Michael’s Showside Grill Review

By Lauren Franceschini

 

As we drove into Spring Hope, the first town on our journey to the coast, we noticed its sleepiness. Divided by an abandoned railroad track, the streets were lined with thrift stores, antique shops, and one restaurant, Michael’s Showside Grill, where we decided to stop for lunch. From the outside, the Showside Grill appeared to be like any other diner. The sign out front advertised live music on the weekends and small, colorful tables were set up to encourage residents to eat outside.

Upon entering, I was immediately struck by the interesting designs on the overhead painted ceiling tiles. Each tile had a different design, some amazingly artistic, others more childlike and abstract. We sat in a traditional diner booth and began looking at the menu that offered everything from sandwiches to burgers to pasta to barbecue. As the waitress took our drink order, we asked about the ceiling tiles. When the Showside Grill first opened, they invited community members to paint a tile to be displayed in the restaurant. This clearly showed how integral they were to the community and how close-knit this town was to its local businesses.

When it came time to order, I kept it simple with a chicken sandwich topped with an onion ring and a side of fries. Classic diner food. When it arrived, very quickly, I might add, the sandwich was stacked high and looked just as good as I imagined. I had never had an onion ring in a sandwich before, but the fried crunch added an extra layer of dimension to an otherwise typical meal. The fries tasted like pure comfort and it was obvious that everything was made with care.

Though there weren’t many other people eating at the time, it was easy to see how the Showside Grill could fill up on a Friday Night. There was a bar at the far end of the restaurant, and a small stage area where local bands could come in and perform. As we finished our meal, we continued to sit at our table to chat. The relaxed and quiet atmosphere encouraged us to slow down for a bit. To sink into our chairs and just enjoy the peace of being with friends on beautiful fall day.

 

An Afternoon in Tarboro

By Ciara Corcoran

 

The aftermath of Hurricane Matthew was present in Tarboro as we tried to drive into the town. Sections of Highway 64 were blocked due to flooding from the Tar River and the National Guard stood by the blocked sections, advising drivers to take detours through town. We followed the line of cars into downtown Tarboro with the cloudy weather accentuating the gloom that hung over the town.

 

The cloudy weather became cloudier until rain ushered us into a coffee shop. The Tarboro Coffee House sits at the corner of East Church Street and North Main Street in downtown Tarboro. Stepping into the shop, I was surrounded by the comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee and the buzz of families stopping by for hot chocolates or scoops of ice cream. I opted for some ice cream myself and ordered a scoop of the Hershey’s Cappuccino Crunch to satisfy both my coffee craving and need for something sweet.

 

Lauren, Abbey, and I chose a seat near the front of the store, overlooking the rain on Main Street. I flipped through the local paper, which brought the extend of the flooding into new light. Hurricane Matthew didn’t just close off a few streets; a number of homes near the river had been destroyed by the flooding. Tarboro hadn’t even been hit the hardest. Towns all along the Tar River suffered damages due to the flooding caused by the hurricane. Tarboro High School became a refuge for the residents of nearby Princeville and American Red Cross Shelters had been set up across the town. The hurricane had occurred almost two weeks prior, but the communities were still feeling the impacts. The Tar River Times reported the damages to be over $1 million dollars in order to repair the nearly 50 condemned homes and the destroyed roads along the river.

 

I finished my ice cream and looked out at the rain that now seemed to be only a drizzle. I could see flyers posted about fundraising for the families impacted by the hurricane. We hadn’t been nearly as affected back at Elon, 135 miles to the west. The few days of rain were an inconvenience at most.  We had nowhere near the damage that Tarboro was facing. After the coffee and ice cream, Lauren, Abbey, and I drove back to see the damage near the road closure. The National Guard didn’t seem too keen on us slowing down to survey the road, but we could still see places where the road had broken off and water still remained.

 

To continue on our journey, we had to drive on one section of road that was cracked in half across both lanes. We had passed this crack on the way into town, thinking it was almost chasm-like. Now, it didn’t seem like any more than a fracture in the road.

Rocky Mount Farmer’s Market

By Ciara Corcoran

 

On a crisp October morning, we pulled into the Rocky Mount Farmer’s Market. The goal: fresh apples. Status: hungry. The Market was situated in a permanent shelter on Peachtree Street, about 5 minutes from Rocky Mount’s historic downtown. I was hoping for nothing more than a fresh North Carolina apple. Much to my dismay, we were not in apple region. We were in seafood region. Outside the shelter was a man selling fresh shrimp and crawfish out of the back of his truck. Inside the farmer’s market were a variety of vendors. Sweet potatoes, fresh flowers, baked goods, grits, handwoven baskets, personalized aprons. There was even an antique car. I quickly scoured the vendors, accepting the fact that I was misguided in my apple desire.

The vendor that caught my eye was S & S Boiled Peanuts. I’d never had a boiled peanut, but that was all about to change. I struck up a conversation with the man and his wife who were selling the peanuts and revealed the fact that I’d never had a boiled peanut. Well, this just didn’t stand with him. He got up and offered a boiled peanut to me and my two friends who were along for the journey. He cracked the soggy peanuts in half for us. Inside the damp peanut shell were two engorged peanuts that looked nothing like the peanuts I knew and loved. The disdain was apparent on my face because the man reminded me that “they’re legumes, not nuts.” This may be true but I still wasn’t on board. I popped the beans in my mouth and was overwhelmed by the heat and the saltiness. I slowly chewed but had I not been in the presence of the man who prepared the peanuts, I would have spit them out. I couldn’t get past the mushy consistency and saltiness.

I thanked the man for the peanuts, and he commented on the camera I was carrying, asking what I was taking pictures before. I explained the project and he summarized it by responding in his North Carolina drawl, “So you want to know what Southerners do on the weekends? We get drunk.” He gave me some context to this by explaining that today was Koichella, a beer, music, and food truck festival happening at Koi Pond Bar about five minutes from the farmer’s market. He even said that he and his wife would be there later selling more of their boiled peanuts! We thanked him for the invitation but had to decline, not because of the boiled peanuts, but because we had to continue our journey down the highway.

We drifted through the farmer’s market some more. Completely abandoning any desire for an apple, I found Magie’s baked goods and pursued my options. I was overwhelmed by a selection of sweet breads, pies, and pastries, each looking more delicious than the next. I ended up purchasing a sweet potato turnover from. Magie recommended toasting the turnover in a George Foreman grill. We didn’t happen to bring a grill on our journey, but I can tell you that is was just as sweet, soft, and flaky eating it straight from the bag as we continued our journey down Highway 64.

The North Carolina Aquarium

By Taylor Logeman, 2014

As they approach the North Carolina coast, those traipsing near the end of Highway 64 are likely to miss a certain point of interest, though this is a site definitely worth visiting.  Roanoke Island, adjacent to the beachy town of Nags Head, is home of the North Carolina Aquarium, a waterfront facility that houses a remarkable variety of aquatic wildlife, from local species (mostly various small fish and turtles) indigenous to the region to those of a more exotic nature (like the seahorse, angelfish, and starfish exhibits).  Guests are guided through displays of all kinds, from a playful, family-friendly otter house to rooms of a more sinister nature, most notably the dimly-lit space showcasing an impressive collection of five shark species in the facility’s largest tank.

North Carolina Aquarium

Livers & Gizzards: Our Time at the Golden Skillet

By Eliza Williams, 2014

We dropped our bags in the room and collapsed onto the bed. After a long day of driving and seeking out the best of the best in the three towns we visited along Highway 64 Taylor and I were tired, but most importantly – hungry. Knowing nothing about the town of Plymouth where we stopped for the night, the two of us slugged our way back to the front desk to consult our new friend, Matt, for any viable dining suggestions. With a small variety available to us, we hopped in the car and drove down the road to the Golden Skillet, a restaurant that caters to Southern cuisine, however strange it may be.

Inspired by a recent class in which we had watched an episode of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, I decided I was putting my taste buds to the test. Slowly, we approached the cashier, a jovial high-school age girl with a Southern twang name Phyllis. Not having a clue what half of the dishes on the menu were, Phyllis gave us some advice on some of the locals’ favorites. A Maryland native, and lover of seafood of course, Taylor chose a “fish n’ chips” meal – far from the British version, I would venture to say. When I asked what “livers and gizzards” were, Phyllis was stunned that neither of us had never heard of livers and gizzards, one of the menu options. After a while of indecisive banter with Phyllis and Taylor, I threw the towel in and chose something that was as foreign to me as it’s name indicated – Livers and Gizzards.

Now, I would like to think I know a thing or two about cuisine; however, I really had no idea what had just come out of my mouth, let alone, what I had consciously decided to dine on that evening. From the title I gathered that livers would be appearing on my plate along with…gizzards? Whatever those are.

Phyllis kindly told us that she would bring us our food when it was ready, and so we went to a table with enough space for us to spread out and work on transcribing our notes for the day. Surely enough, Phyllis appeared not too long after with a tray of food. Taylor dug in without any hesitation. I, on the other hand, examined my food for a minute but then, realizing that I had chosen this path for myself, picked up one of the fried “chicken parts,” as I later learned they were, and took a bite. It had a soft and chewy texture and looked as though it was darker meat than the other pieces scattering my plate. The taste was somewhat bitter and I decided that it was not my favorite. Without being able to tell a true difference, I picked up another larger piece. By examining it it appeared to me that this was a lighter meat. Not only were my instincts on spot but this piece was so tough to eat that Taylor had about finished her meal when I was barely half way done!

The Golden Skillet

Our kind friend Phyllis came over to check on how we were liking our food and educated me on which were the livers and which were the gizzards. The gizzards, as it turned out, were the more tough pieces; I assumed that they were comprised mostly of some sort of muscle from the chicken. Apparently the gizzard is a part of the chicken that is found in its throat, hence all the muscle. The livers are, well, you can guess. I don’t know how they acquire these “parts” but all I can say is thank goodness they fry them because I don’t know how anyone would willingly put them in their mouth otherwise. While I wasn’t a huge fan of the livers, the gizzards were not terrible – despite the fact that it took me about 15 minutes to eat two full ones. This new food experience made my admiration for Anthony Bourdain much, much greater. Perhaps I was not a huge fan of livers and gizzards but, I’m still alive so, that says something. Right?

If you are in the area and looking for a great place to try some foods foreign to your taste buds, check out the Golden Skillet in Plymouth, NC. Ask for Phyllis – I’m sure she’ll remember us.

Showside Grill

By Kyle Lynch – 2014

Spring Hope is a small town with a population just over 1,000 people. On a cool, fall evening the town seemed empty, with only a few cars slowly driving through the wide streets. We drove a few blocks off the main road and pulled up to a little corner restaurant – the Showside Grill.

 

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Situated on a corner that seemed like the end of town, the Showside Grill immediately lightened up the eerily quiet town. Outside sat a few small tables and chairs, each with a candle and a small floral centerpiece. It made the view of the abandoned rail yard across the street a little bit less intimidating.

Inside, the restaurant was nothing like I had expected. The walls were littered with old metal signs, most of them revolving around beer and witty sayings to curb whining and complaints. The middle of the restaurant held a large oval-shaped bar, covered in fake cobwebs and other Halloween decorations.

To contrast the Halloween décor on one side of the restaurant, the far corner was painted a rainforest-themed mural, with large green trees and vines painted on the wall by someone with mediocre-yet-passable art skills. Under the mural was a small stage that could probably fit three or four musicians for live music, which happens every Friday and Saturday night.

Our waitress was Anne, who was strictly business. Your water was always topped off, you got exactly what you ordered, and a quick smile. She wasn’t in your face or overly polite, but she did her job and did it well.

I ordered the B.S.T. sandwich, a restaurant specialty that adds salmon to your classic B.L.T. The food came extremely quickly and was of a much larger portion than I had expected. The piece of salmon on the sandwich was big enough to be served as its own entrée in a five-star restaurant, and was cooked to perfection, dripping juice with every bite. The kicker was the Key Lime aioli sauce that coolly complimented the grilled salmon. A few patrons came in and picked up their orders to go, a surprise amenity I did not expect the Showside Grill to have.

As I ate my meal, I quietly took in the atmosphere of the restaurant. There were only a few other tables seated, and it was clear they were locals at the Showside Grill. The table loudly told stories and laughed, often jarring back and forth with the bartender, who seemed to know them very well. Although the conversation was sometimes crass and to some possibly obnoxious, I somehow found it endearing. Usually I would be upset with rude and loud neighbors at a restaurant, but I felt as if their friendly banter added to the “local spot” atmosphere.

When we left, I was full of food and took a few minutes to sit outside and take in the “view.” The rail yard really did look nice.

Canter Closer Tiny Dancer

By Taylor Logeman – 2014

It was a magical place.

I’d never seen anything like it. An impossibly enormous equestrian facility, with the rich smells of manure and fresh leather wafting throughout the freshly cut lawns. Dozens of indoor arenas covered a vastness that stretched for several acres. Riders were clad in expensive showing habits – smart top hats, gold-buttoned jackets, tailored breeches, and shined black leather boots. And their steeds, no doubt of the finest breeding and bloodlines, brushed to perfection, their riders having spritzed Showsheen to glisten their manes and tails, sported the best quality dressage equipment. Vendors from near and far had campers set up selling merchandise from horse health products, to brand new tack, to clothing of all styles for riders.

Eliza and I hadn’t even planned to make the visit to the Bob Martin Agriculture Center. The first time we’d heard about it had been a mere half hour earlier, at the end of our “officially unofficial” tour of little Jamesville by the mayor himself. Eliza and I had asked the mayor what was worth checking out in Williamston, a neighboring town of Jamesville, and without missing a beat, he mentioned the active equestrian industry. In fact, he added, there was a dressage competition going on right then, and that we should definitely head over to watch it.

It didn’t take long to find. We first passed the town’s community college, which also boasted a quality equestrian program and riding facilities. An employee gave us simple directions that even we couldn’t butcher, as it was located just down the road. It certainly wasn’t difficult to spot: an enormous sign assured all visitors that they had indeed come to the right place. A long, fenced driveway flanked with freshly mowed stretches of lawn beckoned them down the path. The largest arena greeted newcomers at the entrance, and many others quickly came into view once the road veered right. Then the animals came into focus – greys, chestnuts, bays, and roans – then their riders. Considerable parking space, yet a minimum number of vacancies, implied that this was clearly a well-attended event.

Since I was a little girl, when I first began riding, scenes such as this one were my dream. I’d ridden competitively until high school, and continued forward in college. Though my preference was (and still is) the adrenaline-based style of cross-country competition, any experienced rider, no matter what their preference, holds high regard and appreciation for the discipline of dressage. Originally a French form of riding, like ballet, it involves a great deal of proper training and gracefulness, during which the horse beautifully yields to the rider’s every aid. Even several of the terms of movement are French: piaffe, renvers, pirouette. In fact, it is a practiced often referred to as “Horse Ballet.”

Needless to say, the entire experience was breathtaking. To start, it was a beautiful day, the weather without flaw. The horses were so incredibly well trained, acquiescent to seemingly every request of their rider. An air of professionalism and competitiveness settled firmly in the atmosphere, evoking excitement in even the greenest of spectators. If this was your discipline of choice, this was the place to be.

The further we walked, and the longer we stayed, the more that truth was confirmed. For instance, I spoke briefly with a woman named Lisa, who was volunteering at the snack bar in the main dressage arena, and like everyone else we’d encountered, spoke with a thick Southern drawl. And from our brief conversation I was given a glimpse into the value of this industry in this tiny North Carolina town…

This facility is much more sought out than I’d assumed. Lisa shared that the Bob Martin Center hosts competitions of all sorts throughout the year – not simply dressage. Western style (for the less knowledgeable, picture cowboys herding cattle), English style, barrel racing, dressage, show jumping – anything one could imagine that was horse-related, they had it.

Furthermore, the center attracted a major pull with out-of-towners – even out-of-staters. Riders seeking higher competition from as far as California, even Canada, traveled to this little town for this big horsey hot spot. I pressed further, asking Lisa if this meant that the town’s economic activity heightened considerably, to which she answered emphatically and affirmatively. In other words, this center alone, which surely was a tremendous investment on the town’s part, was more than paying for itself. Because of its presence and impact, the town enjoyed a great deal more liveliness – not to mention money – from foreign visitors. What was previously a glimpse of life along the great Highway 64 was now a point of great interest for a very specific but passionate niche.

 

Snapshot of Nashville, NC

By Kyle Lynch – 2014

NAshville

When you drive into Nashville, North Carolina, you are immediately greeted by a large, intimidating brick building. A quick glance and you can read the sign for the Nash County Sheriff’s Office, directly across the street from the criminal court. Although both imposing structures, they do not properly represent the town of Nashville.

A slow drive down Washington Street showed you all the staples of an old-time town. A local tool shop, a florist, a library, a furniture store. All the shops looked old and weathered, yet not run-down.

A block off the open main road and you found the street covered in large trees, draping over the curbs providing some shade from the setting sun. Large Victorian houses lined the streets, their front lawns covered in autumn leaves. Just one block from the main town and you became engulfed in a quaint little suburb.

NashvilleHouse

Things I Lost

By Eliza Williams – 2014

2.05 p.m. My watch ticked as I stood waiting in the Boar’s Head group that crowds the deli in downstairs Colonnades right after classes every day. I glared down as the clock hands passed on and on, minute by minute. Taylor would be pulling into the parking lot to pick me up any minute. I felt my pocket buzz and reached down to see the notification. “Here,” read the text on my screen. This was it – the weekend I had been waiting for! Ever since Dr. Strickland had told us about this research project we would be conducting, I couldn’t contain my excitement one bit. Once my sandwich came off the hot press, I would toss my bags into Taylor’s car and we would start the drive to our first stop on Highway 64.

Tunes up (Country, of course), we hit the road and drove to Rocky Mount where we planned to visit the Rocky Mount Diner and pick up a souvenir. Thanks to Elon’s Media Services we were able to rent a GoPro to document our journey so GoPro in hand, we strolled into the diner – I was carrying the GoPro and definitely got some looks from the local patrons. We were lucky enough to interview one of the General Managers before stopping in Tarboro for a while to walk around and explore the quaint town. Before it got too dark, we got back onto the highway to drive to our hotel in Plymouth, The Sportsman’s Inn. Sad as it was to leave our first two towns and their charming inhabitants behind, we were struck by the immense beauty of the trip down 64. Florida Georgia Line, Scotty McCreery, Parmalee and a slew of other Country artists comprised the perfect playlist as we drove through the “country,” filled with fields of peanuts, soy beans, tobacco, and cotton. Coming from the north, I was so amazed to see this other side of life, one to which I had never been accustomed. And, you can imagine my reaction when we stopped to pick cotton. We swooned at the old-style plantations with their iconic wrap around porches and swore that we would buy one of our own one day. We arrived to our hotel in time to check-in before going to indulge ourselves in some local dishes at a nearby restaurant. A few days prior to leaving on the trip, I had called ahead to a hotel and spoken with the terribly friendly receptionist named Matt. He was kind enough to offer us a great deal for two nights at his hotel and couldn’t have been more hospitable during our stay. He provided us with all the information we needed to know about the area and even lent us a book about the Roanoke River and surrounding area. Being inspired by an episode of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations we watched in class a few weeks before, I opted for an exotic dish for dinner. Something I had never seen on a menu before (apparently it’s common in the south?) is gizzards and livers. Well, I tend to “live on the edge,” or at least take some uncalculated chances and since it was unknown to both me and Taylor, I knew I had to try it. The young, high school-age girl, Phylis, who took our order was shocked at my willingness to try it but relayed the order to the back without questioning my motives. I must admit, I was surprised at my eagerness to try this….dish. Similar to my weirdest food experience that I wrote about in my Squeezal paper for class, this dish was something I had never had put in front of me. Essentially, I was faced with a paper plate full of round, fried parts of a chicken. The taste was unique. Gizzards, I learned, are tough and full of muscle…very difficult to chew. Livers, on the other hand, are softer and have a bit more of a bitter taste. Despite the struggle to eat the mound of fried food on my plate, this was perhaps one of my favorite memories of the weekend. I was constantly surrounded by friendly and warm people whose first priority was hospitality. The sense of community and support for each other was enormous, whether we were at the Sunny Side Oyster Bar, kickin’ it with Famous Floyd and my friends the duck hunters, or we were standing out on Jennette’s Pier licking ice cream cones and watching the surfers. People, strangers to each other, would sit side-by-side and chat, sharing stories from their past and forming connections that lead to solidified friendships. Their desire to build deep relationships with each other was at the forefront of everyone’s mind. The towns we visited were nothing like Raleigh, Charlotte, or even Greensboro but, I learned that every place has a special charm regardless of preconceptions. Plymouth has its intense Civil War history, Jamesville – its special connection to the Roanoke River, Williamston – its special community and active residents striving to make their town the best it can be. Each of the eleven towns had admirable characteristics that drew Taylor and I closer and made it that much harder when we had to close the car doors and drive off. I left Elon with perceptions of the state and the people in it as those to whom I have been exposed. Boy, was I wrong. I was stripped of this perception upon driving through the first town. I was stripped of any judgments I might have had about people or their backgrounds. I lost these things and gained a new insight on this state. When you are thrown into a new environment, it is only to your detriment to enter with your guard up and with judgments about people you have never met and places you have never visited. So, as we stood on the pier and stared out into the blue abyss I couldn’t help but be proud of what I had lost.

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Piering Over the Edge

By Eliza Williams – 2014

The sand squishes between your toes as the cool, crystalline water engulfs your feet. The waves retreat and emit a soothing sound as the shells and rocks along the shore are rolled back out to sea. Is the relaxing atmosphere of the beach not everyone’s dream? After our 8-town tour off of Highway 64, Taylor and I relished in the fact that we were now strolling along the seashore in our final destination: Nag’s Head. Ice cream in hand, we ambled our way to the 1,000-foot-long Jennette’s Pier. A staple among locals and visitors alike, the pier is constantly packed with beach-goers, fishermen and other folks trying to catch a glimpse of the surfers down below. Luckily for us, the weather was definitely cooperating with us on our visit. We climbed the steps to the main entrance of the pier; however, we opted not to pay the entrance fee of $6 and simply stood by the entrance so we could look down at the surfers that freckled the water that day. Enjoying our ice cream (my Key Lime Pie flavored cone was an absolute highlight of my day), we reveled at the talent of the surfers below as they swooped in and out of the barrels of the waves. The swells were better than we could have hoped for and they kept us entertained for quite some time. A man next to us struck up a conversation and we explained our class assignment and purpose of our trip to him. As we chatted, he stood with a large Nikon camera in hand, snapping photos of his son out in the water. A Virginia native turned California local, his son had moved to the West Coast to pursue his career aspirations, as well as his passion for surfing and being in the water. After a decent amount of time, we decided we should head out and explore the coastal beach town more. We sauntered back to the car, refreshed and satisfied with our leisurely afternoon on the pier, but we hadn’t made it half way back before a pack of surfer dudes asked us if we needed a ride. Politely, we declined and thanked them. “Alright, ladies. Hang loose,” one with luscious blonde locks replied with a swoon-worthy smile.

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