Tag: Duluth

Mysteries In Plain View

I’d never peg my mom as the “foodie” type: She starts each day with a Diet Coke, munches popcorn for dinner when my dad’s out of town, and thinks nothing of eating at the same few restaurants whenever she goes out.

It was, therefore, with great skepticism and surprise that tonight I found myself enjoying the second of her restaurant recommendations since my return: Park Café in my hometown of Duluth, Georgia.

We were nothing but an old Southern pre-Civil-War town when I grew up, almost a hick-town, dotted with farm lands amidst thick woods of pine; a sleepy little town with elementary, middle and high schools within a few short miles of one another. And, in the midst of “downtown” Duluth: Parson’s Gift Shop, Ace Hardware Store, Ted’s Fruit Stand and the railroad track running straight through, from which the late-night trains’ blaring horns sang all the way to my bedroom window, a mile away.

The library where I once researched the anatomy of flowers is now a consignment furniture store, and in the pretty white house across the street – one I always knew to be historic but never knew why – a Canadian chef runs Park Café.

This summer, the wide wrap-around porch of the old Knox House will surely be glorious with overhanging arbors and pristine views of vast green lawns in the new town square. But this cool Southern winter eve was at least as enchanting from the moment my companion and I walked up the cobblestone path to the whitewashed stairs lit by oil lamps and into the fairy-lit foyer acting as bar and hostess station.

It’s hard to tell quite how deep this house goes; harder still to know the number of tables within, from this vantage; and the usual din of conversing couples is equally obscured. So, arriving early for our reservation – which we found from a previous lunch attempt absolutely necessary – forced us to enjoy the quiet solitude of Old Duluth from high stools at the marbled bar while the owner-turned-bartender suggested glasses of wine, shared easily in our love of sports cars, and conversed with the regulars who followed us in.

With no organic wine in the house (which they used to carry, but patrons wouldn’t buy – “It is Duluth,” I conceded), our host offered me tastings of his Old-World wines, uncorked a bottle of 2010 Calina Carménère and2010 Calina Carmenere poured. I was impressed: this is clearly a small place and might not go through much wine-by-the-glass, yet he pulled out the bottle without a thought.

The nose was ripe, full, sharply-fresh and resplendent of cherries, blueberries, blackberries. I was unsure of my tolerance for this wine, at first scent, its bite catching in my sinuses; but the acidity lingered more on my palate than grating my throat, and I knew this wine would do.

We ordered the bottle.

The tiny front dining room sat only twenty-two at its six linen-covered tables and we enjoyed a four-top by the door, near a small, original closet that wouldn’t quite stay shut. “I love re-purposed old houses,” my companion remarked, and I agreed, appreciating the painted, wooden-slatted walls, richly re-finished hardwood floors and the obviously original setting of the window.

We turned our attention to the single-sided menu, offering plenty of choices for my pescetarian palate and plenty more for carnivores. We opted quickly for the house-specialty, Fried Green Tomatoes with warm brie and candied pecans, drizzled with bacon-balsamic emulsion.

Bacon-!? You may wonder at this breach from pescetarianism, but my diet is neither fixed-in-stone nor ideologically-based, thank goodness.

The appetizer was simply addictive:

A stack of five, crispy, piping-hot and deliciously underripe tomatoes were layered intermittently with brie and smothered with a rich, sweetly-sour, reddish-brown sauce. It lasted only as long as it did because we’d both scalded our palates on the first bites, yet we continued rapturously. Sips of red wine managed the temperature; but I, for one, wanted nothing to distract my palate from the remarkable contrasts of crunchy-tender, breaded tomato and the sweetly tart medley of tomato-balsamic-and-candied pecans.

It was over before I knew it. I could have eaten an entire plate on my own – or two plates, even. But the meal had only just begun.

The mains came: potato horseradish salmon with braised spinach and my very full plate of sweet corn risotto with a generous filet of tilapia bedecked with shrimp beurre blanc.

Tilapia with Sweet Corn Risotto and Shrimp Burre BlancWe ate, sharing tales of sailing Southern seas and shrimp-and-fish feasts of yore. The mellow, white tilapia melded so well with the creamy corn risotto; and the crisp, pan-fried crust gave just the right contrast, every bite-or-so, as to hold me spellbound by its delicate flavors. I willed a conscious effort to tear me from my reveries and back to my friend’s words.

The night so far was bliss; and, had we not spoken a word to one another through the sumptuous meal, I’d have been just as pleased.

Pouring wine between us, I relinquished this entrée; it was an enormous portion that I’d have to enjoy again later.

And there was dessert to consider — a must, after this fare, for the establishment claimed a right to me.

My friend resigned the final glass of Carménère to me; and the dessert choice, as well. I ordered the only pairable sweet: the Chocolate Ganache Tart.

Our friends from earlier in the evening – the couple who followed us in – I found sitting at the table next to ours. Presenting their opinion of the dessert menu and recommending the ganache, the elderly couple reminded me of the sweet pleasantness and comfortable affability of Southern-bred folk. I was as cozy as could be and well-fed, just as any genial Southern folk should want their family to be.

Then, dessert was served: thick and glossy, richly-brown ganache speckled with flecks of sea salt, a puddle of chocolate held firmly in a wide mouth of rippled pastry. It was delightful just to behold and we could barely wait to sink in our spoons.

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It was the perfect pairing, the perfect conclusion. The perfect dream of richness: perfectly-balanced and sinfully smooth chocolate with a hint of salt – the only way I truly enjoy chocolate – married with a substantial-but-tender crust, and made simply divine with sips of Calina’s berries lilting playfully in my mouth.

I needed little of this treat, and took little, chattering happily about I-don’t-know-what. (Politics, I think; and passion.)

The last bite was mine, finished with the last sip of a well-made espresso; and suddenly, the room was nearly empty.

We stepped from our table and back into the foyer, where we found chef, owner, manager and other staff gathered comfortably at the bar, enjoying the spoils of their evening. The sight was as warming to me as had been all of this evening, comfortably reminiscent of happy times, working with dear friends in Canada after long evenings of serving others good food.

Curiously, it all makes sense to me:

The simple elegance of Park Café is a harmonious marriage of cultures. Chef-Owner Michael Ganley and his staff meld European culinary techniques with American soul food, pragmatic Canadian business sense with American charm, and serve it in an antique setting tinted with modern style.

The place and food are lovely, and have won my heart.

Epilogue

My mother served a teriyaki stir-fry with quinoa last night, to my father’s gentle censure; he prefers meals he knows with ingredients he knows, in ways he’s grown to enjoy.

And, in our mutual enjoyment of this new twist on a simple dish, I understand my mother a little better — and I think she might be a little more “foodie” than I’ve ever known.

Finding Wonderland

Duluth, Georgia has never really offered much in the way of nightspots, neither sixteen years ago when I was growing up nor today, with its great influx of Hispanic and Asian culture into this once-sleepy pre-Civil-War town. I mean: I’m sure the karaoke bars are fun, and the Latin salsa nights likely rival any around Atlanta, but when you’re looking for a pub with a little character in which to have a conversation and a dram of scotch, Duluth is not the first place one would consider.

Siri was no help, either, directing with her mechanical lilt from the iPhone 4s’ speaker: “I have found fif-teen bars near your location” – all of which were closed, obsolete, ethnic, or dingy hick-type pool halls surrounding Gwinnett Place Mall, the now-low-end area where only America’s corporate chain restaurants and scores of ethnic stores claim presence.

Strange that they should intermingle, the low-quality, high-volume places of America, Asia and Mexico, all within a few square miles, now the sickening sign of someone’s lack of care for anything but the pennies and dollars they can stuff into their pockets at the expense of producing anything of quality. Yes, there is a market for the stuff….

But we drove past, my nose wrinkled slightly as if at an unpleasant scent.

“Keep going straight,” I overrode Siri’s mechanical expertise with my natural instinct and sense of direction, not really knowing to where the vehicle was headed but feeling that this was right. My companion, no more familiar with the area than I, continued, trusting my instinct and content to simply keep my company on our drive down the lonely road on this chilly night.

Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves in downtown Lawrenceville, its tall, grey brick buildings and small, curving streets more quaintly maintained than in my hometown. And drove – the wrong way – up a one-way street to park near the tavern I’d spotted on the corner.

The sign, the lights above, the big glass window in front all told of a wealth of wood within, of a traditional British-American pub where two friends might sit and enjoy each other’s company over scotch or beer or – maybe, if the bartender was skilled – a classic cocktail.

My companion was impressed as we walked up, found half-a-dozen leather chairs circling a small oval table beyond the large square of glass; I worried that the deserted half of the pub we saw was closed.

We pulled the door to McCray’s Tavern On the Square and entered the large wooden space lined with long booths and tables, the expansive bar tucked directly ahead and crammed, in that narrow quarter of the room, with twenty-somethings boisterously drinking. I almost reeled in more than just my mind, struck by the great noise of pop music and loud university students obviously reuniting with hometown friends on this day-after-Christmas. And scanned the room for a place to tuck ourselves away from this crowd.

Invited in by a girl in a red T-shirt, we were escorted to one of the long, wooden booths near the empty room we’d seen behind the glass, a table large enough to fit eight or ten on its double benches. I was struck by the complete lack of awareness of this girl but was willing to let the evening play out; as I tossed my purse in the one side, my companion graced me with his common sense and suggested that it was far too large. I took over and, retrieving my purse, asked if we might sit on the leather chairs I’d seen before entering.

So we were guided up three steps into this long room, full of empty tables and chairs that were gratefully distant enough from the bustling youths, asked about drinks. I opted against a cocktail, guessing that the bartender in this establishment probably knew vodka-cranberries better than gin gimlets or Tom Collins’; Lauren, our waitress, knowing nothing of scotch, offered a menu containing a fairly-broad selection including The Macallan 12, 15 and 24.

We chose the 12, mine neat with a side of water (poor Lauren betrayed her absolute inexperience by bringing me first a tall classic Coke glass filled generously with ice water and garnished with lemon and a paper-capped straw), his on the rocks. We upgraded to the 15 when informed they were out of the 12 and I politely redirected my request for a sidecar of water, instead of the glass of water-and-ice.

And, over sips of strong liquor, we took in the room, at last.

Our respective views were something of mirrors to the scotch. It was pitch-black outside, a tall, old pine thoroughly-laden with candy-colored lights played tug-of-war with the wind, its frenzied game framed perfectly in the center of this great pane of glass gave evidence of the strong gusts held just outside; the twinkling scotch-on-the-rocks held just as safely beyond the walls of my companion’s glass was equally strong and sweet and smooth, candied in its own right with caramel and honey notes that burned cheeks and lips in cool feverishness as surely as the wind outside might had he stood beyond that pane.

My own partially-obstructed view was luxurious: I basked in the richness of black leather chairs with sturdy, wooden block feet, long planks of golden wood that lined the floors of this room, the quiet knowledge that no one but ourselves bothered with this room to the right. And I sipped clean scotch improved with only a splash of water, its caramel-and-honey flavors and colors like luscious reflections of varnished wood purified into essential liquid and poured into this glass; the smooth, rich texture of scotch was an exact replica of the smooth, rich leather on which I relaxed.

For myself, this luxury in the simplest form was incredibly sweet: an empty room devoid of distraction where I sat comfortably, to sip and scent a challenging beverage in the midst of a challenging interlocutor; I am yet enchanted by such things classical and timelessly charming.

Being what it likely usually is – a bar to draw those looking for interesting beers-on-tap and cheap-but-tasty pub fare to soak up copious draughts of alcohol while tossing tales with the boys and girls of town – the girl who served us was quite right with the place, and we had lucked into something special.

On any other night, I question whether McCray’s of Lawrenceville would have such draw… But for one night only, it was the perfect choice.

We’d stepped through the glass; I’d found Wonderland.