Tag: Southern Art

A Touch of Madness (Or: Some Things Are Better Off Alone, Part Two)

From Southern Art
From Southern Art
Continued from Twitterpation (Or: Some Things Are Better Off Alone, Part One)

The brilliant thing about being ignored for the bulk of one’s life is that you have so much time and space to develop yourself, to give great attention to all the little things that strike your fancy, that take your heart. Fortunately for me, my wildest passions are interdependent with those of truly great artists; and some of the greatest artists existent in our age are chefs, brewmasters, winemakers, distillers of spirits. Perhaps it is because this is wherein our gratitude lies.

The two previous bourbons set me to giddiness with their individual degrees of heat and caramelization; I couldn’t wait to see their effect upon the cheeses, couldn’t wait to try the third and most-lauded, prized bourbon in Southern Art’s collection: Four Roses Private Label, made especially and exclusively for the Bourbon Bar.

My palate primed, the glass swirled and bourbon opened, I lifted the coolly-gold liquid and breathed in deeply: there was nothing of the sting of the first and no trace of heavy caramel notes, replaced by a quiet nectar so light and clean that the aroma needed to be scented twice, thrice to derive the faint honeysuckle perfume. Alcohol carries the scent through the sinuses; this was surely as potent, but so incredulously delicate!

Soft, faintly-sweet liquid poured over my tongue. I held the fluid behind my lips, rolled it across my palate, watched as the innocent tonic gradually roused its heat and revealed distinctly cherry-and-honey tones. This piece must be relished on its own; this bourbon would be dessert.

Cream and acidity are perfect compliments, which is why we love such combinations as peaches and cream, strawberries dipped in milk chocolate, dry red wines with fatty meats. The fats slip across our palates lusciously, the acidity bracingly washes it clean, and we are left thirsting to repeat this sensual rhythm.

As soon as I was introduced to the trio of cheese – Blue, Gouda and something like a Brie (but not, of course; it was Southern-bred) – I knew these bourbons were the perfect choice to pair. The silky textures were apparent, shining in the low light of this room. Served with the cheeses were crackers and four condiments: honeycomb, jalapeno jelly, green tomato chutney and fig preserves.

“No great genius ever existed without a touch of madness,” said Aristotle. If that is true, and it surely is, then Southern Art’s Art Smith must be a little mad.

And his madness is infectious, for I am still stricken by the experience.

The earthiness of these fig preserves hit my palate immediately as I bit into saltines that defy their Southern name, through (what was that brie-like cheese?!) silky cream spreading dark fruit across my tongue. I think I gripped the armrest in reflex; I certainly felt shoved against the back of my chair, my opened senses punched with the intensity of this meal.

Yes, a single bite can be a meal, when it nourishes so deeply.

I felt like a fool, so vulnerable to such a base thing as food. But excited, eager to experiment with my bourbon flight, I plucked the Yellow Label and tasted….

The intense heat mirrored the intense flavors of the food, felt even gentle in comparison, cleared my palate and readied me for my next bite.

I had a plan: a slice of each cheese, with each condiment, in rhythm from right-to-left, until all were sampled. Next was the Gouda.

Coupled with the tangy green tomato chutney and accentuated by the salty, nutty crackers, the Gouda’s creaminess shone; this was heaven.

…The flavor combinations continued incessantly, putting me in mind of food experiences as related by Remy in Disney’s Ratatouille: explosions of fireworks in the brain as one beholds new flavors blending in ways previously unimaginable. Dripping jalapeno jelly on Blue sent a spicy-sweet fire through my mouth in one of my favorite combinations, followed and stoked lustily with spicy-sweet-heat of Four Roses’ Yellow Label; Gouda and honeycomb layered on delightfully nutty saltines resulted in a bite-sized delicacy somewhat reminiscent of baklava; bites of silky cream next provided the perfect backdrop for sweet-and-sour green tomato chutney….

I was overwhelmed, rapt, swept up in sensuality the likes of which I hadn’t felt in ages, driven to the next bite and lingering on the last; I forgot the room and the people around me, lost to the madness of perfection in fare such as this. I became shyly aware of my rapture a few times, but truly, this was too good; I pushed the feeling aside and kept to my meal, to the task of tasting every single combination….

…When I became starkly aware that someone was watching. I felt jealous: this was my sensation, my passion, my meal; I caught his eyes and asked, wordless, of his interest.

He stammered, tried to explain that he wondered only what I was drinking.

Indeed.

The charm of my meal was no longer my own; the madness of my intent, of this meal, of this place had infected someone new. I indulged the man’s conversation; I was in the habit of being mad, wanted to share; I was so rich from my love-affair with cheese. And bourbon, of course.

He bought my dinner, indulged me in more servings of Four Roses’ Private Label bourbon – which I did drink for dessert, amidst forkfuls of sinfully-rich Red Velvet Cake; and we conversed while he ate and enjoyed his meal.

The sensuality of my meal naturally returned to me in never-ending forkfuls of tender, rich, scarlet cake twelve layers high, interspersed with ivory, sweetly-decadent cream cheese frosting (a type of cake that helplessly brings Gone With The Wind’s tragic heroine to mind), kept demanding my attention with its dreamy perfection, cleaned with cool sips of the bourbon I’d come to love.

The night lingered; the cake lingered; the bourbon lingered.

And Southern Art lingers, to be experienced in depth again and again….

…Where some things are better off alone and gifts may await in the ways of genius; the price: just a touch of madness.

Twitterpation (or: Some Things Are Better Off Alone, Part One)

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I usually hate the idea of eating alone, unless it’s in my house or in some restaurant where I know someone; and the prospect of walking, unaccompanied, into a bar fills me with such trepidation that I have chills even now, thinking of it.

Which is why I give myself almost any excuse to bring a trusted companion, or, lacking an available one, to develop an easygoing connection with the server or bartender where I dine.

Monday’s companion was uncertain he’d make our dinner date, but the prospect of his presence was enough for me to make the drive into Buckhead for drinks and, potentially, dinner at Southern Art & Bourbon Bar, the restaurant with which I’ve been Twirting for the past few weeks.

Twirting, for those who don’t understand, is Twitter-flirting.

I follow @SouthernArt and read their posts with the heated and intimate interest of one crushing hard on a new-found love; I virtually taste the beverages and foods they post on Twitter and Facebook and reply with all forthrightness, openness and immediacy, relating in 140-character responses my intense intentions to indulge.

You might say I’m Twitterpated.

This eagerness was enough to steel my nerves when walking, alone and slightly lost, from the fog-shrouded parking garage to ask someone the way.

It impelled me through the revolving glass doors into the immediate lobby of the InterContinental Hotel, where Southern Art is situated.

Assaulted directly, I stood startled: two lines of finely-upholstered high-backed chairs face one another across singular short tables under a towering arched ceiling, opening to a yet larger room of various tables-and-chairs, all in shades of ivory and tan. I desired shelter in the Bourbon Bar, discovered it with a glance to the right, and found no such prospect in the line of rich, high, dark-wooden tables and leather-covered chairs directing the eye inward to the well-lit display of bourbons shelved in solitary squares behind two bartenders nurturing the string of men and ladies in dark suits filling the space with vigorous tones.

I felt naked in my simple desire to be here. I did not wish to drink and eat with all of these boisterous souls; yet I was mesmerized by and wished to take in the entirety of this place, to drink in the golden-lit room and its eclectic placement of so many tables and chairs, and even those excited people enjoying the Bourbon and Ham Bars on either side of me.

I moved further into the hotel lobby, feeling as drunk as I imagined did many of those at the bar; I struggled, it felt to me, to sway gracefully between groupings of furniture and find a seat at a narrow writing desk with two tall-backed chairs where I dizzily placed my small frame and let wonder overtake me.

I had not yet consumed so much as a drop of alcohol.

When I did, it was the week’s specialty cocktail, the Appalachian Old Fashioned concocted of corn whiskey, honey water and peach and Bolivar bitters, which settled my palate and my nerves, sweetly confirming with delicate notes and undeniable potency that I had not been wrong in my assessment of Southern Art’s skill. I chose the cocktail because, well, it’s old-fashioned, which intrigued me, and would presumably be stiff; but, while the smooth, ever-so-lightly-sweet beverage easily affected me in just the way such drinks are meant to affect, this was so easy to swallow that any Southern belle might deign to let this man’s drink pass her tender lips. There was not so much as a burn to the beverage, not so much as a brash note to pass my palate or scour my throat, as I had expected. Yet, the result was the same: my shoulders soon relaxed, my flesh began to flush and my sinuses opened; I was ready for whatever taste and scent and experience next to be encountered.

The thoughts that pass when one is alone are so contrary to those that rise while entertaining even the fondest of companions; mine were no different, as I observed with curiosity and amusement the acoustic magic of this architecture that presented conversations to my ear from across the room as clearly as if the speakers were by my side, entertained myself with the lighthearted irony of an age when chocolate martinis may be ordered and enjoyed by good-ol’-boys such as those at the table next to mine.

Then turned to Southern Art’s Twitter relay as the only companion with whom I could deliberate over the expansive and wildly-tempting menu, ideal for pescatarians such as myself, offering four varieties of fish and one seafood dish. And, true to form, let my desire move me instead to the Cheese From the South, pairing with it the Four Roses Bourbon Flight.

I am still shocked by the impact of these three small servings of bourbon, a liquor I had heretofore dismissed for the same reasons I once dismissed my Southern accent. But it was Southern Art’s base-liquor-of-choice; how could I not sample the origin of my infatuation’s very name; how could I judge it entirely by the unimpressive versions I have known?

Before me stood three delicate, stemmed glasses proffered shades of golden nectar in their bulbs; I swirled the Yellow Label and lifted the flowering glass to my nose. This would be the brashest of the three, indicated by the heady, spicy aroma of honey-touched petrol. Having been denied the anticipated burn by my Old Fashioned, I was pleased, and longed to see if my nose was as accurate in its assessment as I expected to be.

I was graced with a firm-but-smooth spirit that lit a slow, searing flame on my lips where the liquid had touched, demanded my patient submission while I held the fire flickering on my palate, burning faint caramels in its wake and lingering in smoky notes and lasting heat that claimed full minutes of appreciation.

Was I not so eager to run the gamut of this trio untainted by food, had I not known how flights tend to run – in sequence of light-to-heavy with wines and rough-to-refined with spirits – I may have been inclined to return to the deep burn of the Yellow Label.

Instead, I moved to the Small Batch, could tell from the paler color and clean, light, caramel-dressed nose that this would be more refined, smoother, easier to drink. It was delicious, cool across my lips and smoldered richly in my mouth, rewarding the time spent savoring with a deeply-rich caramel heat lasting longer than the liquid remained on my palate.

The cheese board arrived just in time to distract me from my excited reveries. There was no way, I knew as the server slipped plate, tools and board onto my now-laden table, that any live companion could possibly allow the space I needed to give these libations and creations their due.

Little did I know how right I’d be.

…To Be Continued….