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Travels with a Confederate

~ A journey to discover my American story.

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A touch of home across the Atlantic

25 Monday Aug 2014

Posted by Brian Moore in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

American Road trip, Annie Bailey's Irish Pub, beer, Brian Moore, Food, Irish pub, JG Farrell Award, Lancaster PA, Pennsylvania, road trip, USA, Writing

Homesick.

I swore that I would never go to an Irish or Irish-themed pub when I was in America.

But this morning, for some reason, I as I walked up King Street in Lancaster, PA, I saw the national flag waving in the warm breeze outside Annie Bailey’s Pub. And, you know what? I suddenly felt homesick and found myself drawn towards the door of the pub.

An Irish pub in Lancaster, I found I had to go in.

An Irish pub in Lancaster – I found I had to go in.

And before you think all I wanted was a drink, then think again. Well, yes, I did feel like having a ‘sharpener’, but that wasn’t the main reason I stepped into the somewhat familiar surroundings of Annie Bailey’s.

What I expected was a faux Irish-themed pub complete with leprechauns, shamrocks and Aran sweaters.

The first thing I noticed was that there was a complete lack of any traditional Irish music and no mention of ‘shillelaghs’ (an Irish club or walking stick). In fact, there wasn’t a shamrock to be seen.

Even the 'Big Fella' is here

Even the ‘Big Fella’ is here.

It’s amazing but it felt just like a pub back home: dark wood, vintage Guinness signs, copper jugs, earthenware jugs and the proud display of the Irish football and rugby jerseys. All that was missing was the comforting smell of a peat fire. That, and the aroma that only a real Irish pub has … damp clothes and stale Guinness.

Feels like home...sort of!

Feels like home … sort of!

They even had real pints!

They even had real pints!

Yet as I sat there, at the bar, with a REAL pint of beer, it could have been a Sunday afternoon at home.

I don't know how the people of Clonmel would feel about this one...

I don’t know how the people of Clonmel feel about this one…

 

However, I will soon be home and reports from the peninsula suggest that I had better prepare for temperatures in the mid to high 50s F and plenty of ‘soft’ weather. In other words, it’s going to be cold and wet.

Perfect writing weather.

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Husk.

25 Monday Aug 2014

Posted by Brian Moore in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

American Road trip, bourbon, Brian Moore, Charleston, Charleston Light Dragoon's Punch, Charleston Preservation Society, cocktails, Food, Husk, JG Farrell Award, Novel, restaurant, road trip, South Carolina, The Elliott House Inn, Writing

I arrived at the appointed time.

There was an aroma of freshly baked bread as I stood at the reception desk. I stood there like a man waiting for news of a momentous event in his life. Right now, the world outside didn’t exist; I was focused on getting a table, I just needed to get past the gatekeeper.

HUSK and the balcony where I hoped to enjoy good southern cuisine.

Husk and the balcony where I hoped to enjoy good southern cuisine.

‘Ok Sir, you’re on the wait list for our balcony. If you would like to take a seat at the bar, we will let you know when or ‘IF’ we can seat you,’ the lady with the big book said.

Sitting at the bar, I began to think I was in danger of making this experience a bit too much to live up to. I had built this meal up in my head based on what other people had told me. There was a big chance that I was about to fall flat on my face or perhaps stomach.

Anyway, I thought, I could be here at the bar for a while, or forever according to the receptionist, so I’d better hunker down and have a drink.

I perused the cocktail menu.

There was a CBWS’s Punch, which is a blend of bourbon, Barbados rum, citrus juices, honey and raw sugar simple syrup. Or perhaps I’d go for something called a ‘Yard too Far’, which is a mix of vanilla and ginger macerated bourbon, pecan orgeat and pecan bitters.

Bourbon seems to be a staple ingredient for most of the cocktails at Husk so I thought ‘when in Charleston…’ and ordered a Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch, which has no bourbon in it, is a recipe from the Charleston Preservation Society, and is a bit of a signature drink around here.

The Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch is a blend of California brandy, Jamaican rum, peach brandy, black tea, lemon juice and raw sugar.

As I waited for my cocktail, I noticed there was a bar menu that included chicken wings and burgers so if I couldn’t get a table at least I wouldn’t starve.

I settled in.

I took a sip of my Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch. It was good, very good. Then the barman said, ‘Mr. Moore? Your table is ready now’.

I had been at the bar for exactly ten minutes. As I turned in my chair, my Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch still in my hand, there was the gatekeeper carrying a menu and ushering me towards the stairs leading to the balcony on the second floor.

On the balcony, my table was indeed ready for me, as were the other seven empty tables – all ready, all empty. ‘I thought they were fully booked,’ I said to myself as I took my seat.

All on my own.

All on my own.

Was this all hype? Had I made a mistake choosing Husk?
I was about to find out.

I studied the menu.

Heirloom Tomatoes with Texas Olive Oil, Fishing Creek Goat’s Milk Feta and Herbed Bread Crumbs.

Or

Wood Fired Clams with Roasted Fennel and Sweet Corn, Virginia Sausage, Tomato Braised Peppers and Onions, Garlic Toast

I looked up from the menu to see that two couples and a group of four had joined me on the balcony.

Manchester Farm’s Quail, Roasted Peach ‘Farrotto’, Charred Eggplant and Chanterelles, Peach Relish, Honey Thyme Jus.

Or

American Red Snapper, Summer Squash and Zucchini with Fire-roasted Fennel, ‘Confit’ Cherry Tomatoes, Shrimp Bisque.

I looked up from the menu again and the balcony was full of hungry people all reading their menus as if they were studying for some final exam. Perhaps I hadn’t made a mistake after all.

After much deliberation and a cross-examination of the very helpful waiter (I think it could have skirted the line between a couple of friendly questions and an interrogation actually), I decided on:

Local Oysters with a Raspberry and Mint Vinaigrette followed by Atlantic Grouper, Fire-roasted Mepkin Abbey Mushrooms and Shishito Peppers with English Peas, Mushroom-Soy Broth.

Raspberry Oysters.

Raspberry Oysters.

As I finished my Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch, I got myself ready for what I hoped would be THE meal of the American Adventure.

The oysters arrived.

In a large wooden bowl filled with ice, half a dozen oysters in the half-shell were swimming in a raspberry and mint vinaigrette.

It all looked very pretty but I like my oyster au naturel, tasting of the sea not raspberries.

I tried a raspberry oyster.

Salty, sweet, savoury…delicious!

It was a revelation. I have never tasted anything so strange and so good all at once. The beautiful oyster wasn’t overwhelmed by the raspberry and the mint, in fact, each element worked perfectly together.

This was a very good start, a very good start indeed.

Next came the grouper.

The Atlantic Grouper.

The Atlantic Grouper.

White meaty fish, perfectly cooked with flavours of the east and west fused together to produce a meal that will be remembered with relish on those cold, wet winter evenings back on the Sheep’s Head peninsula.

It was perfect. Well, almost perfect … there was a very important element missing. Oh, this ‘something missing’ had nothing to do with the food or the room. It’s all a bit more personal.

Anyway, the experience at Husk was indeed spectacular: delicious food, cool drinks and a very attentive and efficient staff.

However, I have a very simple code when it comes to pronouncing my views on what divides a good restaurant from a great restaurant.

Forget about Michelin Stars, there is only one way to decide and it’s rather basic.

There are very few restaurants where I have eaten that I would call ‘great’. I’m lucky, I live within walking distance of my favourite ‘great’ restaurant – The Good Things Café, on the Sheep’s Head peninsula. And, in my humble view, what makes The Good Things great is the fact that I have never had a bad meal there. That’s what it takes to make a great restaurant, consistency.

Is Husk a great restaurant? I decided to put my code to the test, I would go back again before I left Charleston.

And that’s exactly what i did. Forty-eight hours later to be precise. Again, I put my name on the wait-list for the balcony and again I didn’t have long to wait.

This time, I started with Slow-cooked Marinated Pork Belly, with Pickled Greens and Asian Spices wrapped in Lettuce Leaves. Then it was time to sample the Cornmeal-dusted North Carolina Catfish, Pepper Mash Glazed Fried Cabbage with Sweet Corn, Charred Okra, Green Tomato Chow Chow.

Slow-cooked marinated pork belly.

Slow-cooked Marinated Pork Belly.

All delicious, all expertly cooked and served, and each one adding to the overall eating experience at Husk.

Charlestonians are indeed very lucky to have such a restaurant to enjoy and savour. Serving the finest southern ingredients, Sean Brock and his team at Husk have created a foodie oasis for this weary traveller. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that Husk and Charleston have restarted my somewhat stalled American road trip.

North Carolina Catfish

North Carolina Catfish

All that’s left is the question: ‘Is Husk a great restaurant?’.

image

Well, in my humble opinion, for what it’s worth, I would have to say that Husk IS a great restaurant, and WHEN I get back to Charleston again, I will head first for the Elliott House Inn, drop off the luggage and then make my way to Husk for a Charleston Light Dragoon’s Punch and an evening of great southern food.

 

 

The good life in the Lowcountry (or how Charleston saved my American adventure).

21 Thursday Aug 2014

Posted by Brian Moore in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

American Road trip, Arthur Ravenel Jr, Ashley River, Brian Moore, Bridge, cannon, Civil War, Confederate, Cooper River, Food, JG Farrell Award, Myrtle Beach, Novel, Poogan's Porch, road trip, Slavery, Slaves, South Carolina, the Battery, The Elliott House Inn, Writing, Yankee

Life in the Lowcountry.

I had just about resigned my taste buds to overly sweet or very salty food and my American journey to rainy weather, the sound of motorbikes screaming to be put out of their misery and the vision of a never-ending highway when I loaded up the car and programmed the GPS for ‘get me the hell out of here’.

Now, I know I didn’t see Myrtle Beach at its best, well, weather-wise anyway, but in a journey that had, up to that point, been full of wonder and awe, Myrtle Beach sucked all the joy out of my American road trip.

Goodbye to a very grey Myrtle Beach

Goodbye to a very grey Myrtle Beach.

With the rain still falling, I left the motel at 7am. An hour later, the clouds began to clear and I could just make out the blue South Carolinian sky that I had been promised. The landscape changed from grey seashore to green pines and live oaks lining the roadside and when I stopped to get breakfast there was an aroma of sea salt mixed with pine and sage.

The clouds disappeared as I continued my journey south and, with all the highway signs and the GPS pointing the way to Charleston, suddenly life wasn’t so bad after all.

Charleston was to be the highlight of my trip – promises of southern charm, a rich historical legacy, great food and really nice accommodation fueled my journey at this point and, boy, I wasn’t disappointed.

All I can say is thank goodness for Charleston.

From the moment I arrived, taking the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge across the Cooper River on to the peninsula and arriving at The Elliot House Inn, I could tell that this is a very special city.

Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge gateway to Charleston.

Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge, gateway to Charleston.

Tucked away, within walking distance of the ‘Battery’ which is at the tip of the peninsula, Elliott House is perfectly positioned for those who like to explore the city on foot. At the Battery, I paused looking out on Charleston Bay where the Ashley and Cooper rivers meet before they join and head off out into the Atlantic. And there, still standing like a sentry in the bay, I got my first sight of just one of the main reasons that my journey to Charleston was so important.

The  Elliott House Inn

The Elliott House Inn.

On the horizon, about three miles from where I stood, was Fort Sumter.

This is where the first shots were fired and the Civil War began. This fort in the middle of the bay saw the first acts that tore a country apart. Some 600,000 deaths later and the Union flag was raised once more in Charleston Bay.

Approaching Fort Sumter.

Approaching Fort Sumter.

Fort Sumter would have to wait until the morning. Right now, as the warm breeze made me feel alive again, I needed to sample some of that southern cuisine I’d heard so much about.

The city is packed with restaurants but the good people at Elliott House had recommended a very special eatery just a couple of doors down the road from the inn.

Husk was voted one of the best new restaurants in the USA when it first opened a few years ago and it was there that I hoped to redeem my faith in American cuisine.

Husk where dreams of good food come through.

Husk – where dreams of good food come true.

At Husk they have a simple policy: ‘If it doesn’t come from the South, it’s not coming through the door’. James Beard Award-Winning Chef Sean Brock’s menu changes almost everyday and that was just what I was looking for.

I naively ambled up the steps, through the doors and asked to make a reservation for one for dinner later that evening.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the receptionist in a lovely southern drawl, ‘reservations are closed for the rest of the week.’

Time for the Irish brogue and a bit of charm, I thought.

‘Oh, that is disappointing,’ I said. ‘I’ve come all this way and had heard such good things about Husk. Is there any way I could eat here before I leave?’ I asked.

‘Well, let me see,’ the southern belle said, looking through her reservations book.

‘You could put your name on the waiting list for our balcony, but you would need to be here at 5.30pm tomorrow evening. After that it is first come, first served and I can’t confirm at what time, if at all, we could seat you.’

‘Perfect,’ I said, ‘that’s what I’ll do then.’

As I headed off out into the Charleston evening, I knew that at least I could sit at the very impressive bar in Husk tomorrow evening, soak up the atmosphere and enjoy one or two Mint Juleps, perhaps.

Then, I just went next door to another restaurant, Poogan’s Porch, where I got my first taste of good southern cuisine: a fried oyster salad and some southern fried chicken with all the fixins. And it proved to be an excellent introduction to fine food in the Holy City.

Oh, in case you think I’ve gone mad – to a lot of people back home the Holy City is somewhere else entirely – Charleston is known (locally anyway) as the Holy City because of its many churches; there seems to be one conveniently located on almost every street.

One of the beautiful cobblestone streets in Charleston.

One of the beautiful cobblestone streets in Charleston.

The next morning, my mission was to see Fort Sumter. I made my way to the quayside where I would take the boat out to the little rocky island in the bay.

On the trip out to the fort, I got my first view of the city from the water. Back on the peninsula, the narrow tree-lined streets have survived wars, floods and earthquakes. Charleston was once the richest city in the US and it retains that antebellum charm that I imagined made it a real southern city.

From the water, looking back towards the city, you see the beautiful houses that line the quayside along the Battery and the docks that once exported the bountiful produce from the great plantations of South Carolina: cotton, indigo and rice or ‘Carolina Gold’ as it was called. The plantations along the Ashley and Cooper rivers, with their thousands of slaves, fed the merchants of Charleston who in turn sent these goods to Northern factories and mills or across the Atlantic to the textile mills of England and France.

The Battery.

The Battery.

This is another legacy of the city, a city that grew rich on the labour of thousands of enslaved people. This history is still evident today with echoes of the past everywhere to be seen: the big houses, the ornate gardens and parks, and the slave market, all standing as a reminder of a Charleston from a different time and a different world.

The houses of Charleston have a very distinctive style and the gardens are just  beautiful.

The houses of Charleston have a very distinctive style and the gardens are just beautiful.

As I made my way out to Fort Sumter, I began to imagine the scene when the first shot was fired on that April morning back in 1861. That morning, over 150 years ago, on the Battery where I stood yesterday, there would have been hundreds of people cheering as the shot and shell smashed into the walls of the fort three miles away.

The silent guns at Fort Sumter

The silent guns at Fort Sumter.

The ladies of Charleston arrived in their carriages, parasols waving as they encouraged the men to stand and fight for southern rights and freedom.

‘Hurrah! Hurrah!
For Southern rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.’

With this, South Carolina proclaimed that it was willing to fight and to die to preserve its way of life and the southern cause.

Palm tree lined streets.

Palm tree-lined streets.

At the fort, which was only abandoned as a military facility after the Second World War, I saw for the first time the flags of the United States of America (USA) and the Confederate States of America (CSA) flying together. Sumter is now the responsibility of the National Parks Service and, like all the battlefields, it is maintained and preserved for future generations.

Looking back towards the city from Fort Sumter.

Looking back towards the city from Fort Sumter.

As I stood on the highest point at Fort Sumter and looked back towards Charleston in the hazy distance, I could just make out the Battery. While, as the name ‘the Battery’ suggests, there were guns placed along the length of the water front at this point in 1861, these guns did not take part in the bombardment. The range was too great.

Flying together over Fort Sumter.

Flying together over Fort Sumter.

I took my notes and listened to the rangers explain the events that took place here back in 1861 but I have to admit that my mind was on all things ‘eatable’ and my evening ahead at Husk.

As the ferry left the dock and headed back toward Charleston, I knew that my journey had formed a life of its own; from now on, my story and my Confederate would lead the way.

But first it was time to get something to eat.

LAN-KISS-TER

15 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by Brian Moore in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

American Road trip, Brian Moore, Central Market, Food, fresh vegetables, Fruit, Lancaster Dispensing Company, Lancaster PA, Meat cup, Novel, Pennsylvania, Shoo fly pie, Writing

Lancaster, Pennsylvania, is a lot like Cork.

 

Except that there are no hills and no river and it’s a lot smaller, population-wise.

Ok, maybe it’s not a bit like Cork and, you know, that’s alright.

 

It is a very green city with avenues and streets all lined with trees. What first struck me was the range of wildlife that is so abundant here. On my first walk around the neighborhood, I spotted countless squirrels and rabbits, and this is in the centre of the city. Also, there are vultures; that’s right, vultures patrolling the city skies always on the lookout for a feeding opportunity. When I heard ‘vultures’, I immediately thought of tumble weed, bad omens, impending death and sun-bleached carcasses picked clean on the roadside.

 

However, I have been assured that even if I were to drop dead on West Chestnut Street or King Street, the vultures wouldn’t get me.  Well, not before the emergency services got there anyway…

 

Lifting weights in a park, as you do...

Lifting weights in a park, as you do…

I really like it here. Although, my insistence on walking everywhere has left the natives a bit puzzled. In a country where the car is king, walking to get somewhere seems to be a cause for much amazement.

 

But the city is flat and the block and grid system makes it almost impossible to get lost, whereas I have found driving around the city much more trying as there are numerous one-way streets which make it, in my opinion, much more difficult to get from A to B.

 

Lancaster was once the capital of America. Or of the emerging United States that is. After the British captured Philadelphia back in 1777, the fledgling Continental Congress moved to Lancaster where, for one day, the little town became the capital, until the Congress moved again to York about 30 miles down the road.

 

When I arrived, the first place I wanted to see was the much spoken of ‘Central Market’. The Central Market is an indoor market that was set-up back in 1730 so that the local farmers from the surrounding rich agricultural land of Lancaster County could sell their produce. Today, it is as the sign says ‘Still Fresh’ and, forgive me for mentioning my home city again, it all seemed very familiar when I stepped through the doors.

 

Central Market, Lancaster.

Central Market, Lancaster.

Like the ‘English Market’ back home, the stalls are over-flowing with fresh fruits and vegetables, local meats, breads, cakes and lots of other good things to eat not to mention flowers.

 

I was introduced to some local delicacies including a pie called, and I’m not making this up, ‘Wet-Bottom Shoo Fly Pie’ and for all the carnivores out there, a ‘meat cup’. I was somewhat disappointed to find that the cup was not made of meat but did contain a range of different salamis and cold cuts for you to eat while you make your way around the stalls.

 

Wet Bottom Shoo Fly Pie.

Wet Bottom Shoo Fly Pie.

Meat Cup or Cup of Meat, perhaps.

Meat Cup or Cup of Meat, perhaps.

The Central Market is a wonderful place to sit and watch the people go by. Here, you see locals shopping for fresh fruits and veg while Amish farmers proudly display their produce harvested from their fields outside the city. You can get watermelon the likes of which you have never tasted before, or corn-on-the-cob still in its husk, harvested only that morning, the biggest steaks I have ever seen, and cakes and breads warm from the oven.

 

Some of the many stalls at the Central Market.

Some of the many stalls at the Central Market.

Just outside the Central Market, I came across the Lancaster Dispensing Company. At first I thought it was a pharmacy and, I suppose, in a way it is as you can get the best local beer on tap inside. I had a glass of Tröegs Sunshine Pils, which was recommended by the barman and went really well with my Reuben sandwich. Oh, and chips here are in fact crisps…lesson learnt the hard way.

 

The best pharmacy ever!

The best pharmacy ever!

Here’s another bit of advice. Never have a starter (appetizer) in America; they are twice the size as we are used to and would serve as meals in themselves. I would also advise when given the option of small, medium or large of anything in America, choose the small. Believe me, choose the small.

 

Eating out here is, well, a bit ‘different’. Now, it could be that I’ve just been unlucky but I found the food to be either over-salted or, in many cases, tasteless. The best burger I’ve had so far was at pub in Gettysburg called The Appalachian Brewing Company. I think I see a pattern forming here and in Lancaster I have to say that the ethnic eateries are the best. I had an incredible slice of pizza from a real Italian place called the House of Pizza, fantastic sushi from Sakura Sushi Bar, but it was the steak, cheese and onion Stromboli that nearly put me into a food coma.

 

The guy behind the counter at Rossa, Rossa, the local pizza place at the end of the street where I am staying, said: ‘Do you want a medium or large Stromboli?’

 

When presented with only those two options, ‘Medium,’ I said, lesson learnt.

Steak, cheese and onion Stromboli ... medium.

Steak, cheese and onion Stromboli … medium.

 

What arrived was, well, big enough to feed a family of four. But boy did it taste good.

 

I can’t imagine how big the ‘large’ Stromboli would have been.

 

To me, it looked like a calzone but I was informed that a calzone is a folded pizza; this, Stromboli, is not a folded pizza. Whatever you want to call it, it was delicious. I think there was some form of narcotic in it because I just, no matter how much I tried, couldn’t stop eating this delicious…whatever it was.

To the last bite ... and the room is spinning!

To the last bite … and the room is spinning!

 

The Stromboli was full of good meat, cheese and just the right amount of onions, all baked until the cheese formed a delicious blanket of gooey goodness surrounding the onions and the meat, all wrapped in the best dough I have ever tasted.

 

I think I blacked out for awhile.

 

While I was walking back from the city library the other day (that’s right I am working as well), I had a funny encounter with an elderly lady who was out for her walk.

 

A free library on a fence outside a house on Chestnut Street.

A free library on a fence outside a house on Chestnut Street.

Everybody here is very polite and you can’t walk down the street without the usual ‘good morning’ or ‘good afternoon’ from all those that you meet.

 

As I was making my way slowly up Chestnut Street, I saw an elderly lady making her way towards me, walking cane in one hand and shopping bag in the other. It was very hot and humid and as we approached one another I prepared myself for the usual polite greetings.

 

She smiled, I smiled.

 

‘Whoa, hot!’ I said fanning my face with my hand.

 

The little old lady replied, without missing a beat, ‘Why thank you, dear, you’re not too bad yourself’ and walked on!

 

That just made my day.

 

 

The tomb of Thaddeus Stevens (or if you've seen the movie Lincoln, Tommy Lee Jones).

The tomb of Thaddeus Stevens (or if you’ve seen the movie Lincoln, Tommy Lee Jones).

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