Oh Cake!

It takes us three days in all to cross Texas. We started at exit 880 on highway 10 and drive all the way across the state, the Mexican border to our left, to exit 0.

The first night we stay just outside of Houston and see nothing of that city except the nighttime skyline as we pass. The next morning we’re up early and drive about three more hours to reach San Antonio. Our main objective in San Antonio is to see the Alamo.



I knew it was smaller than people expect it to be, but it is even smaller than I realized. I also didn’t realize it was right there in the middle of the city. As we drive into downtown, boom! There it is! But in a historic city, I suppose it makes sense that the town would rise up around the fort.

It is hotter than the hinges of hell. But it’s okay because it’s a dry heat. Yeah, right.

After touring the Alamo and grounds we head towards the Riverwalk, a complex of stores and restaurants built alongside the river, below street level.



We stop for lunch at Casa del Rio and enjoy an adequate “typical” Mexican lunch of enchiladas, guacamole and tortilla chips.



The most pleasant thing is actually sitting alongside the river and enjoying the shade and slightly cooler temperature. Afterwards we walk a short ways along the Riverwalk, but soon decide it’s hot, touristy and frankly, we’d rather get through Texas and on to California. So we forge ahead along I-10.

We manage to make it to Fort Stockton where we stop for the night with our faithful friends, the La Quinta Hotel corporation. Really, I cannot recommend them enough for the budget minded and road weary. So far my experiences with them have been incredible consistent: friendly service, clean and often newly redone rooms, free wi-fi and a filling breakfast is included. I first encountered La Quinta properties on my first cross-country trip in 2006 and have since stayed at six different properties, mostly in the southeast.

This morning we arose earlier than usual and were treated to a gorgeous sunrise. The rosy fingered dawn apparently shows itself best in the flats of southern Texas.

We are on the road by 8 am. As David takes a nap I drive over small mountains and plateaus heavy with dusty green shrub. Aside from the occasional pick-up truck or big rig I am alone on the road.

The appeal of the southwest is apparent even in this desolate stretch of road. As I imagine many people who enjoy history do, whenever I travel in a new location I often think of what life must have been like centuries before. It is easy to imagine nomadic Native American families a thousand years ago following the rivers’ bounty. One feels they can almost see an early 19th century cowboy guiding his horse slowly along the dusty horizon.

Thanks to a time change as we drive from Central into Mountain time, we reach El Paso by 10:15 am. I am amazed at the intensity of the traffic and the complexity of the roads as we get closer to downtown. We had decided to stop at the El Paso Museum of Archeology, near Fort Bliss, and make that our first stop. The museum is a great deal – free. The exhibits consist mainly of diorama depicting the life of pre-historic and pre-conquest Native Americans. Of greater interest is the cactus garden outside.



Set against the backdrop of the mountain the spiky green plants are displayed in myriad shapes and sizes. One is even gracious enough to be in bloom.



We make our way back down the mountain with the view of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico just in front of us. So close, it seems we could reach out our hands over the Rio Grande and touch old Mexico. Rather than do battle with customs, however, we head through downtown El Paso and to a shopping plaza on the west side of the city where we have read in our AAA guidebook that a good Mexican restaurant awaits.

Avila definitely has the makings of a fun restaurant as we pull in the parking lot. Gorgeous blue tiled walls adorn the outside and an atrium at the front entrance houses a fountain, sculpture and benches.

I really just wanted tamales, but the only possibility is a combo plate with a beef taco, cheese enchilada and a tamale. Why not? I’m glad I ordered the combo plate because it’s just filling enough. The taco is adequate, but the cheese enchilada is actually quite good. The tamale has a smoky flavor and a rich, spicy red sauce. I ignore the rice and refried beans which leaves just enough room in my tummy for two complimentary cinnamon & sugar sopapillas.

If you’re in El Paso, try Avila. The service is a bit slow, but very friendly and the prices are very reasonable.

Soon after reaching New Mexico, a few miles before Akela, traffic is routed through a US Border Patrol station. We are asked simply whether or not we are citizens, but are not required to submit any proof of such. We are hoping to reach San Diego by tonight, but that is looking increasingly less likely after realizing how long that traffic stop took.

While David takes a turn at the wheel I catch a short nap and awake as we’re passing through Texas Canyon a short distance before Benson, AZ. I wake up quickly at the sight of enormous boulders balancing precariously on each other on either side of the highway. This is one of the little treasures that driving cross-country affords. Amongst the endless McDonald’s, truck stop plazas, neon signs advertising every kind of schlock consumable – whether edible or kitsch, you can’t stop Mother Nature from making herself known and amazing you in the very best sort of way. Thank heavens there is still some uniqueness left in our great country.



As we get closer to Benson I start seeing signs for Tombstone and after referencing the map realize we’re at the intersection of I-10 and route 80, which could take us to the famous site of Earp brothers battle at the O.K. Corral. Alas, it is neither built into our travel time, nor do we realize it soon enough to make a detour. Apparently I now have a reason to return to southern Arizona!

We hit a light rainstorm in Tucson but twenty minutes later are rolling through the beginnings of desert and a dust storm.

As we cross the Sonoran Desert the saguaro cacti stand sentinel, leading us safely through the dust storm, the whipping winds, and across the state.



After nearly 14 hours we decide to stop for the night in Yuma, AZ. San Diego will still be there in the morning. We have driven approximately 795 miles today.

We are both stunned by how close to the water the highway runs as we make our way over the first of numerous bridges into New Orleans. The scars of Katrina are still visible – more like someone tore at the wound of poverty plaguing the city and left a ragged hole that has yet to be repaired.

We find our hotel, the Prytania Park, quite easily and picnic outside while our room is being prepared. I didn’t expect much out of a budget hotel in New Orleans and had prepared myself to deal with whatever shortcomings there were for the luxury of free parking and a room for less than $75/night. But Prytania exceeded my expectations ten-fold! It is absolutely charming. After passing through the tiny lobby you enter a narrow garden atrium with rooms on both sides. Our room was on the second level; up the stairs to a winding series of walkway balconies with tall bamboo growing up from the ground level Our room was a loft with two queen beds and quaint pastel colored simple country furnishings. Dave took the loft as I rather dislike circular iron staircases (long history – don’t ask).



We immediately went out again and hopped the St. Charles Street trolley to the French Quarter. I love several things about New Orleans: the architecture, the food, the churches, the eccentrics and the trolley. It always makes me think of what the T in Boston must have been like once upon a time. People seem friendlier on the camo-green trolley. The breeze through the open windows cools weary tourists. The city seems prettier viewn from wooden seats. City noises don’t sound so harsh through the clang of the trolley tracks. Life is just better on the St. Charles Street trolley.



I have been to New Orleans once before – Halloween weekend in 1995. I had turned 18 that August and was visiting friends at various colleges along the east coast as well as family. I started in Maine and visited Dorigen at Bates. Then Gabriel at NYU; Ben at Skidmore; my childhood friend Vally in DC, Aunt Nancy and Uncle Gordon in Charlottesville, VA: Keeana at Spelman: but New Orleans was my own.

I stayed at the youth hostel in the Garden District. I had never stayed overnight anywhere by myself at that point and was nervous about being on my own. I was scared of the cranky, much older Australian woman sleeping in the bunk bed next to mine and too painfully shy to make friends with the interested Australian boy I encountered in the courtyard.

I had no notion at that point in time that a year and a half later I would be backpacking, often alone, through Europe. That I would lose some of my fear of cranky people at college (Brandesians are among some of the crankiest college students in the US); would lose some of my shyness living with the happy-go-lucky Max 1 and studying with Swiss and Japanese students in Florence even more shy than myself; and I had no idea that I would lose almost all of my anxiety about being on my own that first night on the continent when I missed the last train to Bologna and had to spend the night in one of the Paris train stations. But that’s another story for another time. In October of 1995 I had only the knowledge that I was a single woman alone in a strange and often dangerous city so I had better watch my ass; but I was also a young woman yearning for excitement, practically panting with desire for adventures. So I rode the St. Charles Street trolley into the French Quarter and I wandered the streets with my camera and journal. I was going to have adventures, dammit, and by golly I was going to either photograph them or write them down when I did!

I wandered down Bourbon Street past bars offering daiquiris, beer and the ubiquitous hurricanes. I encountered several older ladies selling fortunes. I ate blackened chicken with fettuccine alfredo alone in a restaurant while looking out the window. I remember watching a man on the balcony opposite the restaurant as he smoked a cigarette. I photographed Jackson Square and the cathedral. I ate beignets at the Café du Monde and I sat by the Mississippi river, near to where two homeless teens were sleeping.

On my last day in New Orleans I sat on a bench in Jackson Square and watched as an elderly black woman in bedroom slippers shuffled around muttering to herself. I watched as a much younger white man approached and smiled. I couldn’t hear their conversation but he looked like he stepped off the pages of an Anne Rice novel. He wore black from head to toe, including a black trench coat, sunglasses and a black umbrella. His black hair was slicked back and when he proffered his arm the elderly woman took it and they wandered off together. I’ve often thought about that exchange and wondered what became of them, the woman who had lost her way along with her mind and the vampirish looking young man.

Nearly fourteen years have passed since that first visit to New Orleans. I am not just older, but very well traveled. I am more confident in both myself and in my abilities to navigate my surroundings (although I still heed my father’s constant and emphatic “please be careful”).
 
We are once again staying in the Garden District and taking the trolley to the French Quarter. Was Bourbon Street always this full of strip clubs and sex shows or did I somehow gloss over this in my adolescent mind? I’m pretty sure I would have remembered a strip club impresario hawking “wall-to-wall pussy” on the street. The FQ is dirtier than I remember, both morally and literally. The voodoo charms have been replaced with live nude girls and endless neon bars selling every imaginable flavor of frozen, fruity alcohol. The streets have that particular scent of wet garbage and urine baking in the heat. There are no uniformed gentlemen sweeping the streets with dustbins here.

Jackson Square, however, remains undiminished. The fantastic wrought iron work on the balconies and the Spanish influenced architecture also remains spectacular. It is obvious that the people who work in the FQ know each other and stop to chat. There is life in the old girl yet and Jackson continues to keep his head held high.




I make contact with an old family friend, Graham, who lives in the city and despite the short notice of our arrival (really, no notice); he arranges to meet us for dinner. We first try Patois, but they are closed for a staff-only function and so we go to One, which Graham knows well.

One is located at the end of St. Charles Street in a former home and is surrounded by other local eateries. The service is wonderfully friendly and accommodating and the food is fantastic.

David starts with their signature house salad, which is crisp and fresh. Graham ordered the arugula and watermelon salad, which I had as my entrée. I chose the crab and corn bisque which was phenomenal. It could have had a touch more spice, but it was loaded with both of the main items – fresh cooked, creamy white crab meat abounded, as did sweet kernels of corn. I was dismayed at first how large the bowl was and didn’t think I’d finish, but in the end I could have eaten a second bowl out of sheer gluttony.

I asked for the arugula and watermelon salad as my entrée and was very glad I did. A mountain of fresh arugula dressed in balsamic vinaigrette was adorned with baby quenelles of soft goat cheese, perfect cubes of watermelon, a generous garnishment of candied pecans and two slivers of pickled watermelon in a tamarind glaze. It struck a great balance of flavors: the bite of the arugula was tamed by the acidic-sweetness of both the vinaigrette and the tamarind glazed rind; the sugary pecans and juicy watermelon blended well with the tangy goat cheese. The crunch of the pecans also added a complimentary mouth feel to the otherwise soft textures.

Dave ordered the crab cake appetizer as his entrée. The kitchen at One must have a crab factory out back because they are more than generous with their crabmeat. Instead of the usual Maryland style crab cakes which are more often Old Bay and bread crumbs with a nugget of meat, One’s crab cakes were all-lump crab meat held together tenuously with seasonings. It would not be an exaggeration to say they were heavenly clouds of exquisitely spiced crab adorned with a celery and cabbage coleslaw. If you’re ever in New Orleans, go to One and order the crab cakes. You will not be disappointed!

For dessert we shared their flourless chocolate cake, which was divine. Sugary-crisp around the edge and meltingly warm in the middle with a rich chocolate flavor that I imagine comes from a dark cocoa powder, rather than chocolate.

It was a lovely evening with great food and discourse.

The next morning we rose early and did the AAA suggested walking tour of the Garden District. All are privately owned and so we didn’t tour any homes, but we were happy enough to view the breathtaking architecture from the sidewalks. We saw Greek Revival and Gothic homes; the earliest was built in 1838 but most date from 1860-1870.



Also in this neighborhood is Commander’s Palace, a New Orleans culinary institution. Someday I will return to New Orleans and when I do, I will reserve a seat at this bastion of cuisine.



We stopped into the Lafayette cemetery, where the raised marble tombs mirror both the opulence and decay of the surrounding community. Although much has obviously been repaired, the number of stately and historic homes only now undergoing restoration is astounding, as is the number of shuttered and abandoned homes or those for sale. One wonders whether the economy or the memories of Katrina are tempting the owners of these beauties to put them on the block. I suspect it’s somewhere in between for most homeowners.



We managed to sprint the last block to the hotel before the rain came. Fortunately in the thirty minutes it took us to dry off and pack up, the rain was gone and we walked into the FQ and towards Bayona.

Bayona is Susan Spicer’s acclaimed restaurant on Dauphine Street and it is also the place where the ever-lovin’, ever-pimpin’ Chef M hit her stride. During both classes I took with Chef M she would make little comments about life in New Orleans and working the line at Bayona. One of her recipes even made it to the pages of Susan Spicer’s cookbook. After seeing the affection for Bayona and Susan Spicer that radiated from Chef M I knew I couldn’t leave New Orleans without a visit.

Bayona did not disappoint. The dining room is lovely, with high-backed chairs and crisp white linens. Service was modified French, with a very friendly server and commis de suite. Dave again started with the house salad, which came with parmesan shavings and a wonderful variety of lettuces. I ordered the crayfish and cream cheese phyllo as my appetizer. It arrived as an enormous triangle and was stuffed to capacity with crayfish and a curry spiced cream cheese. It was almost too rich, but delectable.

I chose an additional appetizer as my entrée, the goat cheese crostini with sautéed mushrooms. They top seven grain bread with goat cheese and quickly broil it, then top it with mushrooms that have been sautéed until just turning crispy and finished with a light herbed cream sauce. Absolutely delicious.



Dave’s entrée was exceedingly rich but truly amazing: a duck PB&J. Cashew butter and red pepper jelly are spread on grilled seven grain bread and then the sandwich is stuffed with duck meat that has been roasted with the red pepper jelly. It was rich, sweet, creamy and meaty all at once. An inspired menu.

The only thing I didn't like about Bayona was the use of parsley springs as garnish. It's dated and useless. The garnish should reflect something in the dish and provide another interesting component to eat. In a perfect dish, nothing is left on the plate. At Bayona, I'm certain they scrape a lot of parsley springs into the trash.



We decided to skip dessert for I insisted Dave try a beignet before we left the city. So we walked back along the Mississippi towards Washington Artillery Park and stopped at the Café du Monde for beignets and iced coffee. When we arrived a saxophonist was playing jazz on the sidewalk out front and while eating he left and another man began singing gospel, accompanied only by his own two hands clapping out the beat. Two of New Orleans best-known musical styles there for our enjoyment.

I feel fairly certain I could eat for a month in New Orleans and never eat at the same restaurant twice. I have every intention of trying.

The Cousin is blaming his belches on Teddy as we push on for Houston and exit 754 where another La Quinta awaits us.

1,085 miles gone.

I know I’m in Texas when, as soon as we cross the border from Louisiana, we pass a billboard for a local store featuring, “The Right Fashion for Every Woman – a Little Bit Gaudy.”

Land of the Big Hair, we have arrived! Perhaps I should have packed a teasing comb? 

In a state where you go big or you go home, I must admit the sun setting ahead of us completely fills the expansive sky from a stunning palette of rosy pinks and glowing tangerines.

Hi-ho, silver Honda, away! 

Alabama

We are on the outskirts of Opelika when the second rain shower of the day starts. David pointed out the ominously low-lying cloud system ahead of us to which I replied, “FYI, if I see anything “twisty” looking I plan to freak the fuck out.”

The trees alongside the highway, overgrown as they are with invasive kudzu, look like stooped, bearded old men who have been caught in a rain shower and must now drip home.

Heading west we are graced with the sun's presence a bit longer than usual and make our way to Montgomery where we stop for the night at an extremely well-appointed La Quinta Inn.

Alabama, at least what I can see from Interstate 85, is a beautiful state with lush green pastures, creeks and tall trees. Tomorrow we plan on stopping at the Civil Rights Memorial downtown before heading south towards New Orleans.

We end the day's journey with a sip of 1979 Pedro Ximenez Gran Reserva sherry that Mom brought to Charlotte for Easter. We hope to make this a nightly ritual for as long as the bottle lasts.

"Here's to the first night!"

"And safe travels."

"Here's to safe travels."

Driving through Atlanta at 5:57pm was perhaps not the best planning as we dropped our speed precipitously and had to keep a wary eye out for fast braking locals hurrying home from another Monday in the office. Fortunately we were able to hook up with the HOV lane and managed to get back up to a roaring 35 MPH.

We left Charlotte several hours later than we anticipated, with a backseat much fuller than anticipated. I have no idea how we’re going to squeeze Jeff into the car with us once we reach San Francisco, but I have a strange feeling we’ll be buying another packing box and shipping more of my belongings parcel post to Seattle.

As we pass the Atlanta Braves stadium we actually hear the crack of a baseball hitting wood.

254 miles gone.

On our last day in Charleston we decide to check out the Magnolia Plantation and Gardens on our way out of town. It is the oldest continuously run plantation in the country and continues to be owned by the same family. We bought the basic admission ticket which entitled us to walk around the extensive gardens.

I was absolutely amazed by the variety of plantings. We started with a biblical garden with plantings based on plants found in the bible. We wound our way over bridges – some that looked almost Chinese in their bright red glory, others that were distinctly Southern romantic.



The beauty of the swamp invited photography and both Thom and I were snapping happily away.



We were both delighted with the wildlife, including small lizards, birds and giant freaking Cake eating spiders. OK, so I wasn’t so delighted with that last bit of wildlife. In fact, I was rather perturbed walking under their mammoth webs. I am certain that somewhere a Shelob sized spider lurked, just waiting for an opportunity to snatch me up and drain away my life.



Fortunately that didn’t happen and we managed to enjoy the gardens completely before the onslaught of a tropical rainstorm that pummeled South Carolina and made our drive back to Charlotte a little hairy at the start.

Charleston is one of the most charming and lovely cities I have ever been to. I could spend hours strolling aimlessly among the historic downtown neighborhood; traipsing over well-worn cobblestones and reading street signs embedded in the cement sidewalks.

When I was here with Kristen in March it was painfully cold. The wind whipping off the Battery was designed specifically to penetrate collars and send shivers to every limb. This time, in August with Thom, it is so blazing hot and humid I feel as if I shall turn into the Wicked Witch of the West and just melt into the historic streets to become food for the splendid palmettos. The palmettos, they mock me with their breezy tolerance of the dripping humidity.



Thom absolutely outdid himself with his choice of hotel and booked us a gorgeous room at the Charleston Harbor Resort & Marina. The only thing lovelier than our king room was the view from our wrap-around balcony. To the west we had a perfect view of the marina and across the bay – old Charleston. In the evenings we were treated to a blazing sun setting over the yachts. To the south we had a wonderful view of the resort’s private sunning beach and wooden dock.







The first day we ventured out to Isle of Palms beach and had an early dinner overlooking the water at Coconut Joe’s. It wasn’t exactly the “local seafood joint” we were hoping for, but it assuaged our hunger and the view fed our souls.





After a walk on the beach we went back to the hotel and lounged out by the pool for a while before retiring for an early night.

The next day I awoke early and enjoyed a cool, sunny morning on the balcony while eating breakfast. We took an early start and headed into the old downtown. It reminds me of Salem, MA – at least in the sense that it is an historic port city with it’s own particular architecture trapped in time.



We made our way from the visitor’s center down King Street to Broad Street where we stopped in at Gaulart et Maliclet Café for an iced tea and a toasted baguette with butter and Bon Maman blackberry preserves. Our spirits restored (and cooled) we wandered towards the Battery, stopping to enjoy period houses and a little cemetery next to the Episcopal Church. Once at the Battery there was no escaping the relentless sun, however, and the walk back along the bay towards Rainbow Row and downtown saw us both drenched with perspiration. By the time we made it to the South End Brewery for lunch we were both a little worse for wear. We started with the fried green tomato appetizer, which was crisp and salty on the outside and juicy-sweet on the inside. It struck a perfect balance that was set off by the soft goat cheese that accompanied it, but in my opinion, did not require the smoked vegetables that appeared to accompany almost every dish on the menu. Does zucchini really need to be smoked? Grilled, yes. Sautéed, yes. But unless you’ve found an illicit use for it, please don’t smoke the zucchini. My berry salad was delightfully refreshing until I discovered a fly-sized insect in it. But it wasn’t a fly. It appeared to be some kind of snail-like creature. Suffice to say I was finished eating after seeing that! The atmosphere and service were great, but I cannot recommend the South End Brewery in Charleston due to the kitchen issues.

It was simply too hot and humid to live so we made our way back to the car and then to the hotel where Thom enjoyed the pool and I rested in the air conditioned room.

I made reservations at Magnolias for dinner that night. Magnolias is the restaurant that put Charleston cuisine back on the map with their “Uptown/Down South” style of cooking where fried chicken and collards live side by side on the menu with tenderloin and sautéed asparagus.

We started with the pan seared sea scallops in a bacon cream sauce. They came with a bundle of fresh cooked spinach that was smashing with the sauce. I felt the sauce was a little too rich and overpowering for the scallops, however, which were a knockout all on their own.

Thom ordered the Parmesan crusted flounder which came with a mélange of roasted corn, tomato and asparagus over rice with a rich buerre blanc. The dish was near perfect. The fish was crisply coated yet flaky on the inside. The vegetables tasted fresh and simply prepared while the buerre blanc added a nice creaminess to moisten the rice underneath.

My dish was less than stellar. I ordered the special, which I should have known better than to do, since specials are most often a mix of things that need to be moved from the walk-in before they go bad. However, the description really appealed to me: pan-seared South Carolina mahi mahi topped with crab imperial over sautéed peppers and eggplant with Carolina rice and a yellow tomato and goat cheese fondue.  Doesn’t that sound dreamy?

The fish was fantastic, but it was a tiny little baby-sized portion compared to the mountain man mess of rice, vegetables and sauce. The sauce was overpoweringly gloppy on the plate and permeated everything with an overly rich cheese goo. And the crab. The crab was distinctly the crab remoulade mentioned in the description of another dish – definitely not crab imperial. My fish bite should not have tasted of pickles, thankyouverymuch.

Dessert wasn’t much of an improvement. Thom’s black bottom crème brulee was lovely, to be sure, but my peach cobbler was a disaster. The cobbler topping was like undercooked pancake batter and the blueberry ice cream was grainy. I can’t even say for sure it had a crème anglaise base. If so, it was not well prepared nor was it churned properly for it was not ice cream. Perhaps they meant to make a blueberry sorbet, but even so, the lump on the cobbler was grainy, full of ice crystals and actually crumbled apart. I know of no ice cream that “crumbles,” do you? Saving grace? The peaches tasted fresh and were probably local. I picked out the peaches and ate those and left the rest of that hot mess of a dessert.

I was also distressed to see so many under-dressed patrons. Yes, locals and tourists alike know Magnolia. Yes, in these times a business wishes to court business, not send it packing. But really? At an elegant dinner one who is dressed appropriately is rather put out to see tourists in shorts, baseball caps and carrying cameras. This is not Saturday lunch, people. You are only as refined as the clientele you attract.

Based on my meal I also fear the kitchen has grown too big for its britches and is now cutting corners with the misguided notion that no one will notice. I notice. I definitely noticed that the sauces were overdone. That the rice and vegetables were almost three-quarters of the plate and not arranged to best highlight the dish – they seemed to have been plopped into the bowl by a harried line cook who had either been instructed poorly about plating or worse still, instructed by a sous chef or chef who simply didn’t care or doesn’t know any better. I noticed the mayonnaise and pickle flavor of my crab. I noticed that my “ice cream” was full of ice and lacked cream! Unless management does something about both the front of the house and the back of the house soon I believe Magnolia will be quite a faded flower in the Charleston dining scene. Based on Thom’s meal, they are definitely still capable of doing things right and need to really tighten up and focus on those areas so they can save a little face.

There is something to be said for finding a best friend in your romantic partner. Over the years we’ve known each other that pull of friendship has been the constant force between Thom and me.

 

When we broke up in January I wept for missing him – mostly I missed talking to him everyday. It wasn’t like break-ups I had had in the past – there was no betrayal, no “omigod I can’t stand you anymore get away from me right now” kind of feeling. Simply a realization that we each had things we needed to do. Thom was stagnating in Boston and unwilling to change his situation and I was far too excited about my future to look back. It sounds cold, but as much as we loved each other I couldn’t wait for him to figure himself out in order to build a life together. I had waited for over two years and in the meantime I was figuring myself out and knew that my path lay beyond the horizon, not behind it.

 

The first few days were misery. Dave covered for me in class when I was bolted out to cry in the ladies room and later agreed to let me fall apart for one day but that “tomorrow you have to pull it together and cook.” When I showed up at Zebra looking like death the guys on the line left me alone (the kindest thing they could have done) and Spike, the burly sous chef, asked me if I needed him to “take anyone out.” (Every woman needs at least one offer of assassination after a break-up to know that she is supported. But I think Spike really could do it!) Kat listened when I was finally able to talk about him without crying. My friends supported me and they supported Thom. When one of Thom’s aquaintance made a careless remark on Facebook about “too bad or way to go, whichever” Jeff was there with a measured and reasonable response:

 

And I soldiered on without my friend.

 

Until the day that a crazy middle-aged man got a serious case of road rage and followed my car around the South Park Mall parking lot, weaving in and out of traffic to stay up my tail pipe until I managed to pull up in front of two men who stayed with me until Mr. Crazy drove off – but not before threatening my person with bodily harm and numerous choice expletives. I thanked the gentlemen for their chivalry and then pulled into a parking space and burst into tears. I tried calling my father, my brother and my cousin but all were unreachable. So I called Thom. And he talked to me for 20 minutes until I was calm enough to go on about my business.

 

But that got the ball rolling and we started talking again. Suddenly there was no pressure and I, for one, had no qualms telling him exactly how I felt. Over the weeks as we talked I was amazed at the changes in Thom. In his own time and on his own terms he was reaching out across the horizon for his new life as well. Even though he made it clear he wanted to get back together I had no intention of returning to the past. I was happy with our friendship and so very, very proud of the direction Thom was moving in. I continued making my own plans for the future – graduation and co-op and a move out west.

 

So when Thom asked if he could come visit I was nervous. Excited, but nervous. But I wanted to see him, too.

 

And when he asked if he could come back again the next month I had no qualms at all about saying yes. During this second trip I knew. I knew we would never be boyfriend and girlfriend again. I didn’t want to look backwards. But something in me had this strange feeling that he would still become my husband. I always laughed when people would say, ”you just know.” I thought it was a bunch of bullshit. But here I was, and I just knew.

 

So, while visiting Boston recently when Thom asked me to marry him I was able to say, without reservation,

 

“yes.”

Dear Cake Readers,

I am attempting to update the blog although I am still without internet at home. Kindly check for back dated entries as well!

love,
Cake

Last night Rebecca and I ventured up to eeZ Fusion and Sushi in Birkdale Village (Huntersville, NC) to hang out with my former sous chef from the Omni, Rafael, and to check out this sushi place that gets rave reviews.

Now, before I go any further, it should be noted that I, as a rule, don't particularly care for most fish and generally do not go for sushi. So you know the main purpose of my visit was to see Rafael. You may remember how much I respected Raf from my posts here and here. Which, upon re-reading don't go into great detail about my professional relationship with Raf. Suffice to say he made working at the Omni bearable and through the magic of Facebook we managed to re-connect and stay in touch. He's been supportive of my food photos on Facebook. In fact, he gave me an absolutely amazing introduction to the executive chef, Mathew Turney, last night. "Mat, this is [Cake]. She used to work for me at the Omni. You're going to read about her in a magazine someday." 

Rafael really seems to be in his element here. He's happy, bubbly, chatty - I'd never really seen him like this! He's absolutely thrilled with his new position and we were tipped off that eeZ is going to open a second location in SouthPark in between The Counter and M5. Mat is going to take on the role of Regional Head Chef and Raf is going to be promoted to Executive Chef of the Huntersville location. Combined with his upcoming wedding in September, I'd say everything is coming up roses for Raf and it's about damn time.

But I suppose you really want to know about the food...

We started with the crab and avocado rolls which were good, but a little heavy for a hot day. They are wonton wrappers filled with their crab cake mix and avocado and then deep fried and served with cilantro-cashew pesto. Tasty but the deep fried thing wasn't on the money considering we were sitting outside in 80+ degree weather. Next we tried the vegetarian sushi roll which was avocado, cucumber and asparagus (three of my favorite things) in sushi rice and nori. I really don't care for nori, but this was good. I also ordered the soy vegan roll which was perfect and amazing for my palette: cucumber, gobo root, mango, beets and greens wrapped in rice and soy paper. No raw fish. No nori. Fresh vegetables and a juicy bite of fruit. Perfect. Chef Mat sent us out their Doug's Filet Roll which is named after a regular customer from Philadelphia. Imagine a sushi roll of crab, avocado and cream cheese topped with rare slices of filet mignon, a spicy aioli and scallions. It was amazing. The filet was perfect. Rebecca ordered a shrimp appetizer as well as a salmon-tuna cucumber roll and walu-walu sashimi. I didn't try any of those but she said they were "the best" she's had "in Charlotte." Since she can be a rather hard critic I'd say that's a ringing endorsement for anyone in the Charlotte area to head up to eeZ! The martinis were only $5 on Tuesday night so we each ordered two during our meal.

The biggest surprise of the evening came when we asked for our bill and were told that the chef had comped our check. We were stunned, flattered and quite speechless. I mean, I thought maybe the filet roll would be comped since he brought it out to us, but he truly went above and beyond the call of being a gnetleman-chef and completely made our night. Of course we took good care of our server, Jess, who had been a doll but really - I was stunned.

But then again, everybody loves Cake.

During the summer of 1997 I went to Italy for the first time. I studied Italian at the Centro Fiorenza language school where I made friends with a Japanese woman (whose name unfortunately escapes me at the moment). She was, however, absolutely adorable when she wanted a sweet and would simply say, "ge-lah-toe" to me, enlongating her pronunciation of "gelato." Being that I have an insane sweet tooth, this was all the encouragement I needed to accompany her to the gelateria for a cold, creamy scoop of heaven.

That wasn't my first taste of gelato. My first taste came at Capo Nord gelateria in Bologna with Vittorio Pompignoli, my friend Maximo's father. I was staying with them in their apartment for a few days before continuing on to Florence and school. I vividly remember standing silently in this gelateria, taking in all the colors and words and trying hard to pronounce "stracciatella" by parroting Vittorio and thinking it was an unneccessarily long way of saying "chocolate chip." Of course, the word has become one of my favorites to say and even now, I am sitting in the library silently saying "stra-cia-tel-la" to myself. (Rest in peace, Vittorio).

Years later Claudio and I went on a quest to find the best gelato in Bologna by visiting a different shop every day, sometimes twice a day, for a week. I discovered that I actually can have a favorite gelateria (no, they're not all fantastic) and that gelato for a week straight will cause me to gain five pounds. Dammit! My two favorites turned out to be Da Gianni's, which has since gone out of business, and Gelatauro on via San Vitale, which is an artisanal shop with flavors evocative of Sicily and Bologna.

Imagine my pleasure, nay, joy! to discover that the North American headquarters for Pre Gel is right here in North Carolina. In Concord, no less, only 25 minutes away from my apartment. And then to discover that they offer free (free!) classes in gelato-making! Sign me up!

I was so excited for my first class at Pre Gel. The company's headquarters are gorgeous. Modern, white building with lots of glass accents and open light areas. Walking inside you feel you've just stepped into a Los Angeles movie set. People don't actually go to work in buildings like this in lil' ol NC, do they?

I understood that nothing is really free so I wasn't all that bothered to sit through a 2 hour sales pitch. After all, Pre Gel wants you to go out and use their products in your gelateria. I can't really blame them for taking advantage of this captive audience. I was, however, disappointed that the saleswoman couldn't really answer all of our questions adequately (she wasn't up to snuff on her ingredients, nutrition, chemicals, etc) and, since we started late, I was itching to get on to the good stuff - the gelato!

What a disappointment! This was nothing I could replicate at home at all. This was adding milk to Pre Gel gelato powdered base and Pre Gel gelato flavorings and dropping it in a machine and then oooh extracting it. It was kind of cool making the mounds of gelato look like I remembered in Italy and adding various designs and toppings but knowing that I couldn't make this product at home with real ingredients was killing my enthusiasm for anything else.

I had to leave early in order to head back to Charlotte and go to work. And I didn't bother to set my alarm to get up for day two on Sunday. I think I'm just going to have to finally translate the gelato book that Claudio gave my mother 10 years ago and make my own damn gelato.

Dear Loyal Cake Readers,

My internet access has been down for over two weeks. I will update as soon as possible.

Thanks so much for checking in with me!

Love,
Cake

Through the connection with Poplar Ridge Farm I was able to outsource myself as a free sous chef for the evening of June 10^th and had the fantastic opportunity to cook with Luca Annunziata, chef and owner of Passion 8 Bistro in Fort Mill, SC.

 

I find the farm’s owner to be less than helpful in communicating information so aside from the date and an approximate time I really had no idea what would be on the menu for the evening. So when I arrived at the farm kitchen well before the chef arrived I did what I thought best for prep and began washing lettuce and trimming carrots. Unfortunately once Chef Luca arrived I was informed that we would be using neither carrots nor lettuce. Oh well. An hour’s prep down the drain. What followed proved to be one of the most exhilarating nights of cooking I’ve ever had.

 

Chef and I spoke mostly in Italian, further fueling my brain as I occasionally scrambled to find a word but my college Italian teacher (and my father, who has been beyond supportive of my studies abroad) will be gratified to know that I easily comprehended 95% or more of what Chef Luca said to me (until he got too comfortable with my Italian and started speaking in his regional dialect – then I had to ask for a translation!).

 

Chef Luca had designed a tasting menu which was incredible: we started with savory cheese stuffed zucchini blossoms dipped in tempura batter, deep-fried and served with a pureed beet and cream sauce. Under the chef’s verbal guidance I made this dish myself start to finish. I was tremendously excited to prepare the zucchini blossom fritters as I had only ever seen or eaten this dish in Italy and was excited to prepare it myself.

 

The second course was fresh pasta made by Chef Luca in a zucchini-olive oil sauce. This was very tasty as well but nothing compared to the third course: pan-seared chicken with a mushroom-thyme cream sauce. Or, as I said to Chef Luca, “cibo da Dio” – God’s food.

 

The fourth and final course was pan-seared mahi mahi served over arugula and radishes in a honey-lemon vinaigrette. Chef gave me a great compliment and said that I got an “ottima cottura” on the fish (optimum cooking).

 

I was on such an adrenaline rush running around this tiny and hot kitchen with this incredible chef that when he told me to add more lemon juice to a dish I dug my thumbs in and ripped the lemon apart with my hands.

 

It was an ottima serata con lo chef.

Longtime Cake readers as well as those who know me personally will recall that Thomas and I had a long relationship, marked by mutual respect and affection, but ultimately decided on different life paths and split up in January. We couldn't help but continue our friendship, however and over the last four months have grown closer. It was with both excitement and trepidation then that I welcomed him to Charlotte on June 5th for a ten day vacation.

This is simply to inform the reader that he was my travelling companion as I finally journeyed into North Carolina's very own AVA - Yadkin Valley.

AVA stands for American Viticultural Area and denotes a designated location that is recognized for having specific geographic and climate features that render it suitable for wine growing. (This is an over simplification of the term. Read more about it here.) I had heard about Raffaldini vineyards from several people since arriving in Charlotte and so that was our first destination.

Once we arrived in Yadkin Valley I was, of course, struck by the rolling hillsides so reminiscent of Napa and Europe. "This bodes well," I thought as we travelled on the country roads to the Raffaldini vineyard. The villa is spectacular. A perfect recreation of an Italian villa graces the top of a hill with a sprawling view of the vineyards, gardens and valley below. I was practically giddy as we meandered through the garden to the main entrance of the tasting room - taking in a stunning early June day with bold blue skies, warm breezes and perfect sunshine highlighting the bees as they travelled from flower to flower in the garden.

Unfortunately the wines themselves were nothing to write home about.

I mean that literally. It's not worth writing about them. We tasted about 6 wines and found them to be drinkable, but certainly nothing interesting, new or of particular note. The best thing about Raffaldini is the designated area for those who bring their own picnic. Pack a lunch and take in the view. That's really the best suggestion I can offer.

We planned to head up to Valle Crucis to visit the Dohertys, and since it was Sunday we knew we didn't have much time to spend trolling vineyards, but we did decide last minute to stop a little ways down the road at Laurel Gray vineyards. A charming wooden roadside house stood for the tasting room. What Laurel Gray lacked in pomp and flair it more than made up in wine making! To be fair, Yadkin Valley is a far cry from the vineyards of France, Italy and California, but compared to our experience of the showy but lacking substance Raffaldini, Laurel Gray was a gem in the rough. Both Thom and I were quite taken with their Chardonnay, which wasn't overpowered by oak as so many California chardonnays are but was mellow and buttery while retaining pleasant fruttiness. We also particularly enjoyed the Estate Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon and also their chocolate-cabernet sauce which we enjoyed over strawberries once we were back in Charlotte a few days later.

I can't wait to make another trip to Yadkin Valley to return to Laurel Gray and also to try a few more wineries in North Carolina's own AVA.

On Wednesday June 3rd I was invited by Sandra to join her and some friends for dinner at Bentley's on 27 the next night. Sandra made it clear that her friend would be picking up the tab and so there was absolutely no way I could say no.

Bentley's is one of the best restaurants in Charlotte. I had read about it months ago. Wondered if there would be any way I could afford to maybe have an appetizer and a drink at the bar (since the entrees are well out of my budget) but hadn't yet made it up there. So yes, I was in!
The day started around noon at Sandra's apartment. We had marketing and promotional work to do for the bar so we ran around all morning getting that done. We had to check on the suite that Sandra had booked for her friend at The Omni. We had to pick up two of her friends at the airport. Two friends who were coming in to entertain Steve - the guy paying for the whole evening.

Wait. Hold it. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? 

As Inigo Montoya might say, "le me 'splain. No, there is too much. Le me sum up." 

Steve is Sandra's former (married) boyfriend/sugar daddy. Her friends are two women she met while working at a strip club in Miami. They were there to entertain Steve for the night. As well as his friend Eddie, who was flying down from Pittsburgh for the night. I figured there were going to be few other evenings when I have dinner with Moneybags 1 and 2, strippers and former mistresses (and her current boyfriend!) so why the hell not?

Sandra and I changed at her apartment and went to meet up with Steve, Eddie & the girls at The Omni. We soon headed over to Bentley's and started with drinks at the bar - a bottle of Cristal. I chatted with Eddie and Pat (Sandra's boyfriend - also a chef) about Pat's new job and Eddie's business (hospitality insurance). If my evening was going to spent talking about food while eating good food I was happy.

The restaurant is on the 27th floor (as the name implies) and unfortunately it was a rainy evening, otherwise we would have had a great view of Charlotte. Reminded me of the Bay Tower Room and Top of the Hub in Boston.

Upon the suggestion of our waiter, Jeff, I ordered the Belgian Endive salad. Eddie not only took a shine to me (before the night was over it was clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could have a married sugar daddy if I so desired) but also to my dinner and ate most of my salad! I wasn't too worried since the salad, although fresh and quite good was nothing I hadn't had before and can easily replicate at home. I was eager for my main event: the Plaza Salmon.

In between courses Eddie disappeared and one of the girls decided to play the restaurant's piano. When I left to go to the ladies room I found Eddie at the bar with Roxanne, an employee of the restaurant whose exact title I'm unsure of - more than hostess less than sommelier. An assistant manager? I don't know. What I do know is that they were sipping on a bottle of 2004 Whitehall Lane Silver Anniversary Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon. I will not do this wine justice to attempt to describe it. Suffice to say I am very glad I stopped to the ladies room at that moment and was able to enjoy a glass of wine. I only hope to have another glass at some time!

By the time I came back my entree was waiting. This was an excellent dish and reminded me of the Beacon Hill Bistro's salmon dish with lentils. The micro greens on the dish at Bentley's were superb and I asked Jeff to ask the chef where they were sourced from. He did me one better and brought the executive chef out to talk to me! Martin Heller, the executive chef, was extremely gracious and answered my questions. In addition he gave me his card along with the tag from the micro green mix stuck on the back. (For the record, the greens were sourced from Tega Hills Farm in Fort Mill, SC).

Unfortunately Eddie was also chomping away on my salmon and so I ended up leaving the restaurant rather hungry. But I wasn't nearly as tipsy as I thought I would be after Cristal, Whitehall Lane cab sav and - an experience I doubt will be recreated in my life - a glass of Dom Perignon OEnotheque 1995 - which was accompanied by a wonderful story of the wine's origins by the restaurant owner, Jim Emad. (I guess when you're buying several bottles of $300+ champagne the owner comes to your table).

We ended the evening by going to Crave and popping a few more bottles of champagne. When the sugar daddies and the girls left to go back to The Omni I declined - having had the foresight to leave my car at Crave so I could get myself home.

Definitely an interesting evening.

I picked up Thom at the airport this morning and was decidedly hungry since I hadn't actually gotten to eat all my dinner the night before and I skipped breakfast to sleep in. Fortunately, the entire Uptown Charlotte area cooperated by hosting Taste of Charlotte!

This is exactly what it sounds like: a whole bunch of Charlotte restaurants have booths and you can purchase small tastes of what they have to offer along with the usual t-shirt vendors and trinket hawkers. Tryon Street was basically closed down so after purchasing a vast quantity of tokens Thom and I walked up and down to check out the scene and decide which vendors to hit.

My absolute favorite was the pineapple-strawberry smoothie from Planet Smoothie. I was never into the whole smoothie craze - in fact I find the word smoothie weird. Say it. Smooooothie. Like you've got peanut butter on your tongue and you're trying to scrap it off. Mmm... peanut butter.

In any event, it was a damn fine smoothie and a fantastic way to cool off from the blazing June sun. We also tried the Soul Roll from Mert's Heart & Soul which was collards and beans in an egg roll and fried. We picked up some chicken tikka masala from Woodland's (awesome, awesome Indian food) and split an ice cream from Cold Stone Creamery.

Overall I like the idea, but there definitely should have been more freebies and cooking demos and all in all it just could have been better and less expensive.

Although, we did go back the next day to use up the last of the tokens on another smoothie!

Perfect happiness for me would be eternal summer where the Provencal blue sky is punctuated by spun sugar clouds and the warm breeze surprises the happy stillness like walking past a bakery door at 5 am by wafting in the briny scent of the ocean. Where every day is like the first trascendent day of vacation at the Outer Banks at the end of May, Cape Cod or the Hamptons in late June, when you just know the angels must adore you for they blanket you in a calm, serene knowledge that there can be no evil in a day such as this, no turmoil in a world of such organic wonder.

Perfect happiness for me would be strolling with an equally enthusiastic companion to the local Farmer's Market each breathtaking morning of this sweet, eternal summer and seeing the heaping mounds of fresh fruits and vegetables awaiting my culinary alchemy. On the return home there would be speciality purveyors to visit - a taste of creamy chevre from the cheese seller to add to the basket; sweet balsamic vinegar imported from Italy - tangy elixer of life, to drop heavily into the bag; and the morning wouldn't be complete without a treat - a croissant from a friendly local patissier, a truffle to savor from a devoted chocolatier, a sweet cold ice cream cone melting on my tongue before it melts down my hand...

Perfect happiness for me would be cooking for loved ones, stories and banter filling the air as corks ease out of wine bottles and the sun sets, bringing in a comfortable cool of evening. Platters of delicious, local, lovingly prepared food grace the table in a way that no architecturally constructed haute cuisine porcelain plate can. Instead of spotless white linen I will lay out favorite colorful cloths, worn in spots from elbows leaning long on the table as friends linger into the night.

When I think of this perfect happiness I want to smile, laugh and cry with joy at the thought of doing what I love best for those whom I love best. Knowing they are far away (and I do not live near the beach, in any case) makes me want to weep with loneliness.

Yes, we're happy in my... blue heaven...

I had tremendously high hopes for this class - my very last ever cooking class at The School (my very, very last class being Advanced Dining Room) - and was sorely disappointed by both the instructor and the little I feel I learned.

I tend to be a fair person and able to say honestly when I am not making an effort versus having a challenging instructor. I like challenge. My favorite elementary school teacher was the stern yet loving Ms. Shields who expected our best and challenged us ten year olds to think beyond ourselves. I admired Ms. Flaherty in middle school - the "dragon lady" whose critical eye was borne out in her severe appearance. I adored Dr. Fischer whose sophomore year history class not only brought my best friend into my life but whose demanding course taught me study habits and scholarship. Gabriel and I still joke, 17 years later (Gaby, we're gettin' old!), about Petrach and Plutarch and our weekend study sessions.

But some people, cannot teach. Chef B, Chef "Chock Full o'Nuts", is one of them. Her lectures were like playing Boggle with my grandmother, who never could understand that the letters had to be *touching* one another to make a word, bless her heart. Or, if you prefer, it was like being lectured by a serial killer - where the thought process only made sense to her.

A common instruction would be, "so you take the thing and you heat it up and do a process and then you have sugar decorations. Get it?"

No, no I don't get it. USE NOUNS!!!

She yelled constantly. And it always seemed I was standing right next to her when her mouth would open and the truck horn would blow. Ouch. She wanted no talking. No laughing. And heaven forbid you sang or whistled or enjoyed yourself while you were working.

"THERE'S TOO MUCH NOISE IN HERE!!!!!!!!!!!" was heard frequently throughout the day. Yeah, newsflash Chef, if you STOPPED YELLING THERE'D BE LESS NOISE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We were expected to clean her personal items. That she used. Over the weekend. For a competition.

Kiss mah grits, honey.

I have no problem cleaning the lab. I have no problem with a chef being "white glove" about it and wanting it done to pristine, glowing perfection. But there's a reason we all have our own knives. Because we clean them ourselves.

Or, as we used to say in crew, "row your own ass down the river."

Nonetheless, Kyle and I did produce some swanky desserts, our little two person team producing the same quantity of work as three and four person teams. They were:

Chocolate mousse with tuile garnish, pineapple-clementine sauce and fresh pineapple.



(We were required to have a fine line of chocolate, a whipped cream rosette and a "crunch factor" on every plate).

Fruit tart of berries and sauteed apples over pastry cream with a sugar cage, raspberry sauce and walnut lace cookie.



Raspberry Bavarian with tuile curl, pistachio garnish and raspberry sauce. The raspberry on top is painted with gold leaf. This was my favorite plate.



Apple strudel with walnuts and raisins with a walnut lace cup with cardamom ice cream topped with fresh thyme, white chocolate and caramel sauce and candied walnuts.



And finally, Grand Marinier souffle with dark chocolate orange sauce in a white chocolate cup with candied orange peel garnish.



Unfortunately the photo was taken long after the dessert would have been served under normal circumstances and it had fallen.

I will leave you with a fun recipe:

Candied Citrus Peel

Remove peel from citrus fruit, taking care to remove all pith (the white part). Cut into desired length and width. Blanch in boiling water, shock in ice water. Do this three times. Boil in simple syrup (equal parts sugar and water) and lay on a sheet tray (a silpat or parchment paper will help you remove it later) and let dry in a low oven (around 200) for 30+ minutes. Alternately, if you've been baking all day, put in turned off oven and leave overnight. And voila' - candied peel.

As I'm starting to get my name out there, I want to establish a name I can use now and in the future for my freelance work. I'm looking for suggestions...

with only one caveat... PLEASE don't use my name in any suggestions. Please email those to me at my regular email address.

I'm usually full of ideas, but on this - I'm stumped!

I am thinking of using a brussel sprout as my logo however...