A Foodie Tour Of Northwest Arkansas

As you read the title of this post you might be wondering, foodie, Northwest Arkansas? What? I was a skeptic too but I can now safely say some of the best eats in the Mid-South come from this region of Arkansas. Now that I live in Oklahoma, I see Arkansas as a vacation destination. I would have laughed at this just a few years ago, but now living down here I can see why. Northwest Arkansas is rugged and beautiful, and home to the Ozarks,  green and lush and full of flowers, hallows and rivers. There are all kinds of recreation to be had but also fun, little, quirky towns, with cultural sights and charm galore. Believe me you will want to visit if you ever end up near the Mid-South. We took this tour sans kids as an anniversary weekend, though most of the places were kid friendly and I am sure could be enjoyed by families. 

Our foodie tour starts in the quaint college town of Fayetteville. This town definitely has a collegiate feel and also some fun, old Victorian, Southern bungalows and public art  making it feel alternative and funky. The restaurant we stop at is called "Arsaga’s At The Depot." Part cafe, part restaurant The Depot serves up indy, haute cuisine and drinks in a laid back Southern setting. An old train station that houses multiple stores, The Depot is behind the Chipotle and can be recognized for its large planters filled with herbs and veggies they use in the restaurant. Upon entering you are met by a staff in vintage dresses or casual, gender neutral clothing. This place feels like a little bit of Olympia, Washington with a Southern twist. We end up on the patio on a humid 100-degree day, but its shady and large and makes you feel like a southern belle. We order drinks, the Fairchild, perfect for a hot day, a peach, mint and coconut milk drink, and the Japanther, a Japanese cold brew coffee with fruit, both absolutely delicious.

For lunch I get the Redmond, a sandwich specially prepared on a buckwheat crepe since I don't eat gluten. The flavor combinations are exquisite in this sandwich, a combo of modern American, Asian and health nut influences that somehow meld together perfectly. The buckwheat crepe is light and crispy and provides a perfect side bread for the pickled sesame carrots topped with a creamy soft-boiled egg and miso infused sweet potatoes. There is a fresh green sauce that comes along with it and a field greens salad, fresh picked from the side of the restaurant. Daddy got their version of poutine or kimchi fries with brisket; we were blown away by the many combinations of “meal as fries” they had. So tasty! The place backs up against the old train track, which is now a bike path, we explore afterword, taking in the country scenery. This was a lovely city to start our food tour in. 

We next head to Eureka Springs Arkansas. This city is pure magic, a tourist town but super funky, artsy and unique. Chiseled into the side of rock, steep hills make up the geography of a town filled with Victorian buildings, trolley history and eclectic characters. Deep magic pools of cold spring water come pouring out the side of the hills and into gorgeous mini gardens nestled in-between fun touristy shops. We spent our last anniversary here and wanted to come back even if it was just for a day. The town is known for its good dining. 

“Le Stick Nouveau” is a fascinating French restaurant that takes you into the basement of the New Orleans Hotel. All is dark purple, lush and sparkly. A man played an electric violin and we were surrounded by large, billowy curtains pulled back with golden ropes strung with the kind of tassels one always wants to yank. Our waitress was very friendly and recommended a yummy appetizer of thin slices of raw beef that had been smoked. When she came out with the order it was presented in a glass container filled with smoke. Something about the glittery purple ambience, the violin player and the lady in a black corset bringing us a bowl filled with smoke made me feel like I was in a magic show. It was very fun and made me giggle all night. They also insisted on putting daddy's sparkling water on ice and filling it up like a wine glass, which made us laugh. The dish that stuck out the strongest was the duck A LA ‘Orange. This was enchanting; each mouthful more pleasant then the last with potatoes au gratin I wrote the recipe down it was so full of yummy flavor.

We worked off our affordable, enjoyable, French meal with a walk to the Basin Springs Downtown Park. There we were entertained by a hippie kid named Crayola singing with a ukulele and a couple of tango dancers we met last time we were here. We would have spent the night in Eureka Springs but we had tickets to a Chihuly exhibit in Bentonville Arkansas, so we departed at sunset for our Bentonville hotel.

Weird, wonderful and Walmarty Bentonville Arkansas is the birthplace of Walmart. Don’t let that information stop you from checking it out. While the town does have a lot of Walmarts and even a Walmart history museum it is also an international city for business; all the companies trying to sell to Walmart have hubs in Bentonville making it a fairly wealthy and international town. Hence the Chihuly glass exhibit at one of our favorite museums to check out in the area, Crystal Bridges. This museum houses beautiful and classic works of American art. The modern section is on point and the building itself is fascinating. It was built in a minimalist fashion meant to represent mounds of earth surrounding a creek. The harmony of art, architecture and nature is a pleasure to behold. Also Crystal bridges main exhibits are free and a brand new children's museum was built next-door making it a very kid-friendly place to visit. Crystal Bridges is the best reason to come to Bentonville but there are also some delicious eats to be had while in the city.

That morning we awoke to the fact that our hotel did not offer free, continental breakfast. Looking at the menu and the price we knew we could do better. A quick yelp search led us to “The Buttered Biscuit”. As a gluten free (GF) person I was not sure this would be the best place for me to eat but let me tell you I was wrong! They had delectable GF biscuits and gravy on the menu. This place had a French kitchen vibe, all blue, white and gold with chicken imagery in the corners.  The wait was not too long and everyone was friendly, very family oriented, I played with a little boy who was waiting next to me in line. Daddy got The Rue, a hollandaise Benedict with corned beef. I got the Goat Trail, a goat cheese and veggie omelet with a GF biscuit. All was delicious and very filling for our museum day. It was perfectly topped off with Onyx coffee lab bottomless cups of drip coffee. Onyx is a very unique and fancy coffee bar in the downtown square of Bentonville worth checking out. Onyx Coffee Lab makes you feel like you are in a hip, urban city and has all the fancy contraptions for delectable gourmet coffee.

The last stop on our foodie tour is one of our all-time favorites. As I mentioned before Bentonville is an international town and there is specifically a large Indian population. There are many Indian restaurants to choose from but our favorite is called “Flavors Indian Cuisine.” It has all the trappings of good Indian place.  The restaurant is in a strip mall, out of the way, Indian television is playing, the majority of the clientele are Indian and not all the food is labeled in English. This place is a buffet, the grandest buffet I have ever been too. It goes on and on, with different types of food from all the different regions of India. You can get the traditional, northern tikka masala here but also three different kinds of dal as well as dosa, idli and sambar and at least ten varieties of Indian desserts. 

They always have a vegetarian side of the food warmers with such tasty bites as fried ridge gourd, bitter melon curry and banana flower soup. There is also a spicy eggplant dish I delight in. It is best to come to this place hungry and eat your heart out. It could really be a one meal of the day kind of place. As we suck candied fennel on the way home, chai spice still in our mouths, I am pleased to put a bookmark at the end of this foodie tour.

Go to Northwest Arkansas, it is beautiful, full of culture and an un-trampled area for exploring with a flair of southern hospitality and good eating.

Venezia: Perspectives On The City Of Canals

And now for a little travel post, a summer read for your pleasure:

Oh Venice, Venezia, the beautiful city, poetry in boat and bridge form. There sits the indy young female traveler. She unbuttons her leather gloves preparing to nibble a Margherita pizza at a tiny cafe on the harbor overlooking an ancient basilica, drinking in the ambiance. A Venetian woman hardened to the charms of this touristic wonderland. She holds still, eyes glazed on the water boat metro (Vaporetto) as swarms of people scrunch past her with the ever-present inflection of "Permesso, Permesso," (excuse me.) The small child, buttoned up in a wool coat and matching hat, heels clicking across a cobblestone square. She only knows life within the confines of narrow alleyways, piazzas with only one tree planted in the middle. The withered leaves holding all the oxygen of the appartamento’s lining the square built in the 14th century surrounding the Jewish ghetto.

This city, where people breath deep and long sharing the same cluttered archways with pedestrians, boats, scooters and bicycles. Where the same stories are retold on Latin tongues buried deep in cappuccinos at restaurants where recipes are passed down through each generation. A city where the modern artists mimic old ideas retold from the floors of Cathedrals transforming to canvas in techno colors in a galleria stinking of formaldehyde or sewage. A smell that is the base layer of Vencie, stinky, fanciful, man made and imagined. The very wealthy living in a bubble of comfort. The very local living down secret alleyways never touched by the tourist track.

Mist comes in soft puffs down the grand canal, leaving a tiny veil on the fine china cups used to sip espresso in the morning. A cloud of moisture over the calloused hands of the rope tiers who bring the vaporetto to a stop for loading and unloading. The same damp that musses the feathers of pigeons ready to dance in the puddles of Piazza Saint Marco. This veil that captures the mystery of this thoroughly man-made city.

How perfect that glass blowing is the chosen art form of this place. What a delicate and strong art form for a city steeped in fantasy and hard labor.  

Exploring the MET (Metropolitan Museum of Art) with Sweetpea

I strolled my sleeping child through the rows of ancient Greek statues, awed by there presence. Daddy went off to see a world war II photography exhibit, disappearing under the white tent folds of the MET's newest installation. I preferred the ceramics of antiquity. As I turned a corner to the most ancient pottery of the Mediterranean I saw her, the big, billowy, thighs and chest of an ancient mother Goddess, propped up on two metal hooks, encased in glass under soft light. She was hard to spot amongst the vases and oil urns, but she stood out for me, glowing with an aura of majesty. As I stood transfixed, the halted movement awoke my dreaming child. Sweetpea woke up with a start as she always does, immediately alert and ready to tell me something. As if being pushed in a stroller over the cobblestone pathways along central park west was a part of our daily routine. Waking up surrounded by artwork in a large, loud, echoing room was just a part of the fun of having two adventuring parents.

"What’s that mama?" Her crackly just awoke voice said pointing at the little Goddess I had found for us.  “It’s our mother Goddess Sweetpea," "Mother Goddess" I hear repeated back to me, a slight pause, "why?" I go into an explanation of how this little Goddess represents the power of women as life givers and how ancient people's worshiped this power that all women have. I lift her up and we stare at the little figure, I smell her slightly sweaty hair, and marvel in the beauty of sharing this with my daughter.

I was only a little older then Sweetpea is now the first time I came to the MET. It was a daddy daughter date in the city. There is a picture of me flat up against Cleopatra's needle in a multi-colored, terry cloth dress and blues sneakers. I remember going there, I remember walking through the Egyptian temple, and admiring the old Roman statues. I have been back many times sense. As a teenager my unschooled friends and me would rain down on NYC and meet in front of the MET. We would hang out on the front steps leading up to it and check out the fashion history exhibit in the basement. My favorite place in the museum was in the Arab section, a tiny dome made of wood, carved in intricate patterns. This dome sits in a hallway in between rooms. It is quiet, like a tree house within the vast open spaces of history and art.  


Later, with my husband and daughter in toe I walk them towards the Roman statue hall. We ended up in an atrium with a larger then life bronze statue of Perseus defiantly holding up the head of Medusa. I pointed at the statue and said "Sweetpea, look at this beautiful statue."  With a look of wonder and horror my child stares and begins a long strand of "why?" questioning. I realize after the fact what a strange statue this is to point out to her. In one room I am talking about ancient people's worshiping the great Mother, in the other room I am trying to explain Greek myth and the chopping off of a woman's head. My daughter is learning life is complex.

I have cornered myself into this conversation so I go back to the beginning, we first talk about stories, how they are different from real life. Then I talk about Medusa, what she did and why someone would want to chop off her head. It is a delicate explanation.  I am trying to explain things simply enough that she will not draw conclusions about good and bad, and will instead focus on truth and fiction. The rest of the day she reports to everyone we talk to about "Dusa, and how he chopped off her head." We still talk about it months later.

Our last stop is the Tiffany hall, we all stand awestruck in front of the huge Tiffany windows, lit from within, exuding an aura of holiness. We play make believe games with the bear statues in the hall and pretend to chop off each other’s heads. :)

There we were, only a 3rd of this grand museum explored and still content with all we got to see. We went just outside the gates to a NYC park complete with meandering benches and metal play structure letting the art of the day soak into our souls.

Buona Pasqua! Easter in Italia part 2

There we were, in front of my favorite church in Italy. The Duomo of Siena. We had just finished a traditional slow foods Tuscan style meal at a jam packed restaurant, elbow to elbow at a long table with every kind of family bumping into us. A true Italian delight to be able to smell and stare at all the food you did not order as well as enjoy the succulence of your own meal. The main thing I remember was a fava bean soup that had bread in it as well as some delicious cured meat. 

Are tummies full on delicious food we strolled in the rain to the Duomo, up steep medieval curves of the old walled in city of Siena. We knew it would not be open this late at night but we just wanted to catch a glimpse of the striped church we had loved 11 years ago.

As we stood in the majesty of its courtyard looking up at the facade in the inky, blackness of night I felt tingles down my spine. I love cathedrals. I always have. I love that humans came up with the idea to build giant, gawdy spiritual elevating buildings on honor of deity. I love that they are buildings designed to make you feel awe struck, small in a huge universe and connected to something greater then yourself. I love that I can stare and stare and stare and still not see all the art and detail crafted into a building that took 500 years to construct. That this building started in the mind of one person, the spark of an idea. That the folks that came up with the original plans hardly ever saw the project to completion. I want to think big like that about my projects. That projects don't have to be done quickly that I might not even be able to see them till the end and expect that they will be completed by the next generation. I think cathedral makers our lovers of life, big dreamers and have faith and trust that they could leave a mark on the world, help shape a culture with their work. That is the kind of artist I aspire to be.

There we were, standing under an umbrella in the halo of light of a near by street lamp, Honeybee reading aloud to me from our guide book about the construction of this ancient Catholic temple. That's when we we started to see people walking up the stairs and pacing in front of the closed doors. Honeybee dismissed them as silly tourists who did not know the church would be closed at night. I thought there might be something more to it. I had us move closer, the people were speaking Italian, these were not tourists, these were Sienese families. Then the miraculous happened. The church doors opened up. We reluctantly and giddily followed inside with the other folks, uncertain we were supposed to go in. No one stopped us. I tried to walk as if I belonged there, poorly holding in my excitement of getting a chance to go into our Duomo. As we walked down the side hall trying to remain inconspicuous I realized this was midnight mass! This was the Saturday before Easter Sunday and we were some of the first attendees of the late service they would hold that night. I had not done midnight mass sense I lived in Seattle. A friend was going through a Catholic phase and I had attened this service one Easter at a small, modern church near our house. I had not thought about going to anything like this sense.

What luck! Here we were in one of the most outrageous and beautiful buildings in the world on a holy night where we practically had the place to ourselves. Most of the building was not even lit up, it was like being in a museum after hours, I was taken back to one of my favorite childhood books "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler." We explored quietly, admiring the giant Easter Lily display on the alter, the Duccio fresco's in back of the high alter. Even the creepy busts lining the inside of the Duomo ceiling, the faces of all the popes in Italy staring back at us.

Services started at 11pm, we were given candles and a thick order of service filled with the stories of Christ's resurrection in Latin. We sat in a pew ready for the priest to begin. After the choir sang their first hymn, everyone got up and started walking to the back of the cathedral. At the front of the procession was the priest and alter boys holding one large candle. Not only did they walk all the way to the back of the cathedral they stepped outside and this band of faithful Catholics surrounded the priest in the sprinkly, spring darkness of Saturday night. I turned my head and the whole cathedral was dark again, all the lights were turned off. The Catholic chanting began, call and response in Italian. Honebee and I hummed along. The priest held the large candle in the middle of the circle, he took long golden pokers and stuck them into the top, bottom and sides of the candle, each time he placed a poker we would chant something, honoring that moment. He lit the candle and passed the light to each follower holding our candles in a personal, sacred quiet.

The priest and alter boys parted the crowd like the red sea and started the procession back into the church. As we turned to follow in the party stopped. A chant filled our throats that rose to soprano heights then the lights came on filling the tiny space our bodies inhabited in the glory of this Duomo. We walked along filling each crevice of the church with light bringing Christ back from the dead. We re awakened the space, fresh with raindrops in our hair and song in our hearts.

We sat through some of the very long and droning service, but eventually had to go back to our room in the town, to sleep and let the beauty and magic of the night soak in.

On our walk back home we passed other smaller churches lit up with the welcoming news of Christ's rebirth. The glowing halo of a Madonna welcomed us home.

 

Buona Pasqua! Easter in Italia part 1

--> As he jostled the key into the lock on the slick, green painted, wood of our doorway Josepy said "Don't miss the Luminaire procession tomorrow night in honor of Good Friday. "It was Good Friday, the streets were open and empty." The lyrics of a Coco Rosie song mumble through my head. Luminaire, the words spark memories of hand crafted lanterns in the shape of fish and other animals lit from within and marched down the walk ways of young, Olympia streets to ultimately surround the small lake over looking the capital. I was giddy with the news. What would a luminaire procession be like in Italy? How lucky we were to find ourselves in a pretty seaside small town on this momentous night.

Half way through dinner at a small fish restaurant I heard the whispers of chanting on the wind. It was pouring rain, we asked the waiter if the luminaire would still happen in the rain? He assured us it would. The owner of the eatery kept coming in and out as excited as a puppy waiting for the sun to go down and the procession to start. Finally we heard the clang of a bell. We wiped our plates clean and headed out down this village's one main street. We were greeted by the shiny backs of Italian villagers, huddled under raincoats and umbrellas in small groupings all with their eyes locked on the thin pathway through the middle of the road. It was dark, wet and magic. Suddenly the man next to us broke out into a choral song in thick Italian, five women surrounding him joined in, we mumbled along as if we knew the song. As we hummed a small procession could be seen at the top of the hill. A ghostly looking gathering of white paper covered candles held by most of the town’s people slowly processing down the hill singing along in the strong and beautiful Catholic hymnal music. They would move forward a few steps then stop and sing, a new verse each time. Then stop and repeat. It seemed that the verses corresponded to Jesus journey to the cross or being taken back to the cave where he had his ultimate resurrection.

As the procession got closer we could see village boys dressed in white hoods and robes, I saw them as symbolizing the Holy Ghost. They walked in front of a small entourage of young girls dressed in white carrying a casket holding a crucifix. Jesus’s body was exposed to the chill and rain of the night. Looking down at his body in the rain stirred a sad emotion within me. To be present with the pain he experienced was eye opening and sorrowful.

We made our way to their tiny church right on the water. Compared to the Gothic Renaissance churches of the rest of Italy, it was simple and almost barren. Being rebuilt from a terrible storm a few years earlier they had only been able to rebuild the pews and alter in front. We gathered into the damp and frankincense scented church and sat on the hard, familiar, wooden pews. The service was short, consisting of many calls and response we could not translate but hum along with as we had in the street. We sang a little and then it was time to go.

 The town folks gathered in a line down the middle to give their blessings to the recently processed crucifix of their church. I walked with them, making my way to Jesus. I did not know what to expect, just that it made sense to give my blessings to this holy man on this day. When it was my turn I went up with an older women. She put her hands on his head, she cradled him like a newborn baby, kissing his forehead and holding his hand. Watching her comfortable and sentimental gestures with this statue made my heart melt. I put my hand in his thin, glossy, statue hand and stroked his cheek like I would my daughter. Tears welled in my eyes, I remembered how much I had once loved Jesus, and I forgave him in that moment. I forgave a hard childhood, my anger at the Catholic Church, the concept of original sin. I forgave all the shit people put on him and do in his name. I just filled my heart with love. I kissed his cheek and left that church feeling more alive, like I had turned a leaf in my adult life. Making peace with Jesus.