Tag Archives: Eating

Our First Visitor

Posted by dkrashb on

Once again, I am on the balcony when I receive a call from my sister-in-law, Megan. She is somewhere nearby but trying to follow my directions instead of her GPS got her slightly lost. She tells me the street names of the intersection she’s at and I don’t recognize them. I am startled by the realization that I have never driven in Chattanooga and, therefore, I haven’t learned the names of more than 3 streets. She and both start googling, trying to figure out where she is relative to where she wants to be. fortunately, she figures it out–she is only a block or two away. I walk down to the street corner and flag her down as she approaches our building, catching her just before she makes a wrong turn and directing her to our parking lot. Note to self: drive the next time we go somewhere so I can at least tell people how to get to my own home!

The next morning, we run through the list of place we’ve been for breakfast and the list of places we haven’t tried yet. Megan chooses the creperie near Coolidge park. The three of us walk the long way, down along the riverfront. We point out the wetland, the civil war remnants, the aquarium across the river, the pedestrian bridge, all the sights that have become so familiar to us shared with our first visitor. Now we feel like we really live here.

We reach the creperie and it is open (the last time we tried to eat there, the neon “open” sign glowed brightly, but a bolted door sent us elsewhere). The guy working there sits at one of the booths, moves slowly to get up as we enter. We take the booth he was sitting in. He slowly moves to get us menus, then goes behind the counter and starts doing something, still slowly. He seems to have forgotten that we’re there, even though it is a tiny space and we are in his immediate view. We decide what we want to eat and what questions we have and make all of the gestures indicating we need him, but he doesn’t see us. Eventually, we think maybe we’re supposed to walk up to the counter to order; we catch his attention and ask. He looks slightly startled to have his attention drawn from his slow task and comes back around to our table. We ask our questions. I am especially curious about the specials on the chalk board with names like “Diesel.” He describes half of the specials when a family arrives. He says, “We’ll talk about the rest later” and moves away to give them menus. He turns as if to return to the counter and is startled once more when we stop him and remind him he was in the middle of describing the specials. Once we get through the ordering process, which includes coffees, he goes off and starts making coffee. I wonder what he was doing sitting at a booth when we arrived with no coffee made–we are the first customers of the day.

He brings our coffee eventually and we sit and talk, making it through an entire cup with no sign of food. Our waiter/chef seems to get distracted each time someone new arrives and it’s become obvious that he had done no prep for the Saturday morning crowd before we got there. He notices that we are out of coffee and asks if we want more on one of his passes. I hand him my cup and he turns, sets it on the counter, and then goes back to cooking. Another waiter arrives then. He checks on us and we point out the empty cup still sitting, forgotten on the counter. He brings me coffee and our food arrives about 10 minutes later. Now that there are 2, things seem to move along a little faster, but we cannot help but wonder if the first guy is high.

The food is hot and good, although Pat says his mushroom crepe is greasy. Megan and I are both pleased with our crepes that wrap around combinations of eggs, meat, and cheese. We finish up and head out, walking down to the park and continuing our tour of the North Shore waterfront, ending up on the Walnut St bridge and walking over to the South side. We pause often along the way, enjoying the view, the breeze, and the mass of people out on a beautiful Saturday morning. On the other side, we debate where to go–the Hunter Museum or the aquarium. Megan opts for the aquarium and we head downhill.

The Tennessee aquarium rivals the biggest aquariums in the US with a building for ocean exhibits and another for rivers, plus a butterfly exhibit and a huge atrium with otters playing in a simulated river below and many native birds flying freely overhead (although there is so much space, you need binoculars and patience to see them). I love aquariums. Today, I have the new experience of hand-feeding a shrimp to a sting-ray. It’s fascinating to watch the rays in a shallow pool where you can pet them, but feeding one causes it to come up out of the water to position its mouth high enough to grasp the shrimp. It’s my turn to be startled when I feel its teeth graze the backs of my fingers. I wonder how life would be different if our mouths were positioned where our belly buttons are.

We move through the exhibits slowly, not remembering many of them from our last visit, we are fascinated by the diversity of life captured behind glass. The penguins put on a good show for us. Watching them shoot out of the water, popping up several feet in the air to land on the rock ledge above the water with impossible grace, makes me marvel at the specialities represented by other species. Their feet are what really catch my attention, though. Thick and strong when they’re on the rock, but flipped back like tiny paddles when in the water, I cannot comprehend how feet can transform so dramatically in an instant.

We enter the butterfly exhibit and hunt for the species of butterflies fluttering around us. A woman with a toddler on a leash walks around us. As she tries to point out butterflies to her young son, he spots a “caution, wet floor” sign painted with butterflies, smiles and giggles and runs up to it, fascinated by the pictures at eye level. The woman jerks slightly on the leash and says, “No” firmly as he grabs the sign with both hands. She looks disgruntled and maybe embarrassed as she sees me smiling at him and says, “Of all the things for you to look at!” I am slightly disturbed when I witness parents who lack the insight to recognize that the world looks different to a child. I would have liked to have seen her get excited that he recognized the butterflies, even though they were drawings, and used that excitement to draw him into to recognizing the real thing if an opportunity arose, but not all parents are teachers. I turn away wondering if I could have or should have helped with that situation, but involving oneself with strangers’ children is always tricky.

We enjoy the rest of the aquarium, wrapping up our visit mesmerized by the jelly fish displays. Why is it that jellies floating calmly through gentle currents are so hypnotic? Returning to the bright sunlight outdoors, we decide to take Megan to our favorite Mexican place, Taco Mamacitos, for lunch. The waiter gives Megan the full introduction to the menu and sells us both on trying their most popular taco, which I’ve not had before. It is a hard shell wrapped in a soft taco filled with goodness. It’s the first time I’ve ever eaten a hard shell taco without half of the shell crumbling all over my plate. Finishing up our margaritas, we decide a nap is in order. We return to home base for an afternoon siesta and I think, “What a perfect Saturday.”

Filling Up

Posted by dkrashb on

One of the reasons I have learned to accept that I will never again look like I did at 25 is that I like to eat.  I like to eat well and I like to eat a lot.  Many years ago on a business trip to Italy, a group of Italian colleagues took me to a seafood restaurant on the coast outside Rome.  We had a 6 course meal and I relished every course, enjoying an assortment of the best seafood I’ve ever eaten in my life.  What I didn’t know was that in Italy, women apparently need to be urged to eat seconds of anything and usually refuse 2x before accepting on the 3rd offer.  After accepting 2nds during 3 courses without uttering a single “no thank you,” my colleague, Gianprimo, turned to me and said (say this to yourself in a strong Italian accent):  “Dianne!  You are a good eater!”  I laughed, but in my head I was reminded of my farmer relatives talking about their prize winning pigs as “good feeders.”

Ironically, my mother was a horrible cook.  No disrespect intended–she was a wonderful woman–but all her frustrations with life, her disappointments, even her anger seemed to go into her cooking.  The fact that my childhood was full of love and laughter was completely unrelated to the food I grew up on.  As a result, I entered adulthood as a gastronomic blank slate, willing to try anything and finding that most food tasted better than my mother’s cooking.

In Chattanooga, we stumbled upon Taco Mamacita on a visit last January.  Located around the corner from the apartment we now live in, it’s quickly become our go-to place when we don’t feel like thinking about where to eat.  They offer an assortment of tacos to choose from that are as unmexican as General Homeboy (panko-breaded shrimp fried and served with a distinctly Asian inspired sauce, mexified with heaps of fresh cilantro).  This is my personal favorite–I can never get enough cilantro.  They also serve up margaritas with freshly squeezed juice over shaved ice.  As much as I enjoy trying different tacos from their menu, I also enjoy the assortment of people that congregate there.  One evening, there was a sweet-sixteen birthday party with a dozen or so girls all dressed in their finest.  Balloons and a big sign announced the event as girls giggled and drank large cokes through straws.  On the other side of the restaurant, a family with two small children tried to eat while their toddling daughter tried to run away with her high chair. laughing hysterically at her new game.  Across from them, an older couple sat silently, the man sitting with his legs spread wide to accommodate his belly, tucking his napkin under his crotch so that it didn’t fall onto the floor.  A younger couple occupied a booth behind them, sitting side-by-side sharing their food and looking into each other’s eyes with every bite.  With every stage of life represented in about 500 square feet of space, it’s hard not to be entertained.

We also tried the North Shore Grille, although I was a little confused that they call themselves a crab shack but only offer 2 items on the menu containing crab. I ordered pulled pork.  The waitress seemed slightly crazy, complaining about a loud table of women on a ladies night out and laughing so hard when one of them slips on the stairs that she has to walk away.  Dimly lit with hard wood floors, large spaces, and a big bar right on the main street with open windows, the restaurant definitely feels more like a pub than a crab shack.  The other patrons seem like regulars–often greeting new arrivals by name–adding to the pub feel.  Perhaps if we’d opted to sit on the patio, which faces Coolidge Park, we’d have gotten more of a crab shack vibe, but it’s too hot to enjoy outdoor dining that evening.  When dinner came, the portions were so large that we ended up taking home enough food for both lunch and dinner the next day.  I’m not quite fond enough of pulled pork to want to eat it three meals in a row, but I guess if I valued volume over quality, I would be delighted.

Most recently, we discovered the Italian bistro at the East end of the main drag.  They must be new because I can’t even find them with Google.  They offer a mix and match menu where you pick your pasta, your sauce, and add whatever toppings you like.  I had the 3-cheese ravioli with vodka sauce and lobster meat.  The raviolis were house-made, fresh, large and delicious.  The sauce was equally fabulous.  The lobster meat, however, was overwhelmed by the sauce and the texture detracted from the beautiful raviolis, so I found myself wishing I’d left it off.  Definitely a place we’ll go again.  On that night, a weekday evening, we ate late, not arriving until 9PM.  Fortunately, they serve until 10PM, although only a couple of tables are occupied.  We opt to eat in the bar, where most people are sitting.  The waitress smiles with genuine enthusiasm.  She makes us feel like she’s so happy we’ve come that it isn’t the last hour their open and she’s not at all tired of serving people.  We think it must be her first day.  🙂  When I fail to finish my rich pasta, she brings the leftovers back to me in a tidy aluminum dish with a paper cover that she has carefully labeled with the contents and the date.  When I open the container the next day to serve up lunch, I can’t help but smile at the care she’s taken.

On another day when Pat is out of town, I am left to fend for myself at lunch.  I have 30 minutes between conference calls, so I walk down the street to see what I can find.  I see a sign for the River Street Deli and decide a sandwich will be quick and easy.  When I pull open the door, I am confronted by a wall with a sign for a store on the left, another store on the right, and a sign for the deli that points in both directions.  Since the store on the right is closed, I go left.  I enter a store full of crafty trinkets and wonder if I’ve chosen wrong.  A woman asks if she can help me and I hesitantly say, “Is there a deli in here?”  She instructs me to go out the back door and down the stairs.  The River Street Deli is in a walk-out basement facing the opposite direction as the store above with Coolidge Park as its view.  I enter and find that it deserted (it’s early for lunch, but I have calls through the more traditional lunch hour).  A man offers me a taste of their Stromboli.  It’s rich and salty, gooey with cheese.  I decide it’s the perfect lunch.  Walking out the door a few minutes later with hot Stromboli in a greasy paper bag, I see that park and decide I have enough time to sit and eat.  I walk towards the fountains where children squeal as they run through the water.  I find a table set apart from the fountains by a row of hedges and sit myself down to enjoy my sandwich.  The Stromboli tastes great, but by the time I finish my sandwich, I wish I’d eaten only half of it.

As I sit there munching away, a small tow-head escapes from her mother and comes wandering to my side of the hedge.  I watch her cautiously, thinking how freaked out her mother will be when she discovers her tiny urchin out of sight and within grabbing distance of a strange woman eating lunch alone in a park by a children’s playground.  I think back to my own childhood that pre-dates fears of child snatching and molestation and how times have changed that I now worry about an unattended child getting too close to me like their proximity endangers me.  Equally, I am concerned for the child’s safety, so I watch for anyone coming who might be an real threat rather than an imagined one.  Fortunately, the child’s mother comes around the hedge non-plussed.  Clearly she has known where her daughter went all along.  Her daughter wants to play hide-and-seek, but her mother is not in the mood.  She tells her daughter she’s not playing a game and if she doesn’t return to the fountain with her, they’re going home.  I smile at the mother with a smile that I hope is reassuring and not creepy.

One morning last week, Pat and I decided to get breakfast out during our morning walk.  We checked out Julie Darling Donuts.  With recipes rivaling Voodoo donuts in Portland, I had to try their “Pancakes and Bacon” donut.  It was good, but for some reason, I couldn’t taste the bacon even though it was real bacon fried up in a pan, crumbled and generously applied to the top of the donut.  The donut itself was amazingly moist, rich, and extremely dense.  I had to stop after half the donut–after that, the rich sweetness overwhelmed my taste buds.  Unfortunately, donuts don’t keep well and taking a bite later in the day meant experiencing the disappointment of a no-longer-fresh donut.  I’m glad that I couldn’t eat the whole donut–I really don’t need a new habit that adds hundreds (if not thousands) of empty calories to my already full plate.

While there are more restaurants yet to try on the same block as our apartment, I find I enjoy eating on the other side of the river more.  Not necessarily because the food is better (it’s hit or miss), but because I like the longer walk back after eating.  Of the few places we’ve tried on the South side of the river, 212 Market St appeals to my inner activist.  They pride themselves on green practices and feature sustainably grown foods, including grass-fed meat.  I find I can enjoy the food unencumbered by guilt over what I’m eating.  Plus, our friendly server, excited to learn that we’re new to the area, offers advice on what to see and do in Chattanooga.

Walking, eating, and walking again combine several of my favorite past times.  Walking relaxes me and affords many opportunities to people watch in the busy district.  Eating satisfies my taste buds.  Walking again helps reduce an overly full stomach to something comfortable again while giving me a second view of the scene of people that has shifted and changed since the walk out to dinner.  With tourists rambling over the bridge in the requisite uniform (shorts, polo shirts and white running shoes, often with black socks for men; cropped summer pants and printed T-shirts with sneakers and no socks for women) bumping up against locals on dates in summer dresses and sandals or more alternative locals in all black, chains, and boots, the word “eclectic” comes to mind. Returning over the bridge late on a Friday night in the summer means not only that the crowd is more colorful and lively, but it’s accompanied by the sounds of the summer outdoor music program playing in front of the aquarium.  I find myself walking to the beat of the music.  With the wind kicking up after sunset, the walk is doubly refreshing after a long, hot day of sitting in front of a computer.