Virginia is for food lovers

There are many things that might draw visitors toward western Virginia's food culture. I know I've mentioned Joel Salatin's famous operation (though my timing didn't align with any of the regular public tours of the famous pasture-raised meat farm in Swoope). I've written already about the amazing market development work that Appalachian Sustainable Development has been doing with farmers around Abingdon. I believe I've mentioned that Meadowview is something of a mecca for literary locavores due to Barbara Kingsolver's residence there. (Heck, the possibility of breathing some of the same air molecules as one of my all-time favorite authors would've been enough to draw me to the area.) I'd heard of the nonfiction account of her family's year of eating locally *before* the book was on Oprah, thank you, but it was only more recently that I learned of the dining establishment her husband helped start up in town. I am happy to report that while I didn't run into Ms. Kingsolver or her husband, co-author Steven Hopp, I did have a chance to experience one of their great gustatory legacies in the area. Twice.

My first night in town, Richard and Kathy treated me to dinner at The Harvest Table. As we nursed our beers on the patio and awaited our dinner plates at the almost exclusively locally sourced restaurant, I pored over the back of the menu. A number of farm names were printed with short descriptions and a listing of the ingredients contributed by each. Some of these very same farmers sold their wares at the market I'd been to earlier that day in Abingdon. I'd even met some of them! Talk about "know your farmer, know your food." I imagine I'm not the first tourist (or local) to seek out specific farms directly for ingredients after enjoying them as part of a meal here. It wasn't just one or two items on the menu, it was the whole thing. The restaurant, linked to the Meadowview Farmers' Guild, meant to show direct links between food, farmers, and eaters. They're playing my song.

The meal was darn good and I would have lingered much longer, but since it was the last shift before the place would close for the holiday weekend I didn't have much of an opportunity to badger... I mean chat with... the chef. While friendly enough, the staffmembers were clearly ready for the 4th of July weekend and ushered us out with a complimentary slice of chocolate cake and bottle of white wine. But my curiosity was far from sated.

Conveniently, the restaurant was open once again the following Tuesday afternoon, so of course Mike and I stopped in for lunch before heading out of town. (Yes, this was pure altruism on my part. I mean, it would be unfair for Mike not to experience food this good after he'd traveled all the way from DC for the weekend.) This time we sat at the bar overlooking the kitchen. As fate would have it, Chef Philip happened to overhear the two of us discussing the difference between heavy cream and whipping cream and struck up a conversation. Over the course of the next hour or so, Philip shared his views on the importance of direct relationships with farmers, a reconnection with seasonal eating, and the challenges of both. He openly admitted that the coffee and lemons and olive oil couldn't be locally sourced -- hey, I'm no purist, either, with these items -- but insisted that ingredients be purchased from local producers as much as possible. Sometimes working with smaller growers presents unique challenges when one is trying to supply a restaurant doing decent business, I learned. One has to be flexible. "I mean, some of these are older generation farmers," Philip shrugged. "They don't have computerized invoices, they don't know the exact number of blackberries in a pint. They grow the food -- good food -- and I do my best to make it work." And boy does he. I'm telling you, the lamb burrito was stellar, and the berry cobbler we gobbled for dessert nearly brought tears to my eyes. (That one's for you, dad.) Actually, I felt a bit sheepish leaving a cookmark with Philip -- I think he may have outdone my perfect tart crust. I'll have to try that berry cobbler again some day. You know, just to be sure.

Too soon, it seemed, Mike and I had to hit the road for Charlottesville -- he had kindly offered to give Ollie and me a lift on his way back toward DC -- but we left The Harvest Table with full bellies and happy hearts, knowing that our food dollars were supporting sustainability-minded farmers and a restaurant that helps to celebrate their everchanging seasonal bounty. Come to think of it, I think this state's tourism department is going to have to modify its tagline: Virginia is for *sustainable food* lovers.

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Under the radar

I'd first heard of Art of the Table from my friend Rei on Monday afternoon. After poking around the restaurant's website, I was pretty excited about the small venue with a reputation for seasonal cooking and decided to brave the hills and rain that night to make the trek out to Wallingford to check the place out for myself. I mean, what are the chances that I should come across *another* deeply passionate local food devotee? (It is Seattle, considered one of the best cities for delicious, sustainably-produced food in the country, but even so there are very few eateries committed to exclusively local, seasonal sources.)

After some navigational mishaps -- a few wrong turns and a route that took me up what must be the most gigantic hill in the city (I don't know why I have any faith at all in the "bike" setting on the GPS, considering its track record, but I keep hoping) -- Ollie and I made it there. Not only that, but I had the good fortune to snag one of two seats at the kitchen window and treated myself to a glass of wine and a small plate (okay, two: I couldn't decide between the crepe and the flan, and even now I doubt I could choose between them) while I watched the two chefs at work. They moved about the small space effortlessly, gracefully, almost silently, as if they were two hands rather than two people, and as I nibbled I couldn't quite bring myself to interrupt the flow with a jarring, "So tell me, where did you find these amazing huckleberries?" or "Now, how exactly do you design the weekly menus?" I left with a happy tummy but a lot of unasked questions. Well, that wouldn't do.

The next day, I called to see if Dustin, the head chef, might be amenable to chatting with me a bit about his food philosophy and his connections with local producers. I got the voicemail and blathered on for entirely too long, and yet a day or two later he called back and nonchalantly invited me to drop by during Saturday's dinner prep. So I did.

I spent the better part of the afternoon entranced as Art of the Table's dynamic trio prepared for the evening meal. I'm not sure they knew quite what to make of me, perched on a stool by the sink, half the time simply transfixed by the smooth precision of the two men moving about the kitchen while Laurie got the dining space in order. When I wasn't rendered speechless watching Phil pat each individual squash ravioli into shape or Dustin meticulously remove tiny bones from a salmon fillet or check the marinating veal cheeks for the evening's supper club, I managed to learn a bit about the tenets behind the food. Dustin's training in the French culinary arts may explain his expertise combining flavors and textures -- and the food is truly exceptional -- but what I admire most about the quietly intense culinary artist is his fanatical adherence to using only local, sustainable ingredients. The evening meals he and Phil painstakingly prepare are all made from scratch and sourced within the state. (Except for beef, he admitted, which sometimes comes from as far away as... Oregon. Oregon! Whose border is a day's bike ride away!) He spends hours each week scouring the farmers' markets, even on his days off, and has built strong relationships with local producers of everything from salmon to bacon to chocolate. Dustin's the real deal, a locavore in the strictest sense (although my guess is he'd probably never use such a trendy term to describe himself).

His outlook on the culture surrounding food is imbued with European sensibilities, and it's something, he proposed, that has been largely lost in our modern American lives. Food appreciation is experiencing a revival a few evenings a week here, though. I learned from Laurie, who manages the restaurant's logistical details, that folks making reservations for one of the supper club dinners rarely know ahead of time what will be on the menu. They simply know the theme -- this week it was "Italy" -- and trust that the chef will delight them with local, seasonal inventions. And he does. (While I didn't stay for the dinner -- unfortunately it was not quite within the current ABF budget -- I did take a look at the final menu and will likely be dreaming about it for some time.)

Like Anne Catherine, the local food aficionado whom I'd spoken with earlier in the week, Dustin hadn't moved to Seattle with a plan to open a restaurant. After years of cooking on ships and working as a private chef, he'd been looking to do some catering. He came across the restaurant space and got to thinking and, well, the rest, as they say, is history. "I could do this for the next 20 years," Dustin told me, matter-of-factly. "Here, I focus on the food," he asserted, unabashed. "I don't advertise. People find me through word of mouth. They know what I'm about and they come here because of it. They appreciate it. I'd like to keep it that way. I'd rather be under the radar." A renegade foodie. I like it.

Always in season

A few days after my arrival in Seattle, Pam treated me to Sunday brunch at one of her favorite neighborhood haunts, A Caprice Kitchen. We enjoyed a fabulous meal, but I was enamored with more than just the charming ambiance and the inventive vittles. When I turned over the menu, there was a note from the chef stating her commitment to seasonal, local foods and a listing of each ingredient next to the farm, bakery, or dairy it came from. A woman after my own heart. I had to know more. I left a cookmark with our waitress and was just elated when chef Anne Catherine called to invite me for a chat.

Ollie and I returned on Tuesday morning as Anne was getting things set up to accept deliveries from a number of local farms. Unpretentious and welcoming, she offered me a seat and a glass of local cider and in between periodically signing for deliveries shared a bit about how she came to run this small, all-local (with the exception of perhaps the salt and breakfast tea) eatery. Her background in cooking comes from a lifelong passion for food, years of working on ships as a chef, later attending the highly-esteemed Le Cordon Bleu cooking institute. She hadn't intended to open a restaurant when she came to Seattle, she admitted, but was looking for a space with a commercial kitchen to teach cooking classes and host regular, seasonal group meals. It just kind of happened.

As we continued talking, I admitted to my fascination with the direct link between the kitchen and local producers. I had even sought out a few of the farms listed on the menu at the Ballard farmers' market after leaving the restaurant, and a few of the vendors mentioned that some of their customers had discovered the products via Anne's menus. (She seemed genuinely excited to hear this.) When I asked how she selected producers, I learned that the locavore had established relationships with growers at the farmers' markets over many months, first doing her personal shopping there and then later sourcing ingredients for the professional kitchen. Because of her fierce devotion to local ingredients -- "Why would I use blood oranges from California when apples and pears are in season right here?" -- she's developing a reputation among local producers who are now seeking her out to feature their local veggies, wines, and more. While she tries out a new supplier now and then, Anne's loyalty to the farms who supply her all year long are the backbone of her operation. As these partnerships have flourished, she strives to work with what the farms have available. Because of her steady support farmers often ask if there's anything she would like them to grow. "No," she insists, "Grow what you want and I will cook it." Much like CSA members are given a box of "whatever the farm has" each week, the Caprice Kitchen may well be the truest iteration of an RSA I have encountered.

Chef Anne Catherine may be one of the few people I have met in my life who loves food as much as I do -- she relishes opportunities to experiment with fresh ingredients, cook up a storm, and share it with people. Even on her rare days off she can be found foraging for wild mushrooms or visiting farms. (She had just gone searching for chantrelles the day before I stopped in. Oh, if only I had known I would have tried to talk her into taking me along: I'm dying to go mushrooming!) The business, even now as the restaurant is about to celebrate its one-year anniversary on Thanksgiving, is more about reconnecting people with delicious, in-season food and supporting local growers than turning a profit. (The operation does make enough to cover its costs, so I'm hopeful it will be around for a long time.) I would be lying if I didn't confess that a small part of me kind of wants to linger in Seattle a bit longer to see what will be on the menu next week....

Farm to four-top

I've been hearing about CSAs -- Community Supported Agriculture -- for quite some time. Some years ago I recall my friend Yochi and I sitting on his living room floor discussing whether or not it made sense for us to split a CSA share from one of the few options in the DC area. (This was years before the Washington Post published a convenient list of CSAs in the area and back when I had a refrigerator. Ah, memories.) These days there are thousands of CSAs all around the country. It's exciting to see individuals, couples, groups of friends, and families making the decision to directly support their local farms by purchasing a share. But how about larger buyers like restaurants, that could really help boost the local farm economy by guaranteeing a market for small producers? Is it even possible to run an eatery that entirely (or even mostly) sources its ingredients locally? Well, it turns out the answer is yes. Enter, the RSA -- Restaurant Supported Agriculture.

In Chicago, I remember chatting with Derrick, of the scrumptious Lula Cafe, and learning of periodic chef visits to local farms, including the urban City Farm, and regular scouring of the city's many farmers' markets for seasonal ingredients. But the first time I heard the term "RSA" was when I was up to my elbows in bike grease from changing a flat tire and happened to walk into Julie's office where she was meeting with chef and local food advocate Dave Swanson in Milwaukee. The two were in the middle of a meeting (and, as I said, I was covered in grease) so I didn't chat for long, but the brief explanation I got from Dave was enough to inspire me to learn more about the farm-to-restaurant connection. The Milwaukee-based program fosters connections between farmers and chefs, and Dave helps interested restaurants work out the financial and logistical pieces of the puzzle. But there are also a growing number of bistrots who are independently working to source their food locally. As I've made my way westward, when I am fortunate enough to find a place that isn't too cost prohibitive for me to splurge on a meal (or, on occasion, be treated to one), I've been doing my best to learn how innovative restauranteurs connect with local growers. There are some common challenges among restaurants, but also viable models for success. In coming posts, I'll be looking into some of the innovative farm-to-table connections I've discovered along the way....