By: Phoebe Hyde

Introduction

 The Best American Travel Writing 2009 series, edited by Simon Winchester compiles 25 pieces of the best travel writing from 2009, and includes an introduction by the editor (Simon Winchester) as well as brief synopses of each author included in this series (“Contributors’ Notes”). Winchester’s British background made him once partial towards British travel literature, but he has since been able to overcome his admitted ethnocentricity. Winchester even goes as far as to state in his introduction that “American travel writing of a certain kind is better and more stimulating than anywhere else in the world” (xxii).

My lifelong desire to travel made it difficult for me to choose just one travel writing book based on only one place. My first attempt at reading travel writing, I thought, needed to be a well-rounded and all-encompassing experience—one that introduced me to a variety of places, journeys, sights and smells. Not that I don’t yearn to learn a detailed background of each place I visit, but I was motivated to learn about a multiple places in order to discover a diverse set of future travel destinations. Thus, I quickly declared The Best American Travel Writing 2009 my best option.

 Review & Reflection

 This being my first experience at reading professional travel writing, I found myself in constant amazement at the ability that these authors have to pull the reader in and describe what their eyes have seen in such an explicit manner. As explicitly detailed as these pieces can be, however, my first two readings did not have me hooked. Andre Aciman’s “Intimacy” and Karrie Jacobs’ “Terminal Beauty”both seemed a bit bland to me. “Intimacy” detailed a man’s revisit, with his two sons and his wife, to the street he lived on as a child in Rome. He discusses his inability to overcome his ill-feelings towards his neighborhood and how “parts of us just die to the past so that returning brings nothing back” (49). To me, a story based on a “memory of hating [one’s] street” is depressing (49). I also found the writing to be a bit insensitive and could not relate to his descriptions or his words. I was not impressed by the way he talked about being ashamed of the place he lived, on Via Clelia, and the people who lived there (46). It was pessimistic writing that simply rubbed me the wrong way.

Meanwhile, “Terminal Beauty”offered a very unique and brief discussion of traveling through an airplane terminal. While many travel writing pieces discuss a certain exotic and memorable destination, Jacobs chose to write about a place where people typically, and without much reflection, pass right through on their way to a particular destination. While the discussion of an airplane terminal is uncommon, and compelling points were discussed—like how today in our fast-moving world “glamour has been replaced by efficiency”—the visual appeal of this travel piece was absent (262). When reading travel writing, I expect a plethora of description to allow for a picture to be created in my mind, which then makes it easier to follow along with the text in a way that inspires me to get to that given place. In this piece, however, envisioning the “long…hall with a sloping white corrugated-steel roof supported by metal latticework” just wasn’t enjoyable (262). It’s not pretty. Overall, the verbiage, due to the chosen topic, was just too technical for this piece to have travel writing appeal applicable to my tastes. Clearly, other people who are not as fond of color and detail as I am may have thoroughly enjoyed the distinctiveness of the topic and the author’s noteworthy interpretation of change spurred by technological advancement, making this piece suitable for the series; but it just was not for me. I found confirmation in my feelings of both of the aforementioned pieces when I was not able to find any positive reviews of either essay in my research.

I proceeded to look up reviews of this 2009 series as a whole to determine the direction I would take my next readings. I found a couple of great guiding reviews on Goodreads and LibraryThing that gave a brief synopsis of a few of the titles contained in the book. Being personally driven to water, and often referred to as a “deep water girl” by my father, the stories discussing water and the ocean drew me in, naturally. A review on Goodreads about “A Tale of Two Crossings” quoted, it is a piece “which inspires others to visit the place they’re reading about.” This being my motivation for reading travel writing (to discover future travel destinations), I quickly flipped to page 266 and started reading Mark Schatzker’s “A Tale of Two Crossings.” This piece detailed the author’s experience traveling across both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans by ship and how traveling by sea is an outdated but noteworthy method of transportation. Having originally read another Goodreads review, which explained the piece as one that described “the surprising differences between cruising the Pacific and the Atlantic,” I’ll admit that I was expecting the piece to more intricately discuss the author’s interaction with the ocean. Instead, the story focused on the Schatzker’s experience inside the ship. There was a lot of time spent describing the logistics and the inside views—inclusive of the casino, pubs, restaurants and indoor pools. Being turned off for I moment, I snapped into a realization that my expectations of the story, and his expectations of his trip, were maybe the same. This became evident when he noted, “despite being on the ocean, I found myself craving it” (271). This quote shed light on Schatker’s attitude towards his experience, further detailing how although he undoubtedly valued each trip across each ocean, it had its drawbacks—that of not experiencing the roaring ocean enough for what it was, and instead having to spend a majority of the trip indoors. Both myself as a reader, and Schatzker as the explorer and author, both wanted more intimate interaction with the water. This realization made me value the piece for its honesty, on top of the plethora of included description, for it did not sugarcoat the reality just to create a better story. This quality is to be much appreciated in an author—especially one of travel writing.

I then delved into Bronwen Dickey’s “The Last Wild River”, which quickly distinguished itself as the most colorfully detailed piece I’d read yet. The topics discussed in the piece were rich, ranging from appreciating nature and local characters to the discussion of an overpowering technological and man-made world as this woman sought to mirror an experience her father had with the Chattooga river back in the day (something seemingly harder to do than she anticipated). Not that Dickey’s intention was to sell her experience, in fact, it was probably to do that opposite in order to preserve the natural state of the area in accordance with the beliefs of the local residents with whom she interacted, but this piece truly resonated with me and sold me on the value of simple living and seeking out those opportunities to interact with untouched nature. Further, although frequent references to Deliverance, a novel made into a film written by Dickey’s father, poet and novelist (James Dickey) and one I have never seen, were dispersed throughout the piece, the piece was still easy to follow and understand. Even with my absent background knowledge on this piece’s author, the author’s famous father, and the popular film, the explicit description and flow of the piece allowed the piece to stand on its own, solely based on the high value of the writing. This piece was a demonstration of Bronwen Dickey’s exceptional talent for descriptive writing, for as a reader who did not understand any of the supplemental references I was still able to fully enjoy the read without feeling hindered. This, I learned, was a concept that plays into the overall theme of the pieces included in the 2009 series.

Theme

The Best American Travel Writing 2009 series is uniquely edited for the benefit of an inexperienced audience, and I mean that in the best way possible. The target audience of this series is those people who may have not yet had the ability or desire to travel the world. It appears that Winchester chose pieces that will make sense to most people, as well as pieces that will inspire the readers to visit the place they are reading about. He spends an extended amount of time in his introduction explaining how American citizens lack a desire to travel, how a limited number of American citizens even have a passport, and how “73 percent of American children can’t find France on a map” (xxi). He explains how his motivation towards choosing such vividly descriptive pieces was so that young Americans, including his fifteen-year-old friend from New York who could not locate Israel on a map, would be encouraged and eager to travel and learn the world (xxv). While vivid descriptions link each piece in this series together, that could likely be said about most travel writing literature. These pieces are connected in yet a more distinct way.

The readability of each piece, in a way that does not require extensive background knowledge of geography or cultural history (as mentioned about Bronwen Dickey’s “The Last Wild River”), links these works together. Each piece is so colorfully descriptive and eloquently written that one can still enjoy and understand each piece despite one’s inability to relate to the work because of his/her limited background knowledge.  This is unique about the 2009 series, and is a uniting theme that connects back to Winchester’s motivation to inspire American citizens to adopt the travel bug. In order to do this, it seems it would be most effective to include pieces in the series that would resonate with as many people as possible by being easily understood; and that is exactly what Winchester did. The terminology in the pieces is simplistic, the geographical references aren’t extensive (and if they are, they are explained), and each piece provides a well-rounded collection of information to backdrop each story being told, thus allowing for minimal confusion.

Further, in the Foreword, written by series editor Jason Wilson, a quote by renowned Paul Theroux is mentioned, stating, “The misperception is that the travel book is about a country. It’s really about the person who’s traveling.” The pieces selected for this series also directly parallel this quote. Each story is an individual’s account of a memorable experience that has in some way influenced him or her. Not only is this an aspect that distinguishes travel writing from guidebooks and the like, but this is certainly an aspect that connects each of the 25 pieces included in this series together. Stories ranging from Rome to Chattanooga, Tennessee clearly contain very distinct information and descriptions; however, each author of each piece is sharing something personal with the reader. These distinct aspects about the pieces included in Winchester’s The Best American Travel Writing 2009, truly help to distinguish this series as a notable and worthwhile piece of literature.

I have to admit I am thrilled with my choice of literature for my first effort at reading travel writing. I didn’t just get what I was hoping for out of reading this series; I got a little something extra as well. Yes, I discovered a variety of places that I, given the opportunity, would take a trip to without hesitation (like Cuba for example). Reading this series, however, also re-inspired me to maintain a journal and to write more consistently. I was once an avid journal writer—one who jots down loose thoughts and reflections on the events of the day, and who always recorded her stories throughout abroad travel—but that has become an old habit. I have always enjoyed writing, which undoubtedly contributed to my decision to declare a minor in Professional Writing, but I too often let other things dominate the way I spend my time. After reading this collection of travel writing pieces, however, I became inspired to write more frequently and more vividly. To write even when I think it may not have significance, and to write down my reflections on simple experiences. Some of the pieces in this series seem to have been derived by such a simple thought or impression, making me realize that any personal connection with an experience has the potential to make for a good story. This motivated me to ensure that I keep writing things down, because you never know what those once simple thoughts could turn into. I do feel as though I have the potential to write creatively like these writers do, and reading this piece of literature truly resonated with me and reminded me to stick with my inherent passions—namely, writing.

 

References

 

 

Below, you will find an ethnographic account of one student’s experience at the Lexington BBQ Festival, and another student’s account at Stamey’s Barbecue in essay format. You will also find analyses of several surveys distributed at the festival, in the restaurant, and online. The last thing included in this section is an interview with a Lexington BBQ Festival attendee.

 

 

 

1) Challenging Cultural Expectations at the Lexington Barbecue Festival          

By Mia Brady

 

When driving through the tiny town of Lexington, personal driveways turned parking lots were found on every corner, with residents directing traffic. It was clear to me that Lexington was experiencing a day during which their little North Carolina town was filled with more people than usual. After paying $5 for parking and walking up a hilly, narrow road, we found ourselves in the middle of the Lexington Barbecue Festival. I couldn’t help but feel I was in the midst of a bustling flee market. Rows and rows of little tents were set up, selling everything from BBQ sauce (appropriately) to little knickknacks, like wood picture frames and cloth purses. I found myself confused initially; so where was the barbecue? I wanted more than just sauce! From my first few moments there, I knew that this festival would be different than I expected.

 

Before coming to the festival, I expected the focus to be on North Carolina BBQ, with lots of different recipes of authentic barbecue available. But as we wandered around, taking in the energetic atmosphere, we noticed lots of fried food tents and commercialized foods. Fried Oreos, Snickers, Twix. Any candy you can name, it was there- fried. Not to mention, fried chicken and onions. As a New Jersey native, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the boardwalk at the Jersey Shore. This was authentic North Carolina food? We finalized stumbled upon a tent for roasted corn on the cob, and were reassured to have an option that wasn’t fried. Of course, you could have your corn dipped in a vat of butter (which I opted out from) but hey, it was still a vegetable right? I have to admit, this corn was delicious. Perfectly roasted and tasty. As we chomped on our corn, we wandered through the eclectic crowds. There were groups of teenagers, families with young children, middle-aged groups of women, elderly couples holding hands, 20 somethings. There was no question that the festival drew in all different types of people.

 

We took some time to walk along the row of tents. Of course we came across tents for bows, flags, jewelry, clothing, ornaments, etc. We began to meander between the tents, finding the places to try different barbecue sauces dispersed within the tents housing t-shirts and costume jewelry. We skipped on the commercial tents, and made sure that we tried every barbecue that we could find. We waited patiently at each of the sauce tents, with the scent of barbecue wafting as we waited. From Bubba’s Finger Lickin, Throat Ticklin sauce to Nephew’s BBQ Pumpkin flavored sauce to Knot a Yankee BBQ sauce (which was the only sauce that served theirs’ with some actual meat!), we got our fair share of tastings, from sweet to spicy. Tasting the different sauces was a nice reminder of the validity of this barbecue festival.

 

After spending some time tasting, we walked by a parking lot full of show cars, passed a stage with live country music, and found our way to a large map. We were curious to find the actual barbecue tents serving sandwiches and platters, and were shocked to see that there were only three large tents in the whole festival that were serving fully barbecue meals. We asked a woman who was handing out handheld maps, and she filled us in; the three tents were served by attendees and volunteers from barbecue restaurants in the area, like Stamey’s in Greensboro and Smokey Joe’s in Lexington. We took some handheld maps and were on our way, navigating through the crowds walking in aisles between the tents, past men holding “Trust Jesus” signs and shouting religious praises. We peaked in at each tent making up the long rows, watching people have caricatures drawn, tasting different chocolates and peanuts, and looking at Christmas ornaments and glass figurines. Of course we made sure to stop at all the food, not wanting to miss out on Carolina Kettle Corn, Virginia Peanut Company or the many samples of maple butter fudge, peanut butter fudge or dark chocolate fudge.

 

It took us about a half hour to get to the other side of the festival, between the crowds and our interest in the food tents. Once we finally reached one of the massive barbecue tents, we realized it was a good thing that we had stopped and snacked, because the lines were quite long. We found ourselves waiting amongst hungry barbecue fiends, for about 20 minutes with very little progress. I overheard a passerby say, “This is the only barbecue tent here!” While her observation was in fact incorrect, I could see where she was coming from. To the right of the tent was a seating area with about 10 long tables filled completely with groups of families and friends chatting and eating their barbecue; sandwiches, curly fries, hotdogs and barbecue trays on foil. I was surprised to see that these items were the only ones on the menu, but realized as I got closer and closer to ordering, that it simply made the process easier for the servers. As I peaked behind the servers into the inside the large barbecue tent, the hectic atmosphere was palpable. And it was no question why the atmosphere was so frantic; these servers had to make sure that each of the tens of thousands of hungry festival goers received their barbecue, and were content with their barbecue.

 

When we were finally close enough, all four of us ordered $5 barbecue sandwiches and received our food almost immediately. Opening the foil, I had very high expectations. As I bit into my tender, vinegar-based sandwich, I involuntarily “mmmed” at the delicious taste. So it was worth the wait. I opened the top of thee sandwich, and noticed that the meat was cut in very small chunks, and toped with tasty vinegar coleslaw. My classmates and I unanimously agreed; this was good. I looked around me at the hundreds of people, enjoying their barbecue. I couldn’t help but realize that despite the somewhat cheezy atmosphere, and the few tents serving actual barbecue meals, the Lexington Barbecue Festival added something to the culture of North Carolina Barbecue. The draw of the festival was unquestionable; barbecue lovers united at this event that is bound to continue for years to come.

 

2) Local Experience at the Lexington Barbecue Festival                   

By Brittany Wheatley

 

The only city festival I’ve ever been a part of is my hometown’s 4th of July celebration. The sidewalks are lined with crafts and decorations that try to link the passerby with the local businesses and a feeling of community.

 

When I was preparing myself to see the 29th Annual Lexington Barbecue Festival, an event that I had often heard of in the course of the two month count down, I did not picture Laurel, Delaware. I was expecting a fairground with plenty of parking, not Lexington’s Main Street shutdown from 5th Avenue to 4th Street and a $5 fee for all day parking in the backyard of longtime local, Kep Keply.

 

I arrived at 4:30pm, ready to spend the last 90 minutes of 2012’s festival with eyes wide open and my voice recorder close at hand so as not to spare a second when experiencing historic Uptown Lexington. Kep Keply was my first interview, and from him I learned that waiting for the end of the festival might have been a good choice if I wanted to see everything the vendors had to offer. “Two hours ago is was so crowded, you wouldn’t have been able to find parking, see the festival, or walk the trail.”

 

Keply has lived in Lexington since he was a young man, although he hasn’t been to the barbecue festival in years. With each passing year, the need for parking has increased and many community member like Keply charge a small all day fee to visitors so they can park in backyards. And it was here that I learned a community approach to the local festival I had never considered.

 

When I asked how he felt about the local event, I expected Keply and his neighbors to be rejoicing at the chance to share their community with others. The festival brings people from as far away as Germany and Australia to buy from a huge selection of food and craft vendors. Instead I learned that the event can be frustrating for locals and businesses. There isn’t enough parking, there aren’t enough people to organize a new system of parking, and almost all the businesses in the area of the festival have to close for the festival.

 

Some businesses, like the Purple Pig Emporium, stayed open; but it’s hard to compete for business with the festival affecting transportation. And there is a question of how cost effective is is for those towns to open on festival days. For the Purple Pig Emporium, the festival was their opportunity as a new store location to get their name out to the public. An art and collection gallery in which artists rent out a space and design to attract customers, the Purple Pig Emporium targets customers looking for something different. The owners were first attracted to Lexington because they saw the town as a growing shopping location. By just a glance in their store, they seemed to have plenty of customers despite the craft and attraction competition outside.

 

Vendors for the festival are approved by the festival director Stephanie Naser, who is also the daughter of the original Lexington Barbecue Festival, Stephanie Saintsing. Vendors submit a petition to be able to participate the festival. Some of the attractions that stuck out were a Statue Mime, Carnival Tent with an Elephant and Pigs sandcastle and the Farm Animal Race.

 

White painted face matches the tux and top hat of the Statue Mime who asks for tips to support local art; for a dollar or more, he plays a tune on black guitar an avenue before the Farm Animal Race. Pig and ducks with NASCAR related names (like Number Fourteen, Squealing Tony Stewart) attracted the kids and parents not busy with the kiddie rides or “The Tales of Barnacle Bill: Pirates, Poets and Pretty Maid All in a Row”.

 

The main attraction I expected was for the barbecue itself. I was looking forward to a competition between barbecue vendors, with a large selection of barbecue styles to choose from. What I found was multiple Lexington barbecue restaurants working together to create fifteen to sixteen thousand pounds of one recipe. Although it didn’t meet my expectation, the people and barbecue I was introduced to were phenomenal. I even saved enough room to try a North Carolina hand lump blue crab cake, a much creamer recipe than I have access to in my hometown.

 

Seeing the closing down of the 29th Annual Lexington Barbecue Festival allowed me to see the evolution of a local festival from massively populated to the barebones of a closed down town. The stark difference encourages me to want to see the beginning of the festival until it’s peak in 2013.

 

3) Writing in a Notebook at Stamey’s Barbecue                                                   

By Will Stiefel

 

Walking in to Stamey’s, you encounter a small waiting area with a counter in front of you. It is 1:00 PM on a Thursday. The counter runs around an entire side of the dining room, surrounding the kitchen, registers, and server area. Mostly individuals are seated at the bar and, when possible, there is a seat separating each customer. The customers at the bar are all older gentleman, appearing over the age of 40. Each has a coffee and one man is drinking a milkshake. Not everyone is eating at the bar. Those who eat, have a small sandwich or a small plated portion of chicken. While the men at the bar sit, drink, and eat quietly, the female servers buzz around cleaning and taking orders. Each server has her own section and keeps a very pleasant demeanor.

 

The main dining area is in front of the bar. There is a row of square tables running parallel to the bar, equally as long, with enough room to pass between the two sections comfortably. Each table sits four and none are full. The average table has two people sitting and eating, everyone who sits at a table orders food. One young soldier in uniform sits with his friends at a table near the back of the room.

 

A row of booths runs parallel to the tables along the wall opposite of the bar. More people are drawn to the booth tables than the middle tables. The wall along the booth is filled with old pictures from the early days of Stamey’s. These depict men fueling the barbeque pits or customers filling the restaurant.  The pictures give the inside atmosphere a more traditional sense of barbeque.

 

The tables are in high demand at the peak of rush and the waitresses turn them over as quickly as possible. However, everyone seems to be taking his or her time eating, talking, and relaxing.  While the restaurant is still crowded, our presence is not obvious. However, the rush comes and goes fairly quickly and, at around 2:20 PM, the restaurant is about a quarter as crowded. Now, as we are ushered to our seats in the corner of the restaurant, the majority of patrons are much older. Other than one man sitting by himself, everyone inside is seated at a booth table. There are three older couples, two middle-aged ones, and two mothers with children. The bar is now completely empty when it was full only fifteen minutes prior to us sitting. Post lunchtime rush must be a more flexible, quiet time for couples and families to eat at the restaurant.

 

The food is brought out very quickly, on different sized paper plates depending on what is ordered. Sides come in separate dishes. I order the sliced pork sandwich, which comes with coleslaw on top of the pork. I add the vinegar based barbeque sauce they provide because just the pork and coleslaw is a little too dry for my taste. The sandwich is delicious, the pork extremely tender. I also have a side of hush puppies that are equally well done. Crispy on the outside, warm and moist on the inside, just how they should be. Everyone else enjoys their food and the waitress is prompt, patient, and pleasant when dealing with is. Finally, when we are closing out our bill, the restaurant is relatively empty, with only three or four tables being used. The smell of pork wafts throughout the inside and even finds its way outside surrounding the restaurant. However, we learn that the pork is not cooked here. Rather, all of the pork is smoked at their High Point Road location.

 

 

 

 

Lexington BBQ Survey Results                                                                      

By Julia Realmuto

 

After sorting through several surveys from the Lexington BBQ Festival we were able to garner a lot of information about how people view North Carolina BBQ and its importance. Overall, we had 93 people participating in our survey. Of that 93, 63 thought they knew the difference between Eastern and Western North Carolina BBQ and 30 were able to admit they did not know the difference. Furthermore, 77 people were unbiased and said they would eat the other type of BBQ even if it was not their preference although there were 9 people who were die-hard BBQ lovers and would not eat the other type. Finally, 52 participants thought that BBQ was ‘very important’ to North Carolina culture, which was the overriding answer. Most people thought that BBQ had an important impact, which illustrates how ingrained BBQ is to the people of North Carolina. Interestingly, only 2 people out of the 93 thought that BBQ was not important at all to the culture.

 

Stamey’s BBQ Survey Results                                                                           

By Phoebe Hyde

 

After reviewing the survey data collected at Stamey’s Restaurant in Greensboro, NC, we were able to gain a sense for how people view North Carolina BBQ and the overall importance of BBQ. Overall, we surveyed 34 customers at Stamey’s. Of those 34 customers, 18 of them could articulate the difference between Eastern and Western North Carolina BBQ. Meanwhile, 25 of the customers surveyed stated that they were unbiased towards the two types of BBQ, regardless of their preference, and would eat both types. None of the customers surveyed were die-hard enough BBQ fans that they would refuse to eat either type of BBQ. Further, 17 of the 34 people surveyed believe that BBQ is “important” to North Carolina culture, while 11 out of the 34 people surveyed feel that BBQ is “very important” to North Carolina culture. Only one person believes that BBQ has no importance to North Carolina culture.

 

Poll of NC BBQ Results                                                                                

By Paige Ransbury

 

In an attempt to reach a larger audience, we created a poll and posted it on Facebook. 433 people, the majority of which were female between the ages of 18 and 30, took the survey. The results showed that the majority of respondents do not eat BBQ very often: nearly 60% eat BBQ less than once a month, and 37% eat BBQ 1-2 times a month. When asked how important BBQ is to North Carolina’s culture, nearly 42% answered that it is “very important” and 40% answered that it is “important.” Only 10 people out of 430 thought it was “not important.” While most people believed BBQ is important to the culture, less than half (49%) of people who answered the question understood the difference between Eastern and Western North Carolina BBQ. In regards to side orders, 36.6% thought they were “important” when it comes to choosing a BBQ restaurant and 28% thought they were “a little important.” The most popular side order by far was hushpuppies, with 75.5% of respondents claiming it was their favorite side. Coleslaw came in second, with 54% of respondents claiming it was their favorite. The least popular side was pinto beans, with only 5% of respondents claiming it was their favorite.

 

 

 

 

Kaffe Cope and the Lexington Barbecue Festival

By Brittany Wheatley

 

Kaffe Cope, owner of Smokey Joe’s Barbecue, is one of the five Lexington barbecue restaurant owners who has participate in the Lexington Barbecue Festival since it’s creation. Each restaurant contributed fifteen to sixteen thousand pounds of barbecue for this local festival that brings visitors as far as Germany. As the 29th Annual Lexington Barbecue Festival wound down, Cope answered a few questions about the barbecue being served and the festival past and present.

 

What restaurants participate in the Lexington Barbecue Festival? Why them?

“Smokey Joe’s, Barbecue Center, Speedy’s Barbecue Inc., Jimmy’s Barbecue and Stamey’s Barbecue are all Lexington restaurants. We’ve go so much invested in this event, and even when people say there are other restaurants, you just don’t let another one walk in….We are five restaurants working together as a team.”

 

When did you start cooking for today’s festival?

“12 o’clock yesterday. We can cook 129 shoulders at my house. We cooked at the restaurant all night long.”

 

What kind of barbecue is made at the festival?

“Smokey Joe’s barbecue is pit cooked. Pit cooking is an art, and we still have people who know how to pit cook, so that’s what we choose to do at this time. It’s just a different kind of flavor. The slaw is ketchup based; made with ketchup, vinegar, sugar, salt and pepper. We have mayo based slaw at our restaurant, but not at the festival.”

 

What was your first Lexington Barbecue Festival experience like?

“It was a learning experience. And then the next year just washed us out. I mean, the chances you take of it raining after you’ve cooked a tremendous amount of food is always a worry. But we take it. It’s what we do for the community and the economy of the town.”

 

Some people local forward to the Lexington Barbecue Festival while others feel more resigned about the event. How do you feel about the situation?

“I do not understand that concept. In a town with 10% unemployment rate, why would you not want it to come to town with all the people who are spending money?

 

How do you prepare for next year?

“We start preparing for next year as soon as this one is over. We usually gage how this year went and then we start in the summer; we’ll talk and then have our first meeting right after Labor Day. We’ve done it so much, it’s really just watching the weather.”

 

Last Comments:

“We’re just so proud of our heritage, and our ability to do this every year.”

 

By Julia Realmuto

In the small town of Lambertville, New Jersey a modest white colonial restaurant carefully is situated on the calm Delaware River. While from the outside it may appear to be a home filled with history and stories of the past, the aroma from the charcoal grill lures diners in for their infamous Mediterranean cuisine. To this day, my family and I feast at this restaurant frequently, whether be it for special occasions or just a casual Thursday night meal, where we know we will get a delicious product and never be disappointed.

As a child, I was a parents dream I would not only eat my veggies but I enjoyed them, I wouldn’t limit my palate to steamed baby carrots but instead ate beets sprinkled with red wine vinegar that I had helped to prepare. My small fingers would be stained fuchsia from peeling the root vegetables. I never had to be told to eat anything; I trusted my parents’ guidance when it came to food.

On what is a typical hot and humid New Jersey summer night, the chant of crickets and the twinkle of thousands of stars in the sky heighten my senses. Once seated at our usual table at the Hamilton Grill Room, my parents place their anticipated appetizer order. After only a couple minutes, there appear atop a bed of ice cubes, a dozen super-fresh oysters on the half shell accompanied with a champagne mignonette and lemon wedges. At the age of eight however, when examining what was placed in front of my discovering green eyes, all I could think was ‘that looks slimy.’ As a child I had been to the beach countless times but this shell was like nothing I had ever send. It was oddly shaped, as well as rough unlike the clamshells I was used to collecting on the seashore. I decided this creature could only be the pariah of the ocean world was supposed to be consumed? Not possible. After watching my parents with amazement gingerly spoon on the champagne mignonette and effortlessly slurp down the raw oyster seemingly pleased, I was intrigued.

I looked to my parents for their permission to initiate what I would later become a defining moment in my long journey of food. As I somewhat nervously picked up the surreal aphrodisiac, prepared for me by mother, I mimic what my parents had previously demonstrated for me; and I cautiously slurp. Suddenly there is a myriad of flavors and textures exploding in my mouth. As the briny, chilled, smooth oyster glides down my esophagus, all I can think is ‘that was unlike anything I have ever tasted. After I took a few seconds to collect my thoughts about what I had just experienced I saw my parents waiting in anticipation for my review. When I went to grab another oyster they had gotten their answer, I was in love. Unfortunately, for my parents their daughter was developing an eclectic yet expensive palate.

Ever since that evening that served as an epiphany, my adventure with food has continued. Each time I dine at the Hamilton Grill Room; which is less frequently now that I am away at school, I make it a point to order the dish that opened my eyes to what the world of food held for me; each time this simple mollusk delights all of my senses, tantalizing my taste buds.

By Christine Meyer

Ah, the study abroad scene.  It’s that time in the typical Elon student’s college career when he or she travels to another nation, participates in the country’s zesty activities and traditions, dives into the exploratory opportunities, drinks the yummy wine, tastes the awesome food, and simply acts in the ways a young American abroad would.  If you have studied abroad, you understand these experiences.  And, I am no exception to this Elon norm and prominent college experience.

Travelling to Assisi, Italy with an eclectic group of twelve the summer in between my freshman and sophomore year, I engrossed myself in such Italian ventures.  I danced with the Catholic monks, travelled to old-timey festivals, conversed-or attempted to-in the city pizzerias, took multiple shots of espresso, and finally I ate a lot.  And then after I ate a lot, I ate more than a lot.  I simply did not want to be that one girl on the trip who sticks her nose up at the customs of the city and distances herself from the group.  Hell, I’m in Italy, why not try it?  Whatever, that it might be.

So, that was the approach I took towards many of our programs’ plans, especially when we all went to a cooking class/ food tasting.  Lezione di cucina aka this cooking lesson was one of our very first gatherings as a group.  We had only been together a couple days when we walked through hilly Assisi to arrive at our destination in the basement kitchen of a hotel overlooking the luscious shrubbery of the Umbrian countryside.

There the famed Chef Marco Gubbiotti was waiting for us.  Chef Gubbiotti looked like an Italian Casanova in the purest sense.  Dark eyes, dark skin, and dark hair, the women of our group were more than pleased to have this man teach us how to cook such fine Italian dishes.  There were just some minor leaps to hurdle: the master chef spoke to us in only Italian and at this point, my Italian was limited to meager words like dove, ciao and bellissima.  I could barely handle the kitchen lingo he was spitting at us in his fast native tongue.

Yet, Chef Gubbiotti cooked with Umbrian flair, skillful but simple and speedy.  They were classic Umbrian dishes.  Historically, the food in Umbria and Assisi are characterized as peasant cuisine meals tied to its pastoral roots, resembling the town and environment itself as nature’s gifts appear to prevail in these intensive fields of green and olive trees.

But there Gubbiotti was, just chopping away, all the while giving us a play by play as if he was Michael Kay to our group of bobble heads with the classic I have no idea what you’re saying to me nod and smile.  I could handle the first couple of items on the dinner menu.  He started with a mixed salad accented with breadcrumbs, olive oil, lime, and salt- looked tasty and normal enough to me.  But as we went to reach for the plates, Gubbiotti signaled for us to hold and began stirring up another concoction.  This time he went for a thick red sauce made with two day old focaccia bread which thickens its texture, similar to a cooked sweet potato, and added it to a sizzling pot full of tomatoes, olive oil, basil, and herbs.  The sauce was covered with a cheesy topping of ricotta and olive oil and subsequently slapped with more olive oil on top of that.  Oh, I am in the clear.  I can totally eat this.  But darn, Chef Gubbiotti told us to hold one more time.  Out he brings some sort of circular substance with a pinkish hue and slaps it atop our bread crumbed salad.  Finally, one of our group members informs the rest of us that it is raw but apparently okay according to Gubbiotti because it’s salted.  Say what?

So here I was in this tiny, Italian kitchen about to taste this dish in front of me that appeared as some kind of raw substance.  I believe it was beef carpaccio, but I am still not entirely sure to be honest.  Now, I don’t even eat the Sushi from Simply Thai so when I just starred at the meal in front of me, my stomach seemed to sort of flop over inside my body.  But I was not alone.  The rest of my fellow Italian-venturing companions were alongside me.  And, I’m sure we all looked ridiculous as the nervous laughs seemed to pile up with increasing intensity like a slow clap.  Who was going to try it first?  Should we trust this foreign man who made foreign food that was foreign to even an oven?  My stomach still held that uncertain floppy feeling.

I dug in despite my nerves as well as the rest of my group members who I would get to know increasingly well over the next month.  And though I had no idea what I was eating and it’s still a mystery, the grub was tasty.  And to be honest, I was surprised that I actually ate and tried my “squezzal.”  The gracious amounts of wine Gubbiotti provided us with probably helped with my hesitation and looking back I can say for a fact that it undoubtedly did, but it was simply a fun meal with fun people that bonded us quickly.  It also allowed us to be much more adventurous with the food tastings to come complete with medieval cooking and food.  But, the unknown, uncooked, and undoubtedly scrumptious dish was my first squeezal.

By Phoebe Hyde

The suspense was overwhelming, meanwhile confusing. What could be so special about apple pie from Ohio’s Appalachian region, and why was someone bringing apple pie to Saturday’s Ohio University football game tailgate? Typically adorned with a lattice pastry crust and filled with sliced apples marinated in cinnamon, apple pie is a well-known staple of American culture; I could not for the life of me understand the hype around this particular apple pie from Ohio, nor the setting in which it would be served to me. Should I be expecting it to be topped with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream and would there be some way to warm it up? I can’t eat cold apple pie…

Early that Saturday morning as my boyfriend Jake’s family and I prepared ourselves for a filled day of tailgating and football at Ohio University, we drenched ourselves in forest green and crisp white to prove our fandom. I was personally dressed in an oversized extra large Ohio University long-sleeve shirt that my boyfriend secretly lent me prior to our arrival, as this would be my first OU game. The bratwursts and onions were simmering in Uncle Kevin’s homemade beer broth and cell phone text chimes were filling the room as family friends were coordinating the location of the tailgate. Meanwhile, Jake received a text from his cousin stating, “I’m bringing apple pie J.” Keeping my confusion to myself, feeling as though I’ve missed some big secret about apple pie being an ordinary tailgate dish, I mirrored Jake’s excitement about his cousin’s “out of-this-world” apple pie. He must be one hell of a baker, I thought to myself. Maybe he’s just bringing it to the tailgate since he never gets a chance to see Jake. My mind wandered.

The morning turned to noon and we finally made our way to the packed lawn beside the convocation center. Moments later I was handed a tightly sealed transparent mason jar filled with light caramel colored liquid, and told to take a small sip (“small” being a critical word). I hesitate. “What is this,” I ask. “It’s apple pie,” Jake’s cousin confidently proclaimed while pushing the jar into my tentative hands.

Having been submerged in an ice-filled personal-sized cooler, the apple pie tasted cool and refreshing in comparison to the Oktoberfest brew I had been previously sipping on that had been quickly warmed by the sun overhead. The surprising taste of cinnamon and baked apples flooded my mouth with a lip-puckering sweetness. A grainy texture lingered on my tongue as the smooth liquid chilled my throat. I attributed the grainy residue to whole cinnamon sticks that had incompletely dissolved in the mixture. Granny Smith apples further contributed to the powerful tart green apple flavor, but there was undoubtedly another ingredient or two that contrasted the acrid taste. Pure sugar (makes sense!). Nearly six cups—a third brown and the rest white. But surely the two Granny Smith apples and six cups of sugar had to have also been accompanied by various complementary liquids to create this concoction that filled the transparent mason jar to the brim. After inquiry, I learned that one gallon of apple juice, a half gallon of “Simply Apple” brand apple juice, and one gallon of pasteurized apple cider were the cinnamon, sugar and apples’ counterparts. Oh, and one more integral component: Moonshine.  This “apple pie” just got a whole lot more dangerous. Among the ingredients previously mentioned, this recipe called for Moonshine—a liquid that is often substituted for Everclear for those without access to moonshine. To put this into perspective, this particular recipe equated to one that consisted of two full bottles of 190 proof (or 95% alcohol) colorless, unflavored, distilled Everclear, thus creating what I came to learn was the true name of this delicacy: apple pie Moonshine. And the story comes full circle.

Moonshine is an illegal whiskey produced in the United States. The term was derived from “illegal Appalachian distillers who clandestinely produced and distributed whiskey.” The presence of Moonshine production is a part of the Appalachian area’s culture, and dates back to the Whiskey Rebellion. The imposition of a tax on whiskey was considered an unwanted federal intervention and was largely ignored. Making moonshine was a way for rural farmers to quickly liquidate their corn when grain prices were low, but many were prosecuted for unlawful distilling. Although the hype around moonshine has been significantly suppressed, moonshining is far from totally over. The cultural history of moonshine in the area is rich and long-winded, but it was finally evident why trying this apple pie in Ohio was a necessity.

Today, Moonshine continues to be produced in the U.S. (mainly in Appalachia and parts of the South) and is often produced as more of a hobby than as a way of consuming a drink that was readily available and far cheaper. And lucky for me, I ran into someone who possesses this hobby. I personally found this to be an ingenious creation. A way to enjoy apple pie in the midst of the most appropriate environment—a brisk, young fall afternoon adorned with leaves changing from green to burnt orange that are being blown to the ground by the large gusts of wind, exaggerated in that one grassy field due the backdrop of the Hocking River. Cold apple pie was, in fact, delicious, and a seemingly underrated delicacy.

I imagine that there is an enormous market of people who have solely been exposed to the traditional warm, oven-baked American apple pie that is served on a white porcelain dessert plate after a Holiday meal. I also imagine that there is a plethora of individuals who are understandably naïve to the history, culture, availability, and creation of moonshine who would be eager to experience this distinct and tasteful rendition of the customary American apple pie. I was once a member of the untapped market of apple pie lovers, who are deprived of tasting a slice of this rare execution of this American symbol. My expectations of tasting apple pie during the Ohio University tailgate were far surpassed, and I encourage all readers to pursue an effort to become equally familiar with apple pie Moonshine as I now am.

Resources

http://www.everclearalcohol.net/everclear-alcohol-content/

http://www.theliquorstorechannel.com/everclear-grain-alcohol

http://www.ibiblio.org/moonshine/sell/prohibition.html

http://www.vintageperiods.com/prohibition.php

http://www.moonshineheritage.com/blog/popcorn-suttons-home/

http://www.whiskeywise.com/Moonshine-Whiskey.html

By Chelsea Vollrath

“It doesn’t really taste bad. It’s just…really salty.” She paused, concentrating on something still in her mouth. “And this hard ball in the middle kind is kind of freaking me out. Do I swallow it?” She did, and then laughed. He joined in her laughter. “It’s kind of chewy at first, but yeah there’s like a pellet or something in the middle,” he remarked, and then he swallowed it too.

I sat in shock, my lips pursed and eyes wide open, probably for longer than I should have.

My experience in China, more specifically, my dining experiences, certainly tested my Western sensibilities. After spending two months in the eastern country, I was used to the wait staff presenting a whole, raw fish for customer evaluation, and then bringing the whole fish back after it has been cooked. While I can’t say I was comfortable with the custom, especially not at first, it was one of the parts of the culture I was okay with not understanding but accepting. Eating fish eyes, however, is a custom I neither understood nor accepted.

I never ordered fish myself, or any meat; I decided to be a vegetarian during my stay in China for several reasons. I made a few exceptions when I was at up-scale Western restaurants where I felt I could trust the meat and in instances where I truly felt like I was missing out on part of the culture by not trying a specific meat dish. I tried the popular local dish in Yangshuo: stuffed snails; the pork and beef filled dumplings at Bao Yuan, a restaurant regarded for having the best dumplings in Beijing, and the various kinds of meat served with hot pot, the Chinese version of fondue. Aside from those occasions, I did my best to avoid it, worried about unknowingly eating dog, getting sick from rancid meat, and clogging my arteries with the copious amount of oil used during preparation.

We were on a trip to southern China for fall break and had just arrived at a hot springs resort in Guilin. The Beijing Center staff asked us to bring one nice outfit with us on the trip specifically for the dinner at the hot springs resort, so our expectations for the experience were set high. All of the dishes were pre-ordered, so within minutes of being seated, the wait staff started bringing dishes to our table. Starving, since we always seemed to be, we dove into the dishes immediately. As I spun the Lazy Susan to access the various vegetable dishes, my friends helped themselves to whichever dishes were in front of their place settings at any given moment. They ate some of the vegetables, but mostly feasted on the various chicken and pork dishes, and then on the fish once it was presented in the middle of the table. I watched as everyone dug in with their chopsticks and tried to navigate around the scales and bones to have access to the biggest pieces of meat possible. It always seemed like a lot of work; I was happier not having to deal with it.

On all other occasions where my friends and classmates ordered fish, they ate the meat on the body, and then moved on, but on this occasion, they were advised to look beyond the typical meaty areas. One of the staff members explained that, according to Chinese tradition, it is customary to give the honored guest at dinner the eye of the fish; eating it is said to bring good luck. An old adage of Chinese medicine recommends eating animal parts to nourish the same part within the human body. Applied to this situation, Chinese medicine would suggest eating fish eyes to improve one’s eyes and, by extension, vision. Being one of the recipients of the fish’s eyes, therefore, is a privilege.

Considering all of us at the table were technically guests, no one more honorary than any one else, it was a matter of who was willing to try it. There were only two people willing to try it, so it wasn’t difficult to decide who the lucky recipients would be.

One of the brave individuals was my roommate, which didn’t surprise me at all. She is half Chinese and was always more adventurous than most with her eating. She had been exposed to most of it years before on her first trip to China and at family gatherings. She is also just an adventurous person, so she probably would have been willing to try it regardless. The other student lucky enough to have the second eye was equally as adventurous since discovering he had a stomach of steel. That seemed to be an undeniable factor determining people’s willingness to try new dishes.

We rotated the Lazy Susan to my roommate, Caitlin, so she could take an eye first and then spun it to Matt’s place setting so he could take the second. Watching them reach into the eye socket and pull the eye out with their chopsticks made me cringe. The eye Matt was reaching for didn’t come out as easily as Caitlin’s. As he tried to separate it from the veins and whatever else was holding it intact, I turned away, grimacing.

When I turned around, they both had eyes in between their chopsticks and were lifting them up for everyone at the table to see. Again, I looked away. After everyone’s evaluation, fellow diners at the table initiated a countdown. “Three, two, one, go!” I turned back around in time to see both Matt and Caitlin guide their chopsticks in their mouths.

I decided that if someone had a gun to my head and was forcing me to eat it, or I was being presented with a million dollars, I would swallow the eye whole. That would assumedly make the experience a little more bearable. Caitlin and Matt wanted the full effect, though. I watched them both take their first bites. I tightly squeezed my napkin underneath the table, maintaining a look of shock and disgust across my face. I looked around and saw that most other people were making similar expressions. Considering I was usually more skeptical of aspects of the Chinese culture than most of my classmates, I didn’t feel as judgmental when I saw that everyone around me was reacting the same way.

In that moment, I tried to think of American food that Chinese people may find comparably repulsive, attempting to be less ethnocentric than I often was. I thought about it for about a minute, as everyone else laughed about and reflected on Matt and Caitlin’s experience. I couldn’t think of anything.

By Mia Brady

I felt the heat of the sun on my back, the sweat dripping down my neck. My legs ached from climbing flight after flight of the Lardarina, the seemingly endless set of stone stairs. As I took a moment to catch my breath, I grabbed my camera and snapped what had to have been my 100th picture of the sparkling Mediterranean. After a morning spent walking through the tiny village of Manarola, and a train ride to Corniglia, the endless blue of the ocean never left my sight. I had been in Cinque Terre, the five tiny cliffside villages on the coast of the Italian Riviera, for a few short hours, and I already knew it was a place I would never forget. I pushed myself to climb the remaining few flights despite the heat, knowing I had a much-anticipated lunch in my future.

To put it simply, I am a foodie. I love food, and I love what food can do to enhance one’s experience of a place. It isn’t exactly an exaggeration to say that part of my decision to study abroad in Italy (and Florence, the capital of Tuscany no less) was influenced by the prospect of amazing Italian meals. So when my professor, who was leading this class daytrip to Cinque Terre on this beautiful September day, shared that we would be having a complimentary lunch at a restaurant overlooking the ocean, I was excited. And after hiking for hours, I was hungry and ready to eat.

Our tour guide had prompted us that our meal would consist of seafood antipasti and pesto pasta, both of which are famous dishes in Cinque Terre. I have always enjoyed most fish and shrimp, but my love for seafood stops there; there’s something about the consistency that I cannot get past. When I heard that we would be having seafood antipasti, I reminded myself to be open-minded. I distracted myself with the unlimited water (something you never get in Italy) and unlimited bread (this is a little more familiar…). It wasn’t until the waitress brought out our antipasti di mare that it hit me: this was not like any seafood I had ever tried before.

I stared at the full plate for a few seconds, craning my neck at different angles to try and figure out just exactly what the thick, white creaming substance on the lettuce leaf could be. I couldn’t decide what looked less appetizing- the thin slab of some sort of white fish with the skin still on, or the purplish tentacles. My first reaction was to move my chair back and make a face. I sifted through the mix of potatoes and cold squid, eating only the potatoes. I pushed the white fish aside, which my friend insisted had to be sardines, and sifted through a portion of octopus, avoiding touching the tentacles with my fork. This was not the grilled salmon or shrimp scampi I was used to.

I glanced around the beautiful outdoor patio overlooking the cliffs, filled with tables of my classmates. Some were pointing at their plates, looks of utter confusion on their faces. Alright, so I wasn’t the only one to find this meal… less than appetizing. But others were diving right in. One being my friend Erin, who was sitting directly across from me. We made eye contact as she was mid-bite. She put down her forkful of the whitish gook.

“Mia, have you really not tried anything yet?” she asked, baffled. “It’s so good!”

“Eh, this isn’t really my thing. I can see the tentacles.”

“Just try it at least, come on. Look at where we are” she insisted, motioning to the color faced homes to our left and the rolling hills and cliffs to our right.

Although I hated to admit it, she was right. I wasn’t going to let my squeamishness get the best of me.

“Fine. I’ll have a bite… but…” I said.

“Good! Go ahead. The squid,” Erin said.

I gave her one last look of hesitancy, poked a chunk of the purplish, pinkish squid, which stayed on my fork quite easily, leading me to believe that it would be chewy (ew!), took a deep breath and brought my fork to my mouth.

I was right; it was chewy. Very chewy, and had a somewhat squishy texture to it. But as I chewed and chewed, there was nothing that really stood out too much about the taste. It tasted like seafood, but nothing spectacular. After I swallowed my first bite, I looked at Erin and shrugged.

“Not too bad. But I don’t get it… what makes this so good?” I didn’t particularly like it, but I didn’t particularly dislike the squid either.

On a whim, I cut the sardines in half and took a bite. Now this I did not like. The slick, thin fish was so incredibly salty that it was overwhelming. I’ve always considered myself a “sweet” person, and this salt was just not for me. I made a face that had the whole table laughing and swallowed.

“Ew” I managed to utter.

“Oh Mia, stop being a baby. How much would you pay me to eat this?” Erin said, as she held up a full baby octopus on her fork.

“No you won’t….” I said in disbelief.

“I will too, I’ll do it for free,” she said.

And just like that, she popped the, baby octopus, tentacles, head and all, into her mouth. I watched in disbelief as she chewed (and chewed and chewed) and swallowed.

“Yum!” she exclaimed.

I did not go as far as Erin, but I did learn a lot about myself, as well as seafood, during this cliff-side lunch. For one thing, I know I’ll never eat sardines again. Previous to my experience in Cinque Terre, I had immediately associated the word “seafood” with the Americanized version. This was the first time that my eyes had really been opened to a differentiation of what I was used to. My trip to Cinque Terre is an experience I will never forget; the spectacular views of the Mediterranean, the challenging hike through the cliffs. And of course, the octopus and squid on the plate in front of me.