A Bite of the Berkshires

It’s like coming home again when I step into the entrance hall of the Rookwood Inn, a Victorian “Painted Lady” Bed & Breakfast in the heart of Lenox, Massachusetts. Fresh baked cookies and pink lemonade await me in the dining room.  I let out a sign of content.  It’s been too long. 

I first stayed at the Rookwood Inn in 1995, and kept returning each summer year after year.  But, eventually, various issues and commitments got in the way.  The Berkshires is a cultural mecca for theater, music, art and dance, once a retreat for literary luminaries like Edith Wharton, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, William Cullen Bryant and Henry James.   Perhaps it’s the spirit of those writers that continues to invite me back.

My friend Amy Lindner-Lesser is innkeeper and proprietor of the Rookwood Inn.  In 1996, she and her late husband Steve purchased the inn.  Steve developed many of the recipes served at breakfast.  There’s always a lovely selection of stratas, frittatas, fruits and breakfast casseroles.  I’ve come to expect a warm and delicious, satisfying breakfast with plenty of strong coffee and good conversation, accented with a touch of classical music. 

In 2011, Amy published "The Rookwood Inn's Guide to Devouring the Berkshires -- One Cultural Bite at a Time."  The book contains many of the recipes served at the Rookwood Inn, and provides fascinating anecdotes on local cultural attractions. On this weekend – when independence is on the minds of visitors – the tables are decorated with American flags, and the breakfast offerings take on a patriotic flavor.

There’s a trifle of fruit, granola and yogurt and an oatmeal breakfast pie studded with blueberries and drizzled with maple syrup.

Every day in Lenox is filled adventures historic, literary and culinary.   I’m thrilled that my favorite antiques store, Coffman’s Antiques now has a new life in a store right in Lenox, and I marvel at the lovely arrangements of country artifacts. A selection of Shaker whiskbrooms, children’s play shovels and antique eggbeaters catches my eye.

At the Alta Wine Bar, I feast on salmon topped with olive tapenade.

I return to Charles Baldwin Extracts where I always buy my vanilla extract.  Charles Baldwin has been making vanilla extract on the premises for 125 years.

At the Mount, the home of Pulitzer Prize winning author Edith Wharton, I stroll through the formal gardens hoping to connect with the literary ghosts of Lily Bart, or Ethan Frome.  

Edith's dining room is the ultimate in Gilded Age elegance:

A number of wine bars have opened in Lenox, where a fantastic selection of vintages and small plates are available. At Brava Wine Bar, I sample of flight of crisp and crackling whites:

And, dine on lamb meatballs and roasted Brussels sprouts with Bacon:

The bartender Johnny convinces me that a couple of scoops of strawberry rhubarb sorbet would match beautifully with a bubbly Prosecco!  He is spot on.  

The Rookwood Inn is a short walk to Tanglewood, where violinist Joshua Bell leads an all Tchaikovsky program.  Many picnic on the lawn throughout the midsummer night evening.  

At the Berkshire Botanical Gardens, there is a charming culinary garden, and an exhibit on re-imagining the potting shed.

I can’t resist a return visit to Brava, where I dine on roasted beet salad and luscious steak and bacon sliders.  

Once again, Johnny makes a case that dessert is not optional, so I finish with Blueberry Pound Cake with Strawberry Trifle.

Before checking out, there is one more leisurely breakfast at the Rookwood Inn, featuring another red, white and blue fruit and yogurt trifle and a hearty spinach strata. 

Perhaps an autumn visit to the Berkshires is in order?

©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 

Some Zany Good Luck, a Cavalcade of Crustaceans and Lunch at the Library

My pal Zany pings me one weekend in early July:   "Good morning!  Who said Friday the 13th brought bad luck?  Turns out I'll be in town and available for lunch/a food adventure if you're around and available..."

I couldn't be more thrilled.  Lunch has been a little lackluster lately and it’s been months since our last food adventure in Chicago.  I immerse myself in research and start monitoring Twitter hourly for the latest and greatest food trucks crisscrossing Manhattan. Zany would expect nothing less.  I’m not finding an obvious choice.  Many of our favorites still haunt midtown, but I’d like to try something different and most of the tasty new options are clustering downtown in the Financial District these days.    I'm also a little nervous.  In recent months, Zany has become quite the international gourmet.

Friday the 13th arrives and I am feeling lucky.  Luke’s Lobster Truck is in position on 46th and Vanderbilt, but I’ve also got an eclectic list of backup options ranging from Mediterranean to Greek.   Zany arrives at my office at the appointed time and she's already on the case.   She hasn’t lost her food truck mojo.  Walking across town, she’s spotted the Urban Lobster Shack Truck, parked near Luke’s as well as the Bistro Truck, which features a crab cake sandwich.    “Let’s visit them all,” she suggests gamely.  “It will be like a New England seafood sampler.”

Zany hasn’t lost her mojo, or her appetite. 

As we’re hoofing it over to the East Side, we run into a VIP on the street – my boss.   We chat for a minute before Zany serves up her big news.  “I’m eating for two!” she announces.   Yes, she and Luigi the Baker are expecting in December!    It’s very exciting, and she’s happy to break the news on Culinary Types.  

We zero in on the Urban Lobster Shack Truck, an arresting fire engine red vehicle, with a giant lobster mascot sitting in the drivers seat.  Our kind of joint.

The truck’s slogan is “On a roll since 2006.”   Wish I’d been on a roll since 2006.  

After a quick perusal of the menu, Zany decides we should kick off our seafood smorgasbord with the “Famous Lobster Roll” and a side of “Homemade Old Bay Pasta Salad.”  

We also get two servings of Maine Blueberry Virgin Sangria. 

Perfect for Zany’s current state, and perfect for an afternoon of dining at the shore.

Next we head a block or so over to Luke’s Lobster Truck.   Luke’s truck looks a bit like it might have weathered a Nor’easter, but it does profess some genuine New England hospitality.

Here we decide to go for the Shrimp Roll – a split bun, heaped with pink, curly shrimp and drizzled with warm butter.   Zany nearly hyperventilates as the guy in the truck drizzles the butter using a giant baster.  We find a spot for our little seafood feast at an outdoor promenade on Park Avenue.  

Zany picks up the lobster roll, and pries it in half with her hands.   She hands me my portion.  “From Me to You,” she says, and takes a bite of her half.  “I love lobster when you don’t have to work for it.”

It is an exquisite creation – big, succulent chunks of lobster on a toasted potato roll.   The pasta salad is light and refreshing, with just a hint of the Old Bay. 

I always admire Zany’s ability to revel in the moment.   “It’s almost like you can hear the sound of ocean waves and seagulls,” she says referring to the din of traffic and pigeons on Park Avenue.

The shrimp are lightly seasoned and nestled in a toasted bun, spread lightly with mayonnaise.  The bun is not soggy, which Zany notes is the mark of a true seafood chef. “When I saw that butter baster, I knew it was love at first site,” she says.

Next, we head for the Bistro Truck, which features a variety of Moroccan style fare.   Park Avenue in the 40s has become the new food truck haven.  Zany counts 12 trucks as we are strolling along the avenue.  The lines are long, with many smartly dressed financial types anxiously awaiting nourishment.  “It’s a friggin food truck circus out here,” she says.   

As we’re waiting for the crab cake at the Bistro Truck, Zany points out, “Remember for my farewell tour how we had three food adventures in one day?   Notice how this time we’ve managed to squeeze three food adventures into one lunch hour?” 

“Clearly, we’re getting more efficient,” I reply.

The crab cake sandwich completes our seafood triple threat.  The cake is massive, and stuffed with all kinds of yummy things.  We can see shrimp mixed into the crab cake, and the whole thing is seasoned with Moroccan spices and topped with some meltingly good caramelized onions.  It’s the perfect finale to our seaside buffet. 

“I think I’ve fulfilled my shellfish requirement for the day,” says Zany, primly folding her napkin and collecting the trash.  She pauses for a second.  “Let’s see.  We’ve had lobster, shrimp and crab – that’s all the major seafood groups.  Well done!”  She adds, "Do you know what Mad Me-Shell would like least about this menu?  No red meat!"

Before dessert, we decide to make a quick side trip to the New York Public Library where the exhibit “Lunch Hour NYC” is currently on display.   I believe a little side dish of education is always good, and it’s important that we have a better understanding of our place in New York lunch hour history.

In the exhibit, we learn about school lunches, street carts, power lunches and the world famous Horn & Hardart's Automat, once the height of lunchtime chic in New York City.

There’s even a singing coffee spigot, which Zany finds a bit perplexing.

As we wrap up our tour, I say, “I think we need something sweet for the walk back.”

“Look through the door,” says Zany in a hushed tone. (It is a library after all.) Perfectly framed in the library entrance is a vision of a Mister Softee Truck – the original food truck – bathed in a golden light and parked on the other side of Fifth Avenue.     

I pause for a second on the steps of the library.   “You know, I don’t think that’s actually a Mister Softee,” I begin.  “I think it’s one of those knockoff trucks.”

“Oh, let’s do it,” says Zany.  “New York is full of knockoffs.”    We order two vanilla/chocolate swirl cones and make an ice cream toast to our lucky day.

Cheers, Zany on your blessed event and your triumphant return to New York street food!  It was nice to have you back where you belong!  

 ©2012 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved