Spring Dances at Restoration Farm

And, so it begins again.   It is the start of my fifth season at Restoration Farm.  What once seemed like a tentative experiment is now a way of life.  

As a novice member, I simply picked up my vegetables.  Eventually, I would help with harvesting and seeding.   These days I even grow some things on my own. Welcome to the evolution of my solidarity with the soil.  

Opening Day at the Farm is a Mother’s Day weekend tradition.  New and longtime members alike are invited to tour the farm. A plant sale encourages us to try our hand at a little backyard farming.   This year, I purchase Swiss chard, kale, basil, parsley and two kinds of lettuce, which I will plant in a little patch in my yard.   I’ve learned just enough about farming to be dangerous. 

Head Grower Dan Holmes leads us into the fields.  A patch of stubborn rain has just passed hours earlier and it is a glorious day.  Dan takes us past the rows of spring vegetables and into the upper fields.    Everywhere, there are luscious green shoots opening up and reaching for the sun.  

Dan seems to revel in sharing stories of the farm – and his philosophy on sustainability – with members.  

His wife, Head Grower Caroline Fanning has a touch of laryngitis.  They’ve been working extra hours to assure that the farm looks superb for its spring debut.  

“This is the best the farm will look all season,” says Caroline, only half-jokingly.

Indeed, Restoration Farm is a stunning patchwork quilt of green and freshly tilled earth.  It’s like coming home again.   I can’t quite recall when it’s looked so lovely. The freshness of spring at the farm is a tonic for the soul.

We travel across the farm passing laying hens and meat birds.

At Apple Trace, the eight heirloom apple trees pruned in March are now covered with new leaves.   I think it will be a year of  solid growth for those trees.

The sight of the old red Garlic Barn always makes me feel like I’ve journeyed back in time. 

Shortly on the way are the strawberries, the bright green plants covered with white blossoms.  This year – with the help of my new preserving skills – there will be strawberry jam to enjoy. 

If winter was a season of anticipation, spring is that giddy, playful moment where life begins to dance at Restoration Farm.  The dance is a gig – arms open wide, energetic and vivacious – and you simply can’t help but join in.         

©2013 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved    

Clucking It Up At Price’s Chicken Coop

Return with me now to those thrilling days of yesteryear.  I was traveling the country for work with my intrepid colleague “Splint McCullough.”   A road warrior of epic magnitude, Splint was known for taking a big bite out of anything remotely edible, usually fried.   We’d noshed on barbecue and pastrami in the Big Apple, had a garlic immersion in San Francisco, and dove into a simmering vat of (processed) cheese fondue at the Nutcracker Lounge in a one-horse town in California.   Splint never met a menu or a pack of Rolaids that didn’t agree with him.  

But, times inevitably change.  Now based in Charlotte, North Carolina, Splint's been domesticated - a lovely wife, two kids, a suburban manse and a country club membership – and a mere shadow of his voracious bachelor days.   The last time we ate together in New York, he announced he was dieting and ordered a breakfast parfait made with yogurt (shudder).  I had mourned his passing. Splint, we hardly knew ye.  

I’ve often mused about recapturing those glory days, and it appears we might have the opportunity when I make an unexpected visit to Charlotte.    I consult Splint on food recommendations, and he suggests a lunchtime visit to Price’s Chicken Coop, a Charlotte institution.  The website is just a menu, and the cuisine is billed as “Charlotte’s finest Southern fried chicken to take home, office or any social gathering.” 

“It’s basically fried chicken in a greasy cardboard box,” Splint explains.  I think I hear a hint of that old magic in his voice.  Or is that his stomach growling? 

I know from experience that one does not wander into a fine dining experience with Splint casually.   You have to pace yourself, so I purposely go light on breakfast that morning.  I ping Splint to let him know of my virtuous behavior.   “I’m having the fruit platter,” I tap out.

Splint texts back moments later, “I’m having eggs.  I’ll get the parents later.” 

At about 1 p.m. Splint rolls up to the hotel to pick me up.  His BMW is immaculate and completely kid-friendly – fully outfitted with car seats, snacks, and baby wipes.   Since Price’s is a takeout joint and offers no restaurant seating, Splint’s lovely wife Blanche has already instructed that we will not be eating a spec of fried chicken in the car.   My heart sinks just a little bit.  

We pull up to Price’s and park by the curb.  I note a smattering of chicken bones strewn at my feet – promising evidence of customer satisfaction.  

The building is non-descript.  It’s basically a brick storefront.  It is already well passed the lunch hour, but inside the customer area is packed.  Patrons are shoulder to shoulder like an OTB parlor just before the daily double.   Splint and I squeeze through the glass doors and queue up to take in the ambiance.  The air is thick with the smell of hot, sizzling oil.

On the other side of the counter, I spot a Mount Everest-sized mountain of massive, mahogany-lacquered chicken breasts, and a phalanx of employees loading the breasts into white cardboard boxes.   They work with impressive speed and precision.   The place is humming with activity, and there’s a handwritten sign on the wall that advises customers to stay alert:  Attention – We will no longer refund or replace orders that are placed while you are talking on car phones or two-way radios.  Thank you. Management.

A patron tells us that Price’s started out as a wholesale poultry processing company in 1962.   A loyal lunch clientele developed over time, and the takeout business really took off (pun intended).  Eventually the management dropped the wholesale business in favor of the lucrative lunch menu.  

The chicken is billed as “Seasoned Just Right – Cooked in 100% Peanut Oil.”  We each order a chicken dinner, but neglect to notice the fine print.  Each dinner is served with cole slaw, tater rounds, hush puppies and roll.   Unaware of the sides already included, we order additional sides of Hushpuppies and Tater Rounds, and I’m relieved to see that Splint’s appetite for fried food is on the verge of a healthy comeback. 

“A trans fat orgy,” says Splint, delighted.  “Double the fries, double the pleasure.” 

Splint suggests we order a serving of pecan pie.  “I hear it’s amazing.” 

Here’s what we get.  

“Essentially, this is like a pecan pie smoothie,” says Splint. “It’s like all corn syrup.” 

By the way, for anyone not inclined towards finger lickin’ etiquette, paper products are available at Price’s at a nominal charge.

We hop in the car, and I balance the warm boxes on my knees, careful not to leave a grease stain on the dashboard.   I don’t want to mess with Blanche. 

We head for the atrium of a nearby financial institution and unload the goods.  

There’s a pile of napkins includes.   “Does it come with Wet Ones?” I ask.

“If you count ketchup as a Wet One, then yes,” replies Splint. 

  

“It’s a genius business model,” he remarks.  “You take anything that can be fried, fry it in a big vat and dispense it in cardboard boxes.  No waiters, no waitress, no service staff.  There’s almost no overhead.”

“Do you think these are heritage chickens?” I ask.

“I doubt that they’re free range, but they are tasty,” Splint acknowledges.    

Okay, so it’s not health food.  But, as far as Southern fried chicken goes, Price’s is a classic.  The aroma, the crispy breaded skin and yes, even the fine dining experience inspires a sort of carnivorous rapture.   I devour the chicken, so much so, that I narrowly avoid an Elizabeth Taylor moment. 

I glance over at my colleague who is peering at a hill of bones.  

Splint exhales slowly and throws in the grease-stained napkin.  “My doctor is going to be very upset,” he says.  

Now, here’s a dirty little secret.  Despite his devil-may-care attitude, Splint does have a touch of Felix Unger in his genes.   I can sense the stress. 

“My hands feel so greasy,” he intones. 

Fortunately, the kid-friendly BMW holds the solution, and once again all is right with the world.  You go, Blanche!

Just for fun, I buy one of Price’s souvenir T-shirts.   When I return home hours later, I can still smell that heady aroma of Southern fried chicken.  I doubt the chickeny essence of Price's will ever wash out of that T-shirt.  

©2013 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved 

Cheese Fondue and Pain au Chocolat - The Surefire Cure for Travel Anxiety

My colleague Amanda does not claim to be an invincible road warrior.   In fact overseas flights kind of freak her out.   “It’s that stretch over the Atlantic that worries me,” she admits.

So for a recent company meeting in Geneva, Switzerland, I promise to be her wingman.   It’s not that she’s without coping mechanisms.   On the afternoon of our departure from JFK, she shows up at the airport carrying a neck pillow that is supposed to be the ultimate in teddy bear comfort, but actually resembles a small ferret.

Amanda proves to be a trouper.  Aided by an unsinkable spirit and an armament of travel rituals and accouterments, she makes the trans-Atlantic crossing in fine form, and is actually quite perky when we pass through customs the next morning. 

We have some free time before work, so I suggest an immediate culinary immersion as a restorative tonic – that being genuine Swiss fondue.  

“That sounds great,” says Amanda, “ And, I’m so tired I’ll just keep saying “that sounds great” no matter what you suggest.”

I head to the hotel concierge and ask for recommendations for restaurants featuring cheese.   He gives me a look of pity, but jots down a couple of names on a map of the Old Town.    I collect Amanda and we are off.   

“I’m directionally challenged,” she says.  “I’ll just follow you.”

After some meandering, which includes me dragging Amanda up several steep cobblestone hills and a directional assist from her iPhone, we locate the Restaurant Les Armures, and are seated in a charming outdoor café.  The restaurant is famous not only for its fondue, but for a visit from Bill and Hillary Clinton sometime during the 1990s.  

The amiable waiters are straight out of central casting, and the menu features an asparagus and spinach salad and a cheese fondue with wild mushrooms and bacon. 

The fondue is seductively savory and comes with a woven basket full of tiny warm potatoes for dipping.  The asparagus is decorated with jewel-like raspberries and lightly dressed with a bright vinaigrette.  

Amanda is starting to adjust to the time zone and the cultural proclivities.   “I think what I’d really like is a bit of coffee and some Pain au Chocolat,” she muses.  “In fact, I’d like to spend the week in search of the best Pain au Chocolat in Geneva.”

I know that Amanda is a bit of an overachiever.   She and I have a history with food challenges, and the last time was so harrowing, I’ve yet to muster up the courage to tell that story.   But, in the end, who can resist the idea of Pain au Chocolat, especially when you’re already on a lactose high?

It is getting late in the day, and we are having trouble locating a bakery.  Our journey leads us to a café on the promenade adjacent to Lake Geneva, where the view is stunning, and the waiter speaks an extraordinary version of colloquial English.

“Do you have Pain au Chocolat?” Amanda asks.

“But, of course!” he smiles, and brings us two café au lait and a sealed plastic pouch.

Inside the pouch is a light and spongy pastry with a dark, chocolate filling.    Amanda takes a bite.  “The quest for the best Pain au Chocolat in Geneva has begun, and this isn’t it,” she says.  “I would describe this as the Wonder Bread of Pain au Chocolat.”

We discover that the flavor is markedly improved, however, if you dip the pastry in the café au lait. 

The next morning, we check out the Pain au Chocolat at the hotel buffet.   This looks and tastes much more like the genuine article, with light, buttery layers surrounding a delicate chocolate filling.  

After several days of meetings conclude, our search continues.   This time we are joined by our pal Amy.   We visit the Auer Chocolatier, and while there is Pain au Chocolate on the menu, it is late in the day and they have none left.   The chocolate macarons are a delectably suitable stand-in.   They are the size of Whoopie Pies. 

Shortly after downing the macarons, we quite accidentally stumble upon Pain Paillasse, and spy several Pain au Chocolat in the bakery case.   Amanda is ecstatic.  We buy three and the proprietress throws in an extra for free.  Amanda also buys a Tarte Fromage (here comes the cheese again).   We snack on both setting up an impromptu picnic on the street corner.  Oddly enough the thoroughfare is named “Rue du Purgatoire.”

Amanda is ambivalent about this Pain au Chocolat.   It is plump and doughy, more like bread than a croissant.   However, she raves about the Tarte Fromage which is light and custardy with a lovely scent of nutmeg.

It is getting near the dinner hour and believe it or not, we are feeling a little peckish. Since we have now fully adopted the Swiss Diet, we head for the restaurant Au Vieux Carauge, which is reported to serve the best fondue, not just in Geneva, but in all of Switzerland.

The establishment does not disappoint.  There are rustic wooden tables, and copper pots hanging on the walls.  The proprietress brings an enormous red ceramic pot to the table filled with bubbling, molten cheese.  

Amy speaks a bit of French and engages her in a conversation.   We manage to discern that the recipe uses two kinds of Swiss cheese, Gruyere, and Vacherin, and clearly nether came in a zip lock bag.   The silky, melted cheese soaks into the bread, infusing it with a nutty aroma.   If “fondue Nirvana” is possible, I am there.

On Saturday, it is time to return to the States, and Amanda has skipped breakfast because a friend has told her that the best ever Pain au Chocolat is at the Geneva Airport before you enter passport control.  However, we don’t have the name of the restaurant.  It is here that the quest begins to unravel.   We are faced with a long baggage drop line, and Amy encounters a ticket snafu.   Amanda’s blood sugar level is dropping like a stone. 

“You have to do recon,” she tells me urgently, her voice tinged with panic.   I sprint ahead through the airport, with no idea where I’m heading.   I stop at every eatery I can find, but see no Pain au Chocolat.   Plenty of doughnuts, and even a Starbucks, but no Pain au Chocolat.   Finally, at the far end of the airport, I am rewarded.   I spot two Pain au Chocolat in a glass case.  They are truly the last two Pain au Chocolat in the Geneva airport.   And, I still don’t manage to note the name of the restaurant.

Triumphantly, I carry the two pastries back to the baggage drop area.  Amanda devours one, and glowingly proclaims it “The best Pain au Chocolat in Geneva.” 

Was it truth or desperation that inspired her endorsement?  I’ll never know for sure, but I am absolutely positive that Amanda would have strangled that little ferret neck pillow if I had come back empty-handed.  

©2013 T.W. Barritt all Rights Reserved