Asheville Chow: Tod's Tasties

Tod's Tasties, the red-roofed cafe with the peculiar name, occupies the corner of Montford and Pearson, just past the Chamber of Commerce and across from the former location of Pisgah Legal Services. I have run by there for months and wondered what kind of action was going on inside. And then I got a tip that the food was really good. I could have gone for any meal -- they serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I went for lunch. Tod's is tiny -- two rooms. One room has a counter and a tight counter and grill. The other room has a family-style table and a gas-station style refrigerator stocked with beer and soft drinks. Wine bottles, a self-serve station, and a narrow bar fill the remaining wall space. Because this is Asheville, they have found a way to tuck some kegs of local beer behind the counter. Most of the seating is outside. I think they have a canvas apparatus they can unfurl. They will need something or they'll never survive the winter without a robust takeout trade. And that would be unfortunate, for Tod's is better than you would expect.


You can get a burger cooked to order without being arrested. I had a lamb burger (from Hickory Nut Gap) medium-rare, and it was cooked perfectly and tasted great. It came on a fresh roll with shoe-string fries and a pickle. The pickle was fantastic -- I bet it was house-made. VO2Max had a triple-cheese grilled cheese. It was well-executed, cheesy but contained, buttery but not greasy. At lunch, you can also get cold sandwiches, soup, salads, a few other things. Tater tots are an option. I can't wait to go back to this place and try more tasties.

Mid-Week, Mid-Day.

I slipped out on Wednesday for an oldie but goodie -- the Town Mountain Ridge run. This is an 8-miler from my house that takes me up 4 slow, muscle-building miles to the top of Town Mountain, then back down for 4 scorching, turnover-improving miles. It was a crunchy run. Leaf season is over and most of the leaves are steadily falling to the ground. Although the color is now muted and fading rapidly, looking down on the city of Asheville and at the mountains beyond remains stirring.

Au Revoir, Happy French Man.

I didn't want to write -- I didn't want to believe it -- but Paris Bakery has closed. Sometime in the late summer, they posted a sign that indicated they were on vacation. It is now clear that the vacation is permanent. What a loss. And what a surprise. I didn't see it coming, but I don't speak French or surly. To be honest, I always ordered in fear at the Paris Bakery, worried that the Happy French Man would brain me with a rolling pin for mispronouncing brioche. But it was worth it, for the croissants were definitive. His product was superlative and I thought he had a steady business, so maybe he just tired of baking all night, every night, seven nights a week. If he has retired, I hope he hates it and returns to the kitchen soon.

Visiting the Source

What better way to spend a crisp Saturday than seeing where your bacon comes from? Hickory Nut Gap Farms, about 20 minutes from downtown, is a remarkable story -- a success for both farm economics and the locavore movement. Hickory Nut Gap raises pigs humanely and organically, on hillside pastures in a setting that would make a Florida developer salivate. It looks like a great life for a pig. Sure, they eventually go to the abettoir, but until then, they can luxuriate in the shadow of Chimney Rock.

The meat is everywhere you want it -- farmers' markets, local grocery stores, restaurants, and cafes. They even serve the hot dogs at McCormick Field. You will know them by their taste ("hotdoggier") and color (tan, not red). And there is a serious tail-to-snout ethic going on at Hickory Nut Gap. At the Greenlife Grocery, you can get all manner of cut -- loins, chops, and roast, but also bacon, ribs, hocks, bratwurst, chorizo, and belly. It's all natural in color, as marbled as the Capital, and tastes great.

Hickory Nut Gap also raises grassfed beef, lamb, and pastured chickens. It's all excellent, but the pork is the star.

That hog had a wicked itch.

Meb!

How do you spell motivation? M-E-B! How about Meb Keflezighi's performance in today's New York City Marathon? Just 1st place, just a dagger in the heart of Kenya Nation, just the first American to win the race since 1982. And he was wearing the black arm warmers, gloves, and skull cap popularized by yours truly. He led 5 other Americans who placed in the top 10 overall. I don't know if you saw it on Universal live or the NBC re-broadcast, but it was riveting. I hadn't cried over something I saw on TV that much since Kenard shot Omar in the back.

Watching Meb crank it through Central Park was just the motivation I needed to get back to business. It's been three weeks of easy running and hard eating and drinking since Chicago, and it's time to get serious again. I'm looking at 12 weeks to a breakthrough 10K at the Hot Chocolate, then another 12 weeks to Boston. Let's start running.

October By the Numbers

I took 11 rest days in October. Sue me.

You can call me Mr. October. On the 11th day of the 10th month of the 9th year of running, I finally ran a Boston-Qualifying time. I'd say that's enough excitement for one month. The rest of the month was either taper or recovery, making for a low mileage but high reward 31 days.

• Total Miles: 126
  
• Road Miles: 116
  
• Treadmiles: 10
  
• Average weekly mileage: 30 +/-
  
• "Quality" workouts: 1
  
• Longest long run: 26.2 miles
  
• Races: 1 (Chicago Marathon, 3:13:25)
  
• Race miles: 26.2
  
• Bike miles: 0
• Rest days: 11
  

Haute Burrito

Codorniz el Oklahoma Barbeque, Atun en Mole Negro, Arroz Negro a la Tumbada, Cochinita Pabil, Camote Dos Estilos, Tostadas de Atun y Erizo, Mollejas de Ternana, Mole Verde, Cachetes de halibut con Flores de Calabaza, Mole de Olla, Mesquite, Peras, Manzana. Right? Right.

It's true -- you can sing the tasting menu at Topolobampo to the tune of REM's "It's the End of the World." On our third trip to Chicago, we finally paid homage to Rick Bayless, who has been doing the haute Mexican thing with culinary and socio-anthropological accuracy for a long time. It's hard not to like Rick Bayless if you've seen him on TV, and it's clear when you walk into his restaurant that Chicagoans (and tourists like us) are loving him to death. Topolobampo is his "fancy" restaurant, but it shares the same building as the more casual, no reservations Frontera Grill and, more importantly, the Frontera Grill Bar. The bar had a tantalizing list of tequilas and traditional margaritas, but alas the crowd was three-deep on this Friday night and we were unable to order a drink while we stood and waited for our table.

Once we entered the more tranquil Topolobampo, we wasted no time in ordering a pair of dueling tasting menus. The TW had the Top Chef Master Finale Tasting, which included hickory-smoked quail, seared Hawaiian ahi tuna, a lobster-squid-mussels-octopus-and-chorizo dish, suckling pig, and a sweet potato tart for dessert. I had the Adventurer's Tasting, which included tuna and sea urchin, sweetbreads, Halibut cheeks, short ribs, and a mesquite-bean cake. Everything was superb. The thing about Topolobampo is that every sauce, every broth, every mole is so delicious, so full of richness and depth, that I licked every dish clean (mine and the TW's), with the house-made tortillas playing the role of my tongue.

The only blemish on the meal was the "wine incident," where they charged us $60 for two half-glasses of Chianti, a wine that was good but not that good. I felt we were duped and told the TW that Rick was going to hear about it. And he did -- I sent him this letter when we returned home.

Dear Chef Bayless: For years my wife and I have wanted to eat at your restaurant and we finally did on Friday, October 9, 2009. We came to Chicago to run the marathon and arrived two days early so we could eat at Topolobampo. We were not disappointed. Anne had the Top Chef tasting menu and I had the Adventurer's tasting menu. Both were excellent and world-class. We loved the presentation, the flavor profiles, and the textures and colors on every plate. And your pastry chef -- wow! He or she nearly stole the show. We liked the atmosphere in Topolobampo and the fact that the meal was so reasonably priced. A five-course tasting menu, plus "snacks" along the way, for $85 struck us as a bargain. We did encounter one snag in the meal and I call it to your attention because, having watched you on television and read your books, it seemed anathema to the Rick Bayless style. We had a pushy and snobby female waitress. And that was tolerable, hardly a hanging offense, until we asked for a glass of wine. We had not ordered the wine pairings with the tasting menus, so mid-way through the meal, we asked her if she could recommend a single glass of wine to pair with our third and fourth courses. She suggested a wine that was part of the pairing: a 1997 Terreno Chianti Classico Riserva, Tuscany, Italy. I did not have the wine list with me by that point, and did not think to ask her the price. As with most our meals at restaurants of this caliber, we put our trust in the kitchen and the front of the house. I assumed it would be $12 - $20 per glass. We each got a ½ glass of the wine and it was lovely. But when I received the final bill, I discovered that it had cost us $60. When I asked the waitress if this was accurate, she snidely replied: "Yes. Hope you liked it." I have to say, Chef Bayless, that the price (to say nothing of her response to my question) shocked me. $60 for two ½ glass pours seemed far out of proportion, cost-wise, from everything else on the menu. The entire paired flight, after all, was only $50. In hindsight, we could have paid for that, shared all five wines, and still had cab fare to get back to our hotel. I suppose I should blame myself for not specifically asking the cost, but again, I had put my trust in our waitress. We are no strangers to spending a disproportionate amount of our disposable income for two tickets to culinary paradise, but I have to tell you, I have never encountered a $30 glass of wine, not even at The French Laundry or Per Se. We ate at L20 and Alinea before we left town, and did not encounter a $30 glass there either. I suppose I could have made more of an issue at the time, but we are non-confrontational people, and the only thing I wanted to confront aggressively that night were your sweetbreads. But I did want to bring it to your attention because, as I said before, it seemed inappropriate and at odds with everything you represent on television and in your books. Rest assured, however, that it will not dissuade us from returning to Topolobampo, and we are already planning our next trip to Chicago. We both ran great for the marathon and we must assume that your mole had something to do with it. Thank you.

Recovery Dough

It has been a few weeks since the marathon, and I have spent my time scooping sugar cookie dough out of a No. 2 tub's worth of the stuff, which VO2Max and I mixed some time ago. You scoop it out with a tablespoon and put it on a Sil-Pat-lined cookie sheet, then press then down with a glass coated in sugar. Then you pop it in the oven for 7 1/2 minutes, no more or less, and the cookies come out just barely done, hot and chewy and melting on your tongue like the Holy Host only sweeter and with more calories. I think it's time I set a new running goal -- before it's too late.

If In Chicago, IL: L2O

It is hard to describe the understated luxury of L2O, Laurent Gras's seafood-centric Lincoln Park temple -- should I say aquarium -- waiting like a parallel universe behind a non-descript door in the Belden Stratford building. Leather chairs, wood-paneled walls, ebony tables, it's all rather simple, but the overall effect, the way your Aberol-laced Gimlet glows in the glass like back-lit salmon roe, is unparalleled. And then you start eating the seafood, which is so fresh that some of it came with a Cajun and his cane pole still attached. If it was any fresher, it would have been served by Patrick Duffy.

When we were there, we did the Autumn tasting menu, which included: Kinmedai, Tuna, Tofu, Shimaaji, Uni, Lobster, Matsutake, Halibut, Coho Salmon, Pork Belly, Hiramasa, Raspberry, and Praline.

I had never heard of half the fish, but loved every dish except for the Hiramasa, which was a cook-your-own dish where you dipped seafood into a steaming broth, like that scene in "Lost in Translation." It's not that it was bad, it just didn't sing like the other courses. The other courses were 3-4 bite marvels, especially the "finding Nemo. " Just making sure you are paying attention. The uni-and-lobster preparation was one of the best dishes I have ever eaten. That course alone was worth the hefty tab at the end of the meal, but the others were also excellent. each was impeccably prepared and plated, a little jewel box of ocean flavor. Jerome Robbins could not have choreographed more seamless service. The aforementioned gimlet was the best cocktail I have had since the TW's "frond song" at Cyrus.

Had we gone a la carte, we could have had foie gras served in a "bird's nest" of bee pollen cotton candy or any of a number of other artistic dishes. We could have also taken the "Tete a Tete" route, where the chef pairs two flavors, and only two flavors, in each course. Peekytoe Crab and Foie Gras. Scallop and Yuzu. Peanut Butter and Jelly. Sonny and Cher. I thought the concept a tet offensive.

For luxury without attitude and seafood with a Franco-Asian-contemporary flair in a room that positively glimmers, and with the caveat that I have never eaten at La Bernardin, I can say that I don't think you can do better than L2O.

We hold these pork rinds to be self-evident.

Publican. I love that word. It reminds me of Publius, the "author" of many of The Federalist Papers. For me, publican also conjures the American Revolution and noisy taverns and the spirit of democracy. And as we all remember, it was Federalist No. 13 that both warned of the dangers of factions but also lauded the republican virtues of beer, pork, and seafood. The Publican was an inspired choice of name for Paul Cahan's new restaurant in the West Loop section of Chicago. A few years back, we thoroughly enjoyed Chef Cahan's contemporary American cuisine at Blackbird. But The Publican goes in a decidedly different direction. Instead of tablecloths, there is bare wood. A quiet intimate dining room has been replaced with a boisterous open room with long community tables, high ceilings, and long rows of beach ball-sized white fixtures. Flower arrangements have been replaced with beer taps. The Publican is an American gastropub, and the beer menu is deep, deep enough for this denizen of "Beer City USA" to drown in it. From Finnish to Flemish, Trappist to Abbey Style, Saisons to Schlitz, they had it all -- and all in special glasses.

And on the off chance you happened to be hungry, they had pork rinds -- ethereal, impossibly light, melting on your tongue like cotton candy if cotton candy were porky and spicy-tasting. They were the perfect match for the Matilda amber ale from Chicago's own Goose Island Brewing Company. They had rillettes and charcuterie. But before you got to the pork they had eight different types of raw oysters to choose from, some from the east coast and some from the west. Going beyond raw, they had delicious fried clams and homemade tartar sauce or sardines or smoked trout or marinated mackerel. Getting back to pork, they had boudin blanc, juicy and flavorful, meaty not mealy. They had tripe gratin, sweetbreads, and potee. It was enough to make me ask the waiter, on each visit to our table: "Where the potee at?"

If you must have a vegetable, they had brussels sprouts or frites with or without a fried egg on top. Nary an ounce of swine came from a feedlot, as all the pigs come from small, organic farms, many in Illinois or Iowa but at least one dish started in Birkridge Berkshire Farm in North Carolina. We ate way too many dishes, but every bite was sinfully delicious. The beer was excellent as well. If this restaurant were in my town, I would probably eat there once a week. The Publican makes you that happy.

Don't forget to say "Thank you."

You should always remember to say thank you when the situation merits it. Here are a couple of thank you letters that I sent on my personal stationery this week:

To the Chicago Marathon Staff:

October 20, 2009

Dear Sir or Madam:

In the run-up to this year's Chicago Marathon, I wrote to you (grovel would be an acceptable substitute) and requested that you re-assign me to Corral B from the Open Corral. I told you, among other things, that if I started from Corral B, I would run 3:15:24 and finally qualify for Boston. You could have ignored me. You could have said that rules are rules. You could have said: "You'll take the Open Corral and you'll like it." But you didn't. You upgraded me.

Well, I didn't run 3:15:24. I ran 3:13:25! We're going to Boston! And I owe it to you, both for the corral upgrade and the perfect weather on race day. When the gun sounded, I had a clean start and ran like Seabiscuit, at least for the first few miles and then my back started to hurt and I had to make the little guy get off (fortunately just before he went to the whip). It was a magical day, one that for too long I thought might only exist in theory. But the race was real and so was my time -- a real PR and a real BQ. My wife also came in faster than her goal time, which was the cherry on the sundae.

Thanks again and we'll see you in 2010.


To Chef Achatz and Alinea:

October 20, 2009

Dear Chef Achatz:

For several years now, I have been trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon, a feat of great difficulty given me disturbing paucity of athletic talent at the genetic and, to be honest, surface level. I have compounded the problem of attaining that goal by my insatiable love of good food and wine, the consequence of coming of age in South Louisiana and New Orleans. I have chronicled my struggles on my blog: "Boston Dreams and Michelin Stars."

I tell you this because last week, my wife and I came to Chicago and ran the marathon. It was a great day for racing, and I qualified with 2 ½ minutes to spare. That was on Sunday. On Wednesday, we returned to Alinea for the tour. We had taken the tour in 2007 and longed to return. The meal was even better than the last one -- you don't need a dilettante like me to tell you that you and your staff are at the top of your game -- and it ended with you serving us dessert tableside. I still get a frisson thinking about it.

As someone mildly addicted to running and food, our experience in Chicago was unparalleled, the absolute zenith, and will never be duplicated. Had I pitched a story like that to Hollywood -- foodie marathoner goes to Chicago, qualifies for Boston after many failed attempts, eats at Alinea, and meets Chef Achatz -- I would have been laughed out the room for engaging in fantasy.

So thank you for your part in making our visit so memorable, as well as for all the sacrifices you make to deliver those incomparable meals and experiences at Alinea. We look forward to returning and we pray for your good health in the meantime.

Snapshots of Chicago

Here are some pictures from Chicago, in no particular order:

Race morning.

In the Loop.

The TW at the Expo.

Along the lazy river.

Always put your race outfit out the day before.

Seen in Bucktown.

Inside the Palmer House.

Alley.

The "Bean."

Inside the Modern Wing of the Chicago Art Institute.

The main entrance to the Chicago Art Institute.

Sue.

Champagne and Chocolate-covered Strawberries from the Baileys post-marathon.

The TW post-marathon, with a spout of water coming out of her head.

Beyond the finish line.

Chicago on race day.

The Cherry on the Progressive American Sundae

Achatz on left. Food on right.

Just when I thought our trip to Chicago could not get any better, we spent our last night at Alinea. Alinea is Grant Achatz's progressive American restaurant in Lincoln Park, one of the most celebrated and influential restaurants in the country. (You can listen to Chef Achatz talk about the philosophy of his restaurant (fun, experiential, tasty, not pretentious or self-important), and see what the food looks like, here.) We ate there 2 1/2 years ago, in its first year of operations, and we were eager to return. Once we registered for Chicago, it was the first reservation I locked down.

Achatz is only 35 years old and a truly remarkable person. He is a culinary genius, to be sure, turning out a dining experience five nights per week that is both delicious and fun. But since our last visit, he has also battled a rare form of mouth cancer. The standard treatment would have been to remove his tongue, but he was able to enroll in experimental trials and, through chemotherapy and radiation, battled it into remission. He continued to work throughout his treatment.

The food has only improved since our last 3 1/2 hour experience. When I made our reservation, we signed up for the "Tour" of roughly 24 courses. Each course was ridiculously delicious. And that's the point that shouldn't be missed about Alinea. For all the avant-garde techniques and utensils, what you put in your mouth is often the best thing you ever tasted -- until they bring you the next course. Some of the highlights:

Osetra -- Caviar with "toast" foam and a jelly of creme fraiche. The idea behind this dish was to have the traditional garnishes that accompany caviar, but to let the caviar itself be the dominant texture. hence toast foam instead of toast points. Some may call that silly, I call it delicious.

Pork Belly -- This was a Thai-influenced dish that came with a non-alcoholic shot referred to as a distillation of Thai flavors. It prepped the palate for the pork belly, which also had a banana component that, believe it or not, worked.

Brook Trout Monseigneur -- This was the "Matrix" course, a fastidiously traditional presentation of a popular late 19th century dish, complete with what appeared to be antique plates and wine glasses. The kitchen clearly has a sense of humor and maybe they put this course on the menu should any naysayers ask if they can cook any "real" dishes.

Pheasant -- The bird was combined with apple and shallot, tempura-fried, and served on the end of a oak branch while some of the leaves smoldered. Yes, some of the leaves were smoldering. It smelled like Asheville. It was like the world's best fried chicken enjoyed at a Autumn bonfire.

Yuba -- You didn't eat the oak branch utensil, but you did for this course, which had shrimp somehow stretched and twined around yuba. It looked like a long pretzel stick.

Sea Urchin -- It was served in the shell with aloe, yuzu, and chili components. Sea urchin -- the foie gras of the sea -- has become my new favorite food.

Lamb -- Three cubes on a flaming hot steel rectangle, eaten with chopsticks, the undersides still searing at the table, the top perfectly medium-rare. Each was crowned with a fall accompaniment -- pumpkin, eggplant, rosemary.

Transparency -- A thick, transparent straw packed with yogurt, bubble gum tapioca, and raspberry. You were encouraged to slurp it all at one (with your mouth, not your nose), despite the slightly offensive sound that resulted. Think bubble tea with a Ph.D.

I could go on. Hot potato, cold potato remains on the menu as does black truffle explosion. We had bacon on a high wire. We had a hands-free course with the dish skewered on a softly bobbing prong. We had a course on a slowly deflating pillow. We had strawberry pound cake lollipops with vanilla beans for sticks. Every dish was beautiful, every taste was yummy, every sip of wine paired perfectly.

And then it happened. A waiter came to our table and draped it in a gray silicone mat. It was like a thin Sil-Pat. She then lined up 6 or 7 bowls filled with ingredients, along with some spoons and serving dishes. Then she left. The TW and I stared at it and wondered what, if anything we were supposed to do. We waited. We waited a little longer. And just as I was about to start investigating the contents of those bowls, Grant Achatz was standing next to our table. He introduced himself, asked us if we knew what we were supposed to do, and when the TW said no and I said "Huh?" because I was already on the floor kissing his feet, he said "You could do this." He then proceeded, Jackson Pollock style, to drizzle and paint the contents of those bowls right onto the table -- a variety of fruit and chocolate sauces, pickled blueberries, blueberry jam, "maple wood" consomme, tobacco-infused whip cream, thyme, frosted walnuts, walnut shortbread. His assistant then brought him a smoking lava rock which he set in the middle of table, broke into pieces, and pronounced: Milk chocolate mousse. He then added malt ice cream and a few other ingredients. He was friendly and meticulous as he went through this process. (I found a similar performance on YouTube. You can watch it here.) We thanked him effusively and then he went back to work in the kitchen. I looked at the TW, stunned and awe-struck. And then we ate the world's best ice cream sundae.

My trip to Chicago included my first Boston-qualifying marathon time and table-side service by Chef Grant Achatz. Boston Dreams and Michelin Stars indeed. This trip will never be topped.