Charlotte Part 2

I began day two at 5am with a trip to the local Snap Fitness. As I wound my way through what reminded me of the pine-tree forests of northern Minnesota, I pondered the night before, and what had happened. I wondered if anybody else felt the same way I did, and if it was worth more conversation. Throughout the rest of today, our dinner last night was on the topic frontlines, and I’ve been waiting patiently to write about it all day.

Last night the three compadres that arrived early to the Chef to Chef conference in Charlotte, North Carolina to explore the city and try fine food spent the last few hours of the evening at the McNinch house. The restaurant is an 1892 Queen Anne style home of the Victorian-era Charlotte Mayor Sam McNinch. For 30 years, the house has served escalated food in a fine-dining formal environment. All I knew of the place was that they required a jacket to dine. About two weeks before my trip, I went out all by myself and purchased a big boy suit just for this event.

We donned our formal attire and strolled out from the parking garage we eventually found—never try to park anywhere in Charlotte. We stopped at a tavern and the boys I was with tried some local bourbon and perhaps something called an old fashioned. I drink tap water from a fancy glass bottle that they poured into a small tumbler. After a few rounds, we walked a few blocks through the character of a busy and well-populated urban sprawl. As we approached the restaurant, we all noticed that the only person we could see inside from the sidewalk was clearly not wearing a jacket. It was okay, we would be the best-dressed gentlemen of the evening.

We strolled into the reception area where we perused the local and national accreditations. There was a review from Zagat’s that was rather flattering and generous in my opinion with their point system. There were many local awards, and letters, all adorned with varying degrees and arrangements of stars or points, some were based on a maximum of five points, and some 10. All ranged near the top.

We noticed immediately that it was very quiet. Guests were whispering, and I felt immediately that  I would break the silence with a perfectly timed fart or bump against a china hutch. We were greeted by a friendly host/server, and taken to our table which was decorated for royalty. Beautiful china, actual silverware, fancy folded napkins, etc… I don’t know the terminology for many things I saw there, so I’ll use the term fancy where appropriate. The host was also a server, and everybody working seemed to be working together and we were greeted by them all, including the wine steward.

One thing that I mention from time-to-time is that there are days and events where I really wish I could drink like a normal person. Wine is a thing I’ll never understand. I know I like the smell of it, and I know there’s a whole culture and side of my profession that I can never be a part of because I’ll take it too far. So when the sommelier greeted us, I asked him politely to take my glasses away. I didn’t tell him why; I didn’t have the time.

Shhhh, inside voices please. Only violin played overhead as the S's, T's,  and stifled laughter were all to be heard from other patrons. We were given menus and we quickly decided we wanted the five-course Chef tasting at $189 each to include wine. 20% gratuity would be added automatically at the end. The description stated that, if we were seeking the ultimate experience, we would encounter a variety of flavors and ingredients, as well as sensations, technique, and stellar service. We were sold.

The first course—amuse bouche—came out in a small porcelain cup. It was a pear soup with a crumble of raspberry stilton. It was divine. It was fruity, bright, deep, and rich. It felt perfect as it coated my tongue and stuck around to tease me with a mouthfeel of fat and salt. It was a flavor that would present itself in nearly every remaining dish; a theme if you will. About every five minutes, the sommelier would stop by and ask the other two gentlemen at the table if they would like, "another splash?" The answer was routinely affirmative. For the purpose of a recovery-based blog, I'll limit my writing of wine and drinking unless if feel it is integral to a particular story.

The second dish was also soup. Yes, two soups. This is where I had my first problem. The soup was cream of artichoke. Subjectively, cream soups should be smooth. The artichokes were left in, and I kept chewing until I felt as if my next step would be to blow a bubble. There was very little or no acid—not vinegar or citrus—to brighten it up, and overall I thought it lacked in visual appeal. I didn’t even take a picture. I actually didn’t take a picture of either soup. It’s soup. I washed the blandness away with a chug of fancy bottled water, poured into a crystal water glass; on to the salad.

My favorite segment of the dinner visually, was the mixed green salad with braised enoki, and bacon vinaigrette. It was the only dish that seemed to have any local flair in that the dressing was a mustard-based vinegar sauce. The presentation was flawless, and the salad went down without a fight. This was my first picture of food at the restaurant.

I didn't feel comfortable using my flash, so some of the pictures could appear rather drab 

One cherry tomato could have really taken the plate to another level, but as we would experience, there was only one level.

To be continued...