Guadelupe, which combines its vineyard and winery with an amazing guest house/bed & breakfast-type accommodation. The place abounds in primitive angel forms, from the light fixtures and the hardware to an enormous metal angel sculpture in the vineyard itself. (I should add my photographic evidence to flickr.com.) I don’t remember the wine as much as the setting: enormous baskets of bougainvillea spilling over the walls; shadows of angels and arches falling on tiled floors; the sunsetting sky stretched overhead and burning down to ashy grape and pewter colored-clouds…fabulous!

Haven’t blogged lately; have been traveling to other locales and checking out their locavore action. More on that topic later.

As a family (parents, siblings, in-laws and offspring), we generally get together every Saturday night and have dinner. Last night was no exception, except that dinner came almost entirely from the WNC Farmer’s Market. The menu included new white potatoes boiled in their thin little jackets, fresh sweet corn (could be sweet, fresh corn, but it actually was sweet corn as opposed to field corn), fresh cabbage, and (of course) my mother’s corn bread.

A perfect spring meal. The potatoes were fork-tender and moist, almost the consistency of firm custard. A sprinkle of salt is all they needed to achieve potato nirvana, at least in my book.

We’re mostly a corn-OFF-the-cob family, so we sliced into slabs of fresh corn, watching them topple away from the cob in perfect yellow sheets. Once you’ve cut off the kernels, then you scrape the cob with the edge of the knife, releasing the milky corn-hearts to pile up on top of the corn already on your plate. A little salt, a little fresh lime juice squeezed over it–fresh corn heaven!

(Sidebar: Years ago, I was on the Copper Canyon train near Creel, Mexico, and encountered elotes vendors for the first time. They were carrying 5-gallon buckets out of which they dipped and sold paper cups full of freshly-cooked corn mixed with salt, lime juice, butter, and some variety of red pepper sprinkled on top.  It was SO good, even though I’m not a fan of butter on corn, believe it or not, that I could have probably eaten a whole 5-gallon bucket full of of the stuff. Ever since that day, I’ve been cutting my corn off the cob and adding salt and lime. S&L is also really good on baked sweet potatoes, especially since I don’t like butter on them, either.)

After dinner, we had a fresh cantaloupe for dessert. Does it get any better than that? The only flaw was that we’re still experiencing a few dregs of blackberry winter, so it was damp and chilly rather than feeling like spring. Oh, well. At least it TASTED like spring!