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 

Found Money, Barbecue and Dieting in Times Square

The time – a little while ago. The place – another rainy day in New York City. The rain is pounding hard as I dash across the intersection of 52nd Street and 7th Avenue. Imagine if this were snow, as the New York DJs always say. Already, the day is damp, unremarkable, and just a bit grim. But, as I scamper over the asphalt and look down, I spot a soaked $20 dollar bill underfoot. I scoop it up, wring it out, and shove it into my pocket. Now, there’s a ray of sunshine. I know exactly how I’ll use this found money. My colleague “Splint McCullough” is in town after a long absence. Splint is a fellow road warrior and my barometer for the dining preferences of the Everyman. The $20 will pay for the first round of drinks at dinner. Not that we need an excuse for drinks with dinner …

Lately, Splint’s been on a physician-imposed diet, strictly enforced by his wife “Blanche” who definitely wears the pants suits in that family. I’m a little worried about coercing Splint into an excessive meal, because I’m not sure I want to tangle with Blanche. But, all I need to do is dangle a little red meat under Splint’s nose, and he is complicit.

The dining hour approaches and Splint and I set out for Virgil’s Real BBQ, a New York institution. Well … it’s an institution to New York tourists. The last time I was at Virgil’s was the night President Clinton admitted his affair with a White House intern to a national television audience. The confession was broadcast on the big screen in Times Square. To this day, I still associate southern barbecue with infidelity.

Splint fancies himself a Memphis barbecue veteran, and in a past life he was a player on the Memphis chow circuit. We turn the corner at 44th Street and inhale the aroma of charred meat. The red neon Virgil’s sign winks at us and another neon sign in the window announces “Home Cooking.”

Splint raises an eyebrow. “You can’t claim “real” barbecue unless someone’s been shot on the premises,” he declares.

Inside, the patrons look very much alive and we are seated at the bar to wait for a table. The air is singed with fragrant barbecue smoke. I fork over the still-damp lucky $20 for a round of spicy Bloody Marys, that are more Worcestershire sauce than vodka. I ask Splint for his assessment of the clientele. He studies the room.

“They’re poseurs,” he pronounces, finally. “Nobody here would know real barbecue if Big Bob Gibson walked up and slapped them in the face with some ribs.”

We swig our Bloody Marys and Splint chats with the bartender about the photos of Elvis impersonators over the bar. We are told that they are regulars. Shortly, we are seated by a sunny hostess, born and raised in Texas. “Keep that smile,” Splint tells her.

Our place settings include a paper placemat with a printed illustration of the United States with top barbecue restaurants – those spots where the Virgil’s staff got its inspiration. It’s kind of a Michelin Guide complete with barbecue sauce stains.

Our utensils are wrapped in large red terry cloth hand towels. “I don’t think this is the kind of place where you need to ask the thread count,” says Splint.

He takes a quick glance at the menu and announces, “It’s virtually impossible to eat healthy, so I’m diving in.” For our appetizer, we share a football-sized platter of Hush Puppies – tender, deep-fried corn batter – with a side of maple butter. Splint offers up a few tidbits of culinary history he has picked up in the Deep South. Either that, or he’s cribbing anecdotes off the placemat.

“Did you know that Hush Puppies got their name because in the South, dogs would roam the fields, and the farm workers would toss them a handful of cornmeal to keep them quiet, or hush the puppies?”

“I’m a Wikipedia of fried food,” says Splint.

He holds up a single, fried morsel and gives it a look of adoration. “In my opinion, a Hush Puppy is really just a delivery vehicle for the maple butter.”

Splint offers ongoing commentary as I examine the menu, explaining that barbecue sauce in North Carolina is vinegar-based, while in South Carolina, the sauce is tomato-based. And, if you travel further South or West, the sauce is usually sweeter. By now, I’m convinced that Splint has been watching too many “Boy Meets Grill” marathons on the Food Network. I order a mixed platter of North Carolina Pulled Pork and Texas Beef Brisket with sides of slaw and Georgia Pecan wild rice.

The health-conscious Splint has chosen Virgil’s Barbecue Salad, a large bowl of greens with about two pounds of barbecue beef piled on top. “They throw some shaved carrots on top to give the illusion of healthy, but it’s still a heart attack in a bowl,” he notes.

Splint picks carefully at his salad. The man eats like a bird now. I devour my scorched brisket dressed in a perky barbecue sauce and chomp on the crunchy Cole slaw. The pulled pork has a nice tang.

“When my wife asks, what did you order? I can truthfully say salad," says Splint, "Until she reads your blog, of course.”

In between bites, the waiter gives us the lowdown on the smokers in the back of the restaurant. Virgil's uses a combination of hickory, oak and fruitwoods. Splint bemoans that fact that his wife has become a fan of "Cooking Light." During a trip upstairs, I note that a group of tough guys are wearing pointed Happy Birthday hats, and at the table next to us, a patron has been composing a haiku on his Blackberry. It's a typical night out in New York City.

The waiter clears away the plates and we are given hot towels. "Classy touch," notes Splint.

We are too full for dessert. In Splint’s case, no doubt it was all the fiber in that salad. The bill arrives and the barbecue salad is a mere $9.50. Splint remains the quintessential cheap date.

He sighs. "Taking me here on a diet is like watching those football players on "Dancing with the Stars." It's entertaining, but unsettling."

As we leave, I grab a handful of the obligatory dining souvenier – matchbooks. It’s quite possibly the only tool I’d really need to recreate genuine Southern barbecue at home. I note that Splint is actually looking a bit gaunt. I'll have to talk to Blanche. He could use a couple of good "stick-to-your ribs" meals.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Windy City Comfort.




My colleague, Splint McCullough is a mess.

We’re on assignment in the Chicago area and he’s looking a bit like the travel companion from hell. Splint’s allergies have invaded and are doing a shock and awe number on his head, leaving him a pitiful mass of sniffles and snorts. On top of that, he’s penniless. A moment of confusion back home means he’s without his wallet forcing us to rely on my fragile credit line to temporarily bankroll all our expenses.

We sit in snail-like traffic on route 90, pointed in the general direction of Chicago, but going nowhere.

“You’d hardly qualify for road warrior of the year,” I point out, somewhat unsympathetically.

“Just shoot me,” Splint moans.

“You need comfort,” I suggest, softening a little.

“Would that be Southern Comfort?” he asks, perking up.

“I’m talking about a square meal, the kind of comfort that only comes from Mom’s home cooking.”

“Brilliant idea, but my mother lives in Texas,” Splint snaps peevishly.

We finally arrive in the city, and Splint perks up a little, referring to points of interest like a double-decker tour bus guide.

“You’ll notice that traffic is not so bad here and the roads are much wider than what you would find in New York,” he points out. “That’s the benefit of having the city burn down and having to rebuild all the main roads. What was the name of that cow, by the way?”

Despite this surge of energy, Splint is still a bit surly. Our quest for the restorative powers of food lead Splint, me and a young colleague we’ll call “Babs Gordon” to the South Water Kitchen on N. Wabash Avenue. The restaurant’s slogan – “Reminiscent of a day when the kitchen table was the cornerstone of American cooking.”

We descend a steep and dramatic staircase worthy of Norma Desmond, to a cavernous sunken dining room that is about ten feet under sea level. There is warm brown paneling, copper highlights and charming sepia murals of old time Chicago on the walls. The decibel level is manageable, and accented by an occasional baby screeching. Oversized ceramic salt and pepper shakers are the size of bell clappers.

We settle into a booth and are given light and tangy cheese bread as a starter. Splint orders an Olympic-sized bowl of tomato soup, while I request the winter beet salad, and Babs gets the Caesar salad. Splint says his soup is so rich it tastes like a pasta sauce. My beets are swabbed with horseradish and buried under a mountain of peppery watercress. Babs is pleased with the generous shavings of parmesan that accent her salad.

The main courses arrive and Splint is beginning to seem like his old-self again. He dazzles us with stories of his culinary triumphs in the kitchen, from that ‘extra special something’ you can achieve by adding a dash of dried basil to scrambled eggs, to the time he accidentally added cumin to his oatmeal instead of cinnamon. (“I was sleepy,” he protests.)

Our entrees arrive and Splint revels in his Chicken and Handmade Buttermilk Dumplings with Peas and Carrots. “It looks like a pot pie that exploded,” he chuckles with glee. Indeed, the dumplings are the size of hockey pucks.

Babs orders fresh duck breast from Indiana with a bright orange peak of whipped sweet potatoes. I dig into a stack of roasted salmon and shitake mushrooms in a rich balsamic glaze balanced atop a cake-like slab of sweet cornbread. The flavor combination is satisfying and sublime evoking the ocean, the forest and the heartland. For a little over-the-top indulgence, I sample a side of creamy baked mac and cheese and the kitchen table symbolism is all but complete.

For dessert, the usually mild-mannered Babs opts for a chocolate banana martini, with a dramatic curl of banana garnishing the rim of the glass.


Splint acknowledges that he is now full of comfort, to the point where the buttermilk dumplings are weighing a bit heavy. Yet he still finds room for a serving of blueberry sorbet, because blueberries are a good source of antioxidants. Still there comes a point where all that comfort and healthy ingredients can overwhelm even the most seasoned of diners.

“I’m so stuffed, these antioxidants are killing me,” says Splint.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

How Do You Get to the Carnegie Deli?

Spring is in the air in New York City, and my colleague Splint McCullough breezes into town to spend a couple of days at HQ. We decide to get a running start on the weekend with a little lunch excursion to the world famous Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue.

Frankly, I'm a little surprised that Splint has consented to this pursuit of Pastrami. He's always been more of a bologna guy in my mind. I've been fasting and doing extra time on the stationary bike in anticipation of this event. Splint, on the other hand, is not nearly as diligent, and considers the definition of fasting to be an extended absence from Las Vegas.

“This is the carnivore’s marathon,” says Splint as we queue up under the signature red awning with a gaggle of tourists, hoping to avoid a brief rain shower. “If you can finish one of these sandwiches, you’ve really accomplished something.” I point out that the week has been rather heavy on meat consumption. “Glad I could help,” replies Splint.

Here’s a little historic perspective. The Carnegie Deli was established in 1937. It is famous for the biggest sandwiches in the universe – roast beef, corn beef and “New York’s Best” hot pastrami. Since I am a pastrami neophyte, I needed to do some additional research. The newly published “Oxford Companion to American Food and Drink” says pastrami is a Yiddish word derived from a Romanian word for a preserved food. It’s usually a brisket that is rubbed with kosher salt and spices like brown sugar, garlic, and black and white pepper corns and then cured and smoked. Some pastrami may be soaked in brine for a number of weeks.

We quickly move to the front of the line. Inside, patrons are crowded around the meat counter, and several folks are having their photos taken alongside a giant Kelly green pickle. Splint points to a sign in the window indicating that the Carnegie Deli is featured in the book “1,000 Places to See Before you Die.”

“This has to be the unhealthiest of the 1,000,” notes Splint.

One man in line announces to his companions, “No diet today, ladies.” The line is almost as congested and stressful as airport security. A loud alarm bell keeps going off. “Do we win something?” asks a man behind us.

“Yeah, a free angioplasty,” replies Splint.

In due time, we are hustled inside, and squeezed into a prime table on the main thoroughfare of the restaurant which Splint describes as “orchestra seats.” There are hundreds of celebrity photographs on the wall – from Adam Sandler to Ziegfried and Roy – bolted in place to discourage sticky fingers. There is even a portrait of Santa Claus, who presumably stops by every December 24th for a quick snack before getting on the road for the night.

We place our orders. I go traditional with New York’s Best Hot Pastrami on Rye and a diet cream soda. Splint, a veteran of the deli, orders roast beef as a change of pace. There is a bowl of giant mutant pickles on the table. “Antipasto,” smiles Splint.

The seating is tight and the patrons are a bit on the raucous side. “We’re stacked elbows to buttocks. Oh, the humanity,” Splint intones. At one table, a crowd of wait staff produce a cheese cake and sing “Happy Birthday.” We strike up a brief conversation with a couple seated next to us from Oklahoma City who are waiting for the remains of their sandwiches to be put in doggy bags. They ask a lot of questions about the cost of living in New York which is understandable coming from people who have just invested more than 25 dollars in two sandwiches. As the woman squeezes behind my chair to exit, she mutters under her breath, “I could get through here before I ate that sandwich.”

Our sandwiches arrive and we survey the challenge before us. My pastrami sandwich, or “The Holy Grail” as Splint calls it, is pink and glistening and stands about eight inches tall.

Splint’s roast beef resembles a mid-sized Manhattan office building. Within minutes, my sandwich has collapsed and I’m forced to resort to knife and fork. Splint’s technique is amazing. Not a shred of beef falls to the plate. He handles his sandwich with the precision of an impresario. He’s so neat, it’s almost a little prissy. He might as well be partaking of afternoon tea. It’s the Felix Unger School of Sandwich Consumption.

Splint is a little under whelmed with his sandwich and finds it a bit ordinary (“It’s a Norman Rockwell versus a Mona Lisa.”) but my tower of pastrami is the genuine article, smooth, briny and buttery with just a hint of flint, smoke and spice. I start to experience an intense protein buzz. “That’s the blood struggling to get to your brain,” suggests Splint.

I make a valiant attempt to try and finish the remaining debris on my plate.

Splint’s platter is nearly spotless.

As we prepare to leave, a group of four has taken the seats next to us. “This is a double Lipitor moment,” remarks one of the women.

It turns out this is just an appetizer for Splint. Tomorrow, he’s got reservations at Peter Lugar’s Steak House. Me – I’ve only got nine-hundred and ninety-nine of those fascinating places left to see before I die.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Garlic Galore in San Francisco

Work is completed in Oakdale, California and my colleague, Splint McCullough and I are in search of some good dining. We are joined by our associate Danbury, an impossibly tall Connecticut aristocrat. He’s trailing us in a rented blue Subaru station wagon.

Splint programs Gloria, our Neverlost GPS device and the Digital Dame of Directions points us towards “The Stinking Rose,” a garlic restaurant at 325 Columbus in San Francisco. The Stinking Rose (http://www.thestinkingrose.com/) is all garlic, all the time – a temple to the aromatic bulb, and homage to the annual gargantuan garlic crop of Gilroy, California.

Both Splint and Danbury have previously dined at the Stinking Rose, while I am a novice to this baptism by garlic. “You’re going to have to bathe after dinner,” recommends Danbury.

It sounds irresistible.

During the 86 mile journey, Gloria has a slight freak out and advises Splint to make a sharp left while we’re still on the peak of the San Francisco Bay Bridge. Fortunately, Splint has a way with technology and coaxes Gloria back from the brink. She regains her senses, and guides us safely to the Stinking Rose in North Beach.

A rainbow-colored neon sign marks The Stinking Rose, and the unmistakable pungent aroma of garlic seeps from the front door. The décor is patterned after a Moroccan marketplace. Our booth is concealed within a red velvet cabana adorned with gold tassels. In fact, it’s a bit like the inside of Barbara Eden’s bottle on “I Dream of Jeannie.”

We order the signature appetizer, “Bagna Galda” which also goes by the very California name of “Garlic Soaking in a Hot Tub.” It’s basically a couple of dozen cloves of garlic submerged in warm olive oil, butter and anchovies. The garlic cloves are soft, succulent and taste rich and earthly, almost like sautéed mushrooms. We dab the garlic paste on chunks of focaccia bread and devour it.

For our entrees, Splint orders Halibut with Garlic Mashed Potatoes (when in Rome…), Danbury selects 40-Clove Garlic Roast Chicken, and I can’t resist the salute to Hannibal Lechtor, “Silence of the Lamb Shanks with Chianti Glaze & Fava Beans.” I suggest to Danbury that he count his garlic cloves to make sure his dish is authentic, and proceed to attack my lamb, which is so tender it falls from the bone. The red wine reduction has a long finish, and Splint and Danbury offer up their best imitations of Anthony Hopkins.

Danbury must shortly leave us for an overnight flight home to the east coast, but I have an inkling that desert may offer up a confection that could even manage to win over a vampire with a sweet tooth. I am proven correct. I request Gilroy Garlic Ice Cream with Hot Caramel and Mole Sauce. It arrives in a serving dish the size of a communion chalice. The boys watch with trepidation as I take my first spoonful. How do I describe the moment? It is perhaps a garlic epiphany. There is first a rush of sweetness, and a touch of spice from the caramel and mole sauce. Then, a sweet toasty tang of mellow garlic wraps several times around my tongue. As the heady flavor finally dissipates, there is the finish of rich, luxurious cream. My head feels like it’s in orbit.

Danbury departs for the airport, and Splint and I take a walk through the North Beach neighborhood, where former flower children and derelicts are in ample supply. Before heading for the car, we stop at a bodega and purchase the inevitable after-dinner chaser.

Splint gets a pack of Rolaids and I secure an industrial-sized roll of Certs.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Dinner by Satellite

The automobile congestion on California Interstate 205 is worse than trying to exit Shea Stadium after a Mets game. I'm riding shotgun in a red Ford mid-size and my colleague Splint McCullough is in the driver's seat, as usual.

In order to innoculate against our tendency towards misdirection on the road, Splint has ordered up a "Neverlost" Global Positioning System Navigator (GPS) from Hertz that will guide us to our destination. It's like having Hal the Computer from "2001 A Space Oddessy" give you directions. "Turn right," orders the sultry female voice. "Turn left," she demands. It's a little annoying. We nick-name the voice "Gloria" and set out for our overnight stop in Oakdale, California, some 100 miles east of San Francisco.

Splint points out that "Gloria" not only gives directions, but can serve up restaurant recommendations at the push of a button. "It's like Magellan meets Zagat," he quips gleefully.

"But, can she tell us if the food is any good?" I ask.

Splint pauses. "I think Gloria is more likely to send us to Arby's than Aquavit." My stomach sinks.

Some hours later we finally emerge from the traffic and are maintaining a decent clip on a dark California highway. The dining options are few and far between. We pass by "Hula's Homestyle Food," which is sort of a roadside luau, and Splint guns the accelerator to avoid "The Whisky River Saloon."

"Gloria will give us the answer," Splint vows.

"That's what I'm afraid of," I murmur under my breath.

It is nearing 7:00 p.m. Pacific Time when we pull into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn Express in Oakdale, California. "You have arrived," Gloria announces. "Yes, we have," says Splint in a somber voice as he surveys the surroundings.

It is way past dinner on our body clocks, so Splint consults Gloria's database for our dining options. Immediately, she offers up 100 choices. There's 'The Almond Tree" which is right across the street and sports a cluster of nuts and a martini glass on its sign. There's a "Taco Bell," a "Panda Buffet," and can it be? "The House of Beef! " Splint -the avowed carnivore - is ecstatic. We drive the quarter mile only to discover that "The House of Beef," which is just across the street from "The House of Prayer," has a Livestock Processing Center out back, and a parole officer stationed in the parking lot.

"No way," says Splint. He checks Gloria's listings again and we settle on "The Nutcracker Restauarant and Lounge." It has a cheery yellow sign with a cuddly squirrel on it. And, there's a banner over the front door that screams, "Ribs, Steaks, Seafood, Cheese Fondue."

"When was the last time you had Cheese Fondue?" I ask. "We have to try it."

"Nothing says home cooking like a furry rodent," replies Splint gamely.

Inside, "The Nutcracker" is all paneled wood and beer signs, and a four-foot-tall wooden carved squirrel flanks the entrance to the restaurant. The staff is cordial and we are escorted to a nice booth where our order is taken. The menu is about as beefy as you can possibly get, and Splint orders prime rib, while I select the barbequed beef ribs. And, the best news ever -- a cheese fondue comes with the meal!

"I'm kind of a fondue expert," I tell Splint.

"What are you expecting here?" he asks. "I'm thinking it ends in "Whiz" or "Veeta."

Our dashing culinary genius is right on the money. We are presented with some large slabs of french bread, and a saucer of bright orange liquid over a small flame. There is nothing natural about this cheese. I taste a hint of prepared mustard in the mix. Splint takes one taste and turns up his nose. "I'll stick to butter, thanks."

Our main dishes are huge, and my beef ribs are Flintstone-sized. They are slathered in a sweet and spicy mahogany colored barbeque sauce. Splint notes that his prime rib is still mooing.

"Do you think these were processed at the House of Beef?" I ask.

"The only thing not processed at the House of Beef was that cheese fondue," Splint notes.

As we are leaving, Splint can't resist the urge to ask the hostess where the restaurant got its name.

"Well, I haven't been here that long," she replies helpfully, "but I think it used to be a nut house."

She clarifies that the building was once an almond processing plant, but Splint has already made a mad dash for the parking lot.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Night of the Turkey Club

The flights out of LaGuardia to Chicago have been backed up for hours, but I finally arrive in the Windy City at about 10 p.m. Central Time after leaving the New York office at 3:45 p.m. Do the math. That means for approximately five of my seven hours of travel, I was going absolutely nowhere.

When I finally stumble off the flight at O’Hare with my carry-on wheeler and my zip lock bag of toiletries, I am half starved. I’ve survived on Fritos, Rold Gold and Cranberry Juice Cocktail for what seems like forever.

My colleague Splint McCullough, whom I haven’t seen in more than eight weeks, steps out of the crowd in baggage claim and says, “This way, Mr. Bond.” This greeting is a relief. He usually impersonates Kato from the Inspector Clousseau movies. Splint has weathered similar atrocities during his trip in, including flight delays and lost luggage that was later discovered soaking wet on the wrong baggage carousel. But, he’s resolved his issues and is waiting with a white Ford Bronco rental to take us to our accommodations in Naperville.

I eye the vehicle skeptically. “Are you on the lam?” I ask. Fortunately, there are no law enforcement or media choppers on our tail, and we cruise out of the airport with little difficulty and ease onto the expressway.

“I can do this route in my sleep,” Splint promises, and promptly misses the exit to Naperville. I look at him askance. I haven’t seen Splint in more than eight weeks, and I haven’t missed an exit in that time either. But we seem to share a certain directionally challenged karma.

After a quick course correction, we are on our way to Naperville. “The bad news is that most of the restaurants closed at 10 p.m.,” says Splint. “But, the good news is, I saw bright lights near the highway. We’ll find you some food.” Splint, by the way, has already eaten.

Following a quick trip along Route 88, we pull into a well-lit parking area in Lisle, Illinois. There’s a distinct chill in the air. The red neon sign screams “Mullen’s Bar & Grill” and there are cars in the parking lot. “I think they’re open,” Splint declares optimistically as we enter the establishment, whose threshold is adorned with a selection of Halloween scarecrows.

Inside, the first patron we encounter is a man in full clown makeup and costume, who has bellied up to the bar and is watching the World Series.

“I hate clowns!” Splint says with passing glance and a shudder. He quickly accosts a waitress who informs us that the kitchen closed five minutes ago. “Is there a diner in the neighborhood?” he pleads as I am about to expire at his side. She volunteers to check and disappears into the kitchen. Moments later, the manager returns and graciously offers to retain the kitchen staff long enough to whip me up a turkey club with fries. He escorts us to a table, where Diet Pepsi and Sierra Mist are delivered and both he and the waiter settle in with us to chat about nothing in particularly. It seems that no matter where Splint goes, he attracts an entourage and it is clear that Mullen’s caters to weary travelers and thirsty circus performers.

My turkey club arrives and it is enormous, worthy of Dagwood Bumpstead. I can barely fit the tall stacks of turkey, crisp bacon and golden toast into my mouth, but I attack the food voraciously as the restaurant manager recounts his day in detail, which began by dropping his mother-in-law at the airport at the crack of dawn.

Within minutes, there is nothing but a few crumbs and an errant French fry on my plate, and I am grateful for Mullen’s hospitality and Splint’s incomparable instincts for locating fine cuisine. Frankly, I’m thinking of spending the weekend. Mullen’s is hosting a “Seven Deadly Sins Halloween Party” this Saturday night and I’d like to see if I can add a few more to my repertoire beyond my usual gluttony.

www.mullensbarandgrill.com

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Culinary Dispatch – Richland, Washington: It’s our last night in the Tri-Cities. Splint McCullough and I have wrapped up our Pacific Northwest assignment, and we’re in search of nourishment. We leave the hotel with a copy of the Tri-Cities answer to Michelin in hand, “Your Guide to Local Dining,” a 17-page stapled Xerox copy of every conceivable eatery within a six minute radius.

In the spirit of Lewis and Clark, Splint and I head east on the recommendation of the hotel desk manager. She’s added a star, in pen, next to the listing for T.S. Cattle Co. noting that the last time she ate there – twenty years ago – it was a pretty good meal. But since Splint is a true carnivore, he assumes we’ll be treated to excellent aged beef.

One quick detour later (getting lost seems to be a way of life in the Tri-Cities) we arrive at the parking lot of T.S. Cattle Co. It looks a bit like an abandoned road house, with a couple of decrepit pickup trucks outside. The Co. has clearly lost some of its 1986 appeal. Splint says, “I think not,” and we make a quick left out of the parking lot.

Our next stop is Cavanaugh’s Landing. It has a bright, appealing multi-colored sign, the parking lot is clean, and the shrubbery well manicured. But, the lobby has that strange hotel smell, and there is absolutely no one in the restaurant. “Not a good endorsement for the menu,” Splint notes, and we return to the rental to continue our culinary expedition. We decide to skip the Old Country Buffet, which looks like a renovated supermarket, and Splint refuses to get within a quarter mile of Roy’s Western Smorgy.

We decide to explore west of the hotel. Finding the right restaurant has become a mission. Splint nixes Sterling’s Famous Steak, Seafood and Salad Bar (“Too much like a diner.”) and Casa Mia (“Not in the mood for Italian.”). After a brief pass by Dax’s Bar and Grill, a dangerous looking powder blue cinder block structure, we are desperate, and decide that Mexican cuisine is our safest choice.

We park the rental and enter 3 Margaritas – Family Mexican Restaurant. It is fiesta time! We are seated at a window booth. There are bright colors everywhere and the ambient noise is deafening. There is a lariat and saddle on one wall and a large mural of three parrots behind Splint’s head. For some reason I’m inspired to order a Blueberry Margarita which resembles a frozen dessert on steroids. Splint orders a Cuervo Gold Margarita. He glances toward the floor and says, “I’m curious the last time this rug was cleaned?”

There is much activity. Every few minutes, a large group of wait staff carry a birthday cake and a giant sombrero out to some lucky diner on the floor and sing "Happy Birthday" both in Spanish and English. Splint calls his wife, Blanche on the cell phone. She suggests we should pretend it’s my birthday and take plenty of photographs.

Our entrees arrive and there is ample food. Splint has chosen the house specialty, Carnitas Fahita Style with sirloin beef. I’ve chosen the chicken version. Splint rolls a fahita the size of a Cuban cigar. He takes a bite and announces, “I’m very happy.”

Ditto for me. The chicken is succulent, the rice nicely seasoned, and the guacamole incredibly fresh. It meets with Splint’s approval as well. “I’m very picky about my guac,” he says.

Splint has clearly entered the fiesta zone. He orders a second Cuervo Gold Margarita, which means that collectively, we have ordered 3 Margaritas and must be considered charter members of the club.

“Who ever thought we’d find authentic Mexican in one of the states that’s furthest from?” Splint asks rhetorically.

As we leave the restaurant lobby, I look for a card, but oddly enough, all I can find is a stack for “Lightning’s Carpet Cleaning.” Splint expresses hope that the rug at 3 Margaritas will soon get a makeover.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Culinary Dispatch – Kennewick, Washington: Splint McCullough and I have finally made it to the Pacific Northwest. There’s not much further you can go. We have landed in what is locally referred to as “The Tri-Cities” which includes Kennewick, Pasco and Richland, Washington. A quick look through the phone book and I manage to pick up some local lore. The Tri-Cities actually enjoy “nearly 200 sun-filled days a year.” The Columbia River runs through it. Lewis and Clark set up camp in Pasco in 1805. There’s a booming wine region. And, on a slightly more explosive note, nearby Hanford was the site of the top secret Manhattan Project, which produced plutonium for the atomic bomb, used in World War II. Who knew?

Splint and I have traveled to the four corners of the Tri-Cities. In less than 24 hours we’ve gotten lost no less than three times. They don’t seem to have much use for street signs here. This morning, we were off among the tumbleweeds, when we should have been kicking off a meeting, and this evening, we found ourselves on the wrong side of the tracks near a Burger King and a Rite Aid, when we were looking for a seafood restaurant on the banks of the Columbia River.

Our search for dinner starts inauspiciously. Anthony’s, a seafood place recommended by a gentleman on our incoming flight had a small fire in the morning and they are closed. The young woman who turns us away hungry suggests we try Cedars, so we hop in the rental and try to make sense of her sketchy directions.

Several wrong turns later, I give up on maps, revert to instinct and decide that a seafood restaurant must be near water. We follow the sign to “Marina” and Cedars appears on the horizon. Splint dubs me the new Magellan.

Cedars has a handsome exterior that is covered with, you guessed it, cedar shingles. There’s a spacious outdoor deck which flanks the Columbia. Inside are wood beams, rafters, and potted ferns. We opt for indoor seating and kick off the meal with a glass of Preston Sauvignon Blanc 2004 bottled in Pasco, Washington. It’s our first taste of the local vintage and it’s surprisingly good. The Sauvignon Blanc is free of the grassier notes found in the New Zealand variety. It’s clean, Green Apple crisp and smooth, with just a hint of American Oak.

Splint selects the salad bar, which he dubs “cafeteria basic.” I do better with the clam chowder which is thick and stew-like with big chunks of clam and a splash of sherry. We split the Mesquite Smoked Rainbow Trout and Cheese appetizer. It’s a do-it-yourself sandwich. You take a crostini and layer cream cheese with parmesan, capers, a dash of fresh lemon juice and top with a slice of rich and mellow smoky rainbow trout. The combination of flavors is sublime.

Our entrees are less inspired. I try the King Salmon with lemon, butter caper sauce. It is serviceable, but I’m a bit capered-out at this point, and the sauce seems a tad oily. Splint pronounces his Mahi Mahi to be dry and the tropical fruit salsa bland. However, he gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up to his baked potato with everything on it. According to Splint, the medley of bacon and chives is far more interesting than the medley of fruit and salsa.

While the main entrees are routine, they are more than filling so dessert is skipped. The salmon-pink sunset over the Columbia River is a far better end to the meal for a couple of hard-core New Yorkers with no sense of direction. Check out Cedars at www.cedarsrest.com

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Culinary Dispatch -Naperville, Illinois: I'm traveling the great U.S.A. again with my colleague Splint McCullough and we've stopped in Naperville, Illinois, founded in 1831.

I hear rumors that there's an historic pioneer village called Naper Settlement nearby, but Splint and I are unlikely to take in the local culture as we're scheduled to spend much of our visit at a corporate park.

Our accommodations are austere (why did I get the handicapped-equipped room on the first floor??) situated just off highly-traveled Illinois Route 88. Yet we quickly discover a bright spot. We are located about thirty feet from a Cracker Barrel Old Country Store, and agree on a breakfast pilgrimage. The pioneer spirit lives in Naperville, Illinois!

It is just after half-past six in the morning when Splint and I enter the roadside shrine, the auto noise and exhaust fumes from Route 88 still assaulting our ears and nostrils. A step over the threshold and we are transported to another era of porch rockers and penny candy. The store is packed with Americana and even in the heat of early August, there are merchandise displays for Halloween and Christmas. It is, after all, never too early to start holiday shopping. We move towards the dining room and Splint points out a vintage advertisement for "Domolite, the Easy-to-Sew Plastic Fabric." You've gotta love those space-age innovations! We look ahead and there is an immediate sense of comfort, as there is comfort food just ahead.

We are seated. Splint orders grapefruit juice and I order orange juice with coffee. Splint vows he will not go overboard and promptly orders three pecan-studded pancakes smothered in creamy butter that are the size of hub caps. Splint caresses the mini bottle of maple syrup and nearly squeals with delight. "They heat the syrup!" he gasps. "It's little touches like that! This place gets it done!"

My utensils could be cleaner, so I return them to the server for a fresh set and take note of our surroundings. At this hour, there are just a few patrons and Splint and I are probably the only ones below retirement age. Country music wafts through the air mingling with the aroma of flapjacks. We might as well be in an Adirondack lodge. The walls are adorned with fishing pole and tackle, a rifle, rolling pins, snow shoes and antique portraits of Naperville forefathers. A rustic getaway just minutes from downtown Chicago! Splint notes that the eyes on a photograph of a gentleman from a previous century seem to be following us ...

I've ordered "Eggs-in-the-Basket," (a bargain at $5.89) a classic breakfast item where a farm fresh egg is nestled in a hole cut in the center of a slab of sourdough bread and fried to perfection. My platter has two "baskets" neatly framed by three slices of bacon and a generous scoop of hash brown casserole, a sinful mash of crunchy hash browns and melted cheddar cheese. I slice into crisp, tart sourdough and golden yolk drenches the bread on my fork delivering a mouthful of morning sunshine. For just a moment, I'm certain I can hear a rooster signaling the start of a new day.

Shortly after, I have nearly licked my plate clean and Splint's pancakes are nothing by a sweet, nutty memory. We leave the Cracker Barrel Country Store to start our work day and I notice a small chalk board out of the corner of my eye announcing that it is only 140 days until Christmas.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Culinary Dispatch - Omaha

I’ve been eating my way across America the past few weeks with my colleague “Splint McCullough” (name changed to protect privacy). Business travel can be hellish, but one can always look forward to a new dining adventure. Splint has introduced me to the best franchise restaurants in the country. Two weeks ago in Minneapolis he dragged me into an establishment he described as “a poor man’s Cracker Barrel,” and I could just sense his taste buds rejoicing as we approached Buca di Beppo (authentic Italian dishes served family style and meant to be shared) last Thursday at a strip mall in Thousand Oaks, California (the Chicken Saltimbocca really does pop on the tongue).

Tonight we’re in the Wild, Wild Midwest, and Splint has promised me that we will experience the best steaks in Omaha. We’re heading out via taxi to the Drover Restaurant and Lounge at 2121 South 73, because Splint has a recommendation from some upscale friends in Los Angeles that the beef is extraordinary. He’s confirmed the referral through a write-up in an equally upscale golfing magazine.

Splint is a formidable connoisseur of cattle. I’ve watched him consume vast quantities of protein from Minneapolis to Sao Paolo, Brazil. As Splint puts it, "I’ve been to some of New York’s greatest steakhouses, so I have a frame of reference.”

The exterior of The Drover is dubious, at best. Large wagon wheels serve as lawn art and the ivy-covered bungalow is attached to a bi-level open-air parking garage. Next-door is the Sisters of Mercy Regional Headquarters.

Inside, the restaurant is lit with garden-variety yellow light bulbs and the bar is a decoupage work of art, preserving classic wine and liquor labels, that would make Martha Stewart proud. There is the outline of a cattleman etched in gold in the mirror over the bar and quite a selection of steer horns. I feel way overdressed in my jeans and Brooks Brothers blue blazer. Despite the ambiance, and the fact that the restaurant is ridiculously crowded for a Monday night, Splint is optimistic. “I have the credentials,” he maintains. “My mother is an excellent Italian chef, and I’m a complete carnivore.”

Splint and I are seated near the all-you-can-eat salad bar. The service is certainly friendly, but Splint is a little put off by the statuette of “The Outlaw Josie Wales” that guards the lettuce bowl and the dark, grotto-like mood of the décor.

The freshly baked loaf of bread is warm and nutty, and I’m enjoying the Sonoma Pinot Noir. We order the signature dish, which would be steak. When in Rome, as they say. I select the 8-ounce whiskey fillet, and Splint requests the whisky marinated New York strip steak on the recommendation of our server, Laura. The fat in the New York strip delivers a more-subtle flavor, but the filet is robust and silky with eruptions of flint over sweet caramel.

I’m satisfied, which usually happens after two glasses of Pinot Noir, but Splint is circumspect and perhaps even a bit let down. I'm learning that Splint is a tough critic when it comes to food. “This is what happens when you’re a gambler,” he says. “Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose.”

Tomorrow night, we’ll be eating takeout at the Omaha airport.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved