The New Dentist

A couple of months ago I went to my Charlotte-based dentist. It was a small step for mankind, but a giant leap for me.

Considering that it had been almost a year since I moved to Charlotte, every time I visit NYC, I still get my haircut at the Japanese salon a block and a half from my apartment, where my stylist would always ask “May I give you a neck and shoulder massage?” (Yes please!)

I also beeline to the Indian eyebrow threading place where I could get my brows trimmed and shaped for $5 under 5 minutes. I can usually do this in the time that I place my order at my favorite ramen shop and when it’s ready for pick up.

I used to give my friend, who moved to London three years ago, a hard time for coming back to New York twice a year to see her acupuncturist, kickboxing instructor, Vietnamese pork chops, and her friends, sometimes in that order. “You should find places in London so you feel more at home there,” I’d say.

Clearly I’m not one to follow my own advice.

However, I did decide to find a local dentistry. Not that I didn’t like my dentist in New York. She was a huge improvement over the previous one who tried to sell me veneers every time I visited. For $10K a tooth, of which I’d need eight for a beautiful smile, according to the dentist, he tried to convince me that it would be a good investment if I wanted a husband.

I didn't think there was anything wrong with my smile. Or the lack of a husband.

His understudy was no better. I once went in for a routine cleaning when he announced that I had two new cavities.

“That’s kind of disconcerting. I haven’t had a cavity since I was six,” I said, as I noodled over the news.

“Getting cavities is not disconcerting,” he said. “Getting cancer is disconcerting,” he added.

My new dentist's office is virtually a spa.  On my first visit, there was a sign in the lobby welcoming me as a new patient. The office is big, clean, and awash in soothing colors. In the waiting room are photo books like The Most Awkward Family Photos and Crap at My Parents’ House that have you cracking up even before they put on the laugh gas. They have a real receptionist. My last dentist’s receptionist was also my hygienist.

Once in the treatment room, the hygienist comes in, gives you a pair of goggles and headphones, and offers you a remote control for the TV before reclining the chair. (A few moments later the TV screen would turn into a horrifying view of your teeth magnified 100 times.)

Then she asks if you would like the chair massage.

“The what?” I asked the first time I was there.

“The chair massage,” she said again.

“You’re joking,” I almost bursted out but was too astonished to utter a sound.

At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if she also offered a mani-pedi while I waited. It almost makes me look forward to getting back in the chair in another six months.

I don’t know if that’s a common experience for others, but it sure wasn’t mine in New York. It’s safe to say that I won’t feel the need to go back to New York every time I need my teeth cleaned. If anything, if I ever move back to New York, I might just have to come back to Charlotte to visit my dentist.

Urban Critters

We were driving home after dinner tonight when, a few blocks away from home, Scott suddenly said “What’s that flying over there?”

I looked up and saw a large pair of wings flapping slowly up ahead, at about the same height as a traffic light. It stopped and stood perched on an electric wire.

“I think it’s an owl!” Scott said.

We parked the car and walked right up to it for a closer look. There, at the corner of South Blvd. and Park Avenue – just ten blocks from the heart of Bank of America – the owl was enjoying a balmy night out.

It was the first time either one of us had seen an owl outside of captivity. It’s wild, and THAT’s wild.

We wondered if it was responsible for the disappearance of our possum.

For weeks, we had a possum that came everyday to our backyard parking lot to scavenge the leftover cat food that our neighbor Dave feeds twice daily to his adopted stray/feral cats. There were always leftovers, the possum had discovered, and the cats could care less.

He was not at all afraid of humans and would come as close as a couple of feet away from us to get to the food. Even after Scott shoos him away, he would come back within seconds to take a second bite out of the cat food bowls. (Yes, there are different bowls for different cats.) And he would go around to empty each bowl, climbing up a cinder block to reach one that was purposefully placed high to be out of his reach, then scour the ground for spillovers. Once I sat watching him for a long time. He would get so close that I could hear the crunching of the food pellets as he ate.

I half suspected that given a few more weeks, Dave would cave in and put out a new bowl for him.

But he hadn’t reappeared in the last couple of days. He was a small creature, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the owl, or one of the hawks we’ve seen in the area, finally got to it.

If that’s the case, I hope I don’t find any of its leftovers.

Yom Kippur, Chinese Food and Whole Foods

It was Yom Kippur and Scott woke up late to shorten his 24-hour fast. If I were Jewish, I would have lucked out since you don’t have to fast when you’re sick, and I’ve had a cold for the last few days. But in keeping with the tradition of resting on Yom Kippur, I took a nice cat nap and woke up only when the sun peeked through the curtains directly into my eye.

We went to Temple Beth El in the evening for break fast – my third time there in 10 days and fourth for Scott. By now I can say Shanah Tovah as good as the best of them. We joined the synagogue just in time for the High Holidays – just one more membership to add to the Charlotte City Club, the Carolina Raptor Center, Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden and the Biltmore Estate in Asheville. If there were ever a full immersion program for Charlotte, this would be it. I didn’t even tell you that Scott is now known as the Facebook Guy who organizes the Texas Exes and the Big 12 groups in town.

At temple we sat through the last 15 minutes of a 3-hour service before breaking for bagels and cream cheese. I don’t know how people do it, sitting through such a long service, especially the ensemble up front that had to read the Torah, sing and sermon. Maybe that’s why at intervals the congregants had to stand up for a song or prayer, then sit down again – it’s their way of letting people stretch every fifteen minutes. I didn’t quite earn my pumpernickel bagel since I didn’t fast, and didn’t sit through the service, but no one had to know.

After temple, we contemplated where to go for dinner. Naturally, we went for Chinese because everyone knows that Chinese food and Jewish holidays go hand in hand. We decided on a popular restaurant which we feared would be too Americanized, but I wanted to give it a shot anyway.

To my delight, the dish I ordered was thoroughly Chinese – so much so that Scott wouldn’t touch it. It was braised vegetables wrapped in tofu skin atop a bed of spinach. I was in vegetarian heaven. Scott said his mu shu pork wasn’t bad either.

The staff was a collection of Chinese people who’ve lived in Vietnam, Japan and Hong Kong. Scott likes it when I speak Chinese so I thanked each server alternately in English, Cantonese and Mandarin. The lady who lived in Japan, but who is Taiwanese, gave us an enthusiastic recommendation for a Japanese restaurant which is actually run by a Japanese proprietor. All the others she dismissed as being run by the Chinese or Korean or worse, some fusion place that serves up everything that sounds Asian on the menu. I’m definitely adding her recommendation to the top of my list of places to try.

The Chinese restaurant is across from the new Whole Foods – the first in Charlotte. So we decided to go check it out. Despite worrying about it taking business away from Earth Fare – a regional chain of health food markets that we like – I must admit that shopping at Whole Foods was very pleasant. The employees were solicitous and one fetched us a shopping cart when we asked where to find one. We saw bulk bins of salt that we never knew existed – like the jet black salt – and ears of dried mushrooms that I normally only see in Chinatown.

At the meat section we checked out the offerings from Profitt Farm, which used to be at our farmer’s market but has since left because they now supply Whole Foods. There’s a picture of the Profitt family – whom we met when we visited the farm last year and I even blogged about them. The Profitts were one of many local producers that they proudly display, which we thought was an impressive effort to support the local economy.

Further down, there is an attractive tasting area for wine and local microbrews, and a mezzanine where one can taste 1oz pours of wine from an automated machine. At the bakery, we found Duke’s Bread, which we know and love from our farmer’s market. Then there was the house-made gelato which we couldn’t pass up, even though Scott was holding his belly for eating too much just 30 minutes ago. We left with a delicious cup of orange and pineapple and basil sorbet, plus a half dozen items that we didn’t know we needed. We even met a nice older couple who Scott already wants to invite over for dinner.

We may have just found our newest hangout.

Blue Ridge BBQ Festival and Other Adventures

On the same day that we went to the Clay on Fire pottery exhibit (see previous post) we also planned to go to the Blue Ridge BBQ Festival, located in Tryon, NC, about two hours away. Scott had looked forward to it for weeks. You would think 2 hours is a long way for assorted smoked meat but them Texans take their BBQs seriously.

Along the way, we stopped at Stowe Dairy Farms where we paid a visit back in December. There’s no dairy to be had but plenty of fresh cut Christmas trees that were so plump and fragrant that even Scott wanted to bring one home (for those who don’t know, he’s Jewish). This time, we found a vegetable garden sprouting young squash and pepper plants, a family of goats bleating in unison at the runaway lamb that was wandering around the yard, chickens pecking at bugs in the dirt and squawking roosters fighting over a fresh egg. Gwen the proprietress made a mean lemonade (with a secret recipe she guards as tightly as Coca Cola does with Coke) and sorghum cookies that were soft, chewy and wholesomely delicious.

After a quick stop for lunch in Saluda – a cute town so small that you have to zoom in super close to spot it on Google map – we arrived at Hendersonville late in the afternoon where Scott wanted to visit a new novelty shop whose owner he’s friendly with.

By now we’ve seen quite a few small towns in the Carolinas, many of which are eerie places with dusty antique shops manned by equally antiquated shopkeepers, and rows of store fronts that look shuttered for the better part of the decade. Hendersonville, by comparison, was vibrant with commerce and filled with people dining on sidewalks in front of restaurants. A live band at a street corner played 50s tunes that pandered to a retirement aged crowd seated in neat rows of chairs. The street in between was closed to traffic and was turned into a dance floor where a couple or two swirled to the music. It took some pleading, but I successfully dragged Scott to join in.

It was now early evening, time for the grand finale of our day – the BBQ fest – where we expected to come away happy with a meat-induced stupor. After paying $8 a piece for admission and buying $30 worth of food tickets, we eagerly walked in to survey the scene. We saw funnel cakes, corn dogs, curly chips, fried onion blossoms… and a crafts fair. But… WHERE WAS THE BEEF?

There were exactly four – four vendors out of a couple of dozen – that sold BBQ. One was closed in the afternoon after it ran out of food; the second ran out right after we got in line (luckily after everyone fled the scene, we went to the front and Scott was able to scrounge together the last bits of brisket to make a sandwich); the third ran out of ribs when we were still 30 people deep in line, and the fourth announced they were about to be out of everything after we had already waited for half an hour.

Dejected and hungry, we decided on Plan B – back to Saluda to try the BBQ restaurant whose sign we spotted earlier.

On our way out of the festival grounds, we walked past the campers that were parked in the lot. We noticed that each of them had a smoker but most seem to be vacant. Scott approached one that appeared to have trays of BBQ meats available. The man there explained that the festival was mainly a competition where contestants arrived from all over and spend the weekend in their campers. After the competition, they are not allowed to sell their BBQ, though they could offer “samples” for a “donation.” We tried a bite of brisket but didn’t like it enough to make a donation, so we moved on.

Further down, Scott spotted a few guys hanging out by their smoker. I was complaining that we should never come back again when, as a last ditch effort, Scott approached to see if they would sell us something.  While we made conversation with a couple of the guys, I noticed that one stood up to pick at something in the smoker. I was hoping that he was assembling some samples for us. Moments later, he came toward us not with a couple of bites, but with a huge pile of meat on a plate.

(These are their official competition entrants)

They were the B4 BBQ Team who fed us a heaping portion of pulled pork and brisket. The amount would have been two full orders at a restaurant. Once we sat down at their table, they even brought us an icy cold beer to go with it. Despite our insistence, they refused any form of payment. That was Southern hospitality in its finest. (A BIG “thank you” to Mike, Bill, John, Ryan, Dan, Joe and Gary!)

It was an experience that warmed our hearts as much as our bellies. It sure took a lot of effort to get to our plate of BBQ, but in the end, it was more than worth it.

Clay on Fire

One Saturday on our way out of town for the Blue Ridge BBQ Festival – which warrants its own post – Scott wanted to make a quick stop at the Clay on Fire Festival. He showed me the promotional postcard, which made me think we were going to a satanic fair sponsored by the Hellfire Hot Sauce Company and accompanied by live music and beer.

The only devils we actually met were made of clay. Turned out, it was a pottery show that featured a dozen potters who made all things demonic and fantastical.

The first potter we met made grotesque heads stacked on top of one another, a couple of them sporting beautifully molded copper antlers. Apparently, the heads and other versions of them – face jugs they’re called – are a tradition dating back 200 years in the South. Legend has it that they were used to hide alcohol from children who were too scared to mess with them. I'd be scared too.

I was drawn to the next potter who had a tent filled with creatures that were grinning, sticking their tongues out, smacking their dismembered lips or popping their eyes out at me. That was from Mud and Guts Studio by Steve Weslow. Each one of those creatures was a hand carved ceramic mug, jug or vessel of sorts. There were cats, bears, monkeys and tigers with fearsome teeth that would give a dentist nightmares, and monsters with periscopic eyes. I half expected them to come alive in the dark as characters in a Tim Burton movie.

Then there was this pair of frightful satans from Get Clay by Dan. One had a sliced off skull and bloodshot eye smoking a cigar, and the other had a snake wrapped around his head where his gouged out eyes should be  – both seemingly having a grand time and laughing.

Another delightful stop was the Big Duluth Studios where we mimicked the screaming red lips reminiscent of the Rocky Mountain Horror Picture Show. I contemplated taking one home but shuddered at the thought of being licked by the protruding tongue if I happened to sip from the mouth side of the mug.

We spent a long time admiring the creations by Kevin of Turkey Creek Pottery, who couldn’t have been more than 25, yet he had been sculpting clay for something like 10 years. There was a snake whose scales he carved out one by one, an iguana-in-progress so lifelike that it looked about to crawl off the table, and a couple of characters from the original Alice and Wonderland who we couldn't recognize but who were striking in their human-like expressions.

Then there was the gruff cowboy whose scratchy stubbles you could almost feel, and the pair of vibrant roosters in a face-off that Scott was fond of.

We left the exhibit thoroughly surprised and in awe of the talent that should be discovered by major museums. The show left us grinning and delighted. Nevertheless, I was relieved that Scott didn't decide to bring a monster's head home with us.

Wild Carolina

Over the last few months I’ve come face to face with more wildlife than I had in all my life, unless you count pigeons and rats.

A few weeks ago we went to Asheville for the weekend. One evening while heading back to our friend’s cabin, we found a turtle in the middle of the road. Scott spun the car around, picked it up and set it back down on the grassy shoulder. On another evening, a wild turkey crossed the road as if visiting a neighbor. We visited the North Carolina Arboretum – an impressive 434-acre forest/garden where I encountered two cherry red cardinals, a cluster of lavender butterflies, and heard the jack hammering of woodpeckers. I heard the sounds of squirrels and other forest dwellers snapping twigs and crushing dry leaves on the forest floor, but they kept themselves out of sight. I suspect they were keeping a close watch on me behind the tree trunks.

At the Carolina Raptor Center, located in the forests of the Latta Plantation Nature Preserve, we met rehabilitated owls, hawks, vultures and falcons – even an American bald eagle – that had been injured or orphaned in the wild. Many have broken wings or other injuries and cannot survive on their own, and are living out their lives along the Center’s 3/4 mile nature trail. The language barrier was no match for Scott's attempt to communicate with the birds: “Hello,” “Hello there,” “Whachadoin?” “What’s up?” Alas the conversation remained one-sided.

Not that our encounters with wildlife were confined to the woods. Earlier in the spring, birds sang so loudly that people could hear them on the other end of my phone line. One stormy night when no human dared to venture out, they were chirping happily well into the middle of the night. We thought it had to be a recording especially since they could only be heard but not seen. Someone oughta teach them better manners.

And just a week ago, we spotted a strange dog snooping around a dumpster outside our building. It had the coloring of a golden retriever with its tail raised straight up. When it turned sideways, we both gasped. It was a cat. An enormous cat – much bigger than the feral cats we’re used to seeing prowling around our parking lot. Scott thought it might be a bobcat. I was convinced that it was a love child between a cat and a dog.

Then there was the chipmunk that scampered up a tree on Morehead, the pointy-eared rabbit in Freedom Park that stood motionless and hopped away only when I was two steps away, and the otter that sat along the banks of Sugar Creek leisurely picking its fur.

All this along our 5-mile jogging loop – and those were only the ones seen alive.

Also along the loop were those that were less fortunate when discovered: five newborn mice strewn outside of the Greek Orthodox Church; two chicks that looked to have fallen from their nests - and a black bird that might have been their mother lay flattened on a driveway nearby; a plump orange-bellied robin that almost looked alive except it was lying down sideways (we later found another one met with the same fate in our parking lot); and the worst – a possum-sized pile of flesh swarming with flies that lay in the middle of the sidewalk on East Blvd. I screamed as we sidestepped the carcass and ran as fast as I could to distance myself from the stench, hoping that none of the scattered flies landed on me. Thankfully, a few days later when we returned to the scene, the grisly pile was gone. I thought the black bird was too until I found a severed skeleton claw, and realized that it was just dried up, dismembered and blended in with the dirt.

Either there is an animal serial killer on the loose and I'm hot on the trail of the crime scene, or I am a curse for creatures on the loop.

I’ve become paranoid every time I take a run. Come to think of it, that’s a good excuse for not going. But then, I would’ve missed the giant magnolia blossoms that I saw the other day and their graceful, calming scent that fragranced the whole area.

I guess I’ll just have to keep my eyes peeled for anything that crosses my path, dead or alive. At this very moment, a robin is perched on the fence directly in front of my window, pruning itself in the sun.

Cinco de Mayo

This year, Mexicans and all those who delight in margaritas did not have a monopoly on Cinco de Mayo.

Not only was it the Kentucky Derby, it was also the Chinese Dragon Boat/Asian Festival, the International Antiques and Collectibles Show at the Metrolina Expo, and the Strawberry Festival.

Why choose? Scott decided to do it all.

First stop, we arrived at Lake Norman to see the dragon boat races. The race is a Chinese tradition which takes place on the 5^th day of the 5^th month in the lunar calendar. The timing shifts each year, like Easter and Passover. Maybe in Charlotte they just decided it was easier to do it on the 5^th of May; or it was a conscious choice to compete with those from South of the border.

It’s been years since I’ve seen a race and I was thrilled. At the sound of a horn, a race started and five boats lunged forward, the teams of ten rowing in unison to the beat of their drummers who resembled conductors in a symphony. Within a minute, the race was over, except the uncoordinated Red team, which still struggled toward the finish line.

At the festival, I saw more Asians than I thought existed in Charlotte, and more Caucasian parents with adopted Asian girls than I had ever seen. The girls all looked happy and behaved no differently than other children, and the parents just as doting. For those who ever wonder how inter-racial adoptions work, just find the nearest Asian festival in a predominantly white city.

Aside from knick knacks and ethnic foods, there was the Miss Asian Carolinas pageant. A dozen girls in traditional costume representing India, Japan, China, Philippines, Korea, Thailand, even Bhutan and Nepal lined up to be introduced. Three Mongolian women were introduced onstage, then promptly walked off. The organizers probably didn’t know how else to deal with these women who were well past the pageant age.

The pageant had all the painful charms of a small-budget show where the “Flowers of Asia Dance” called for the girls to rearrange themselves in a line a couple of times from the front to the back of the stage. In the talent portion, one Japanese contestant screeched through her violin piece to “honor her country” by playing Western classical music. I would’ve stayed to watch more talent on display but after the third accidental screech from the speaker system, it was time to go.

Scott had already rushed off with his business partner Kurt to do some work at the antique show, followed by round one of a video shoot at the Cinco de Mayo block party. I was to reunite with them in the late afternoon at the Mint Museum Kentucky Derby party, which I did after a delicious two-hour nap.

The party was held at the Randolph location of the museum, which boasts an expansive manicured lawn perfect for the occasion. Booze and food tents were set up around the lawn, which was peopled by Charlotte’s attractive, young and trendy, with women in candy-colored sundresses and wide brimmed hats, and men with button-downs, shorts and bowler hats. It was a perfect image for the Derby.

I’ve often wondered why people are so enthusiastic about the Kentucky Derby, when no one cares about horse races any other time of the year. In New York, people don their dresses and hats, cram themselves in warehouse-like venues all day, sipping mint juleps and waiting for the two-minute race. I guess everyone loves an excuse to party, especially when a specialty cocktail and costumes are involved.

After the race, we returned to the Cinco de Mayo party, held on a private stretch of road in a condo/retail complex. A stage was set up and a cover band sang everything from U2 and Coldplay to Whitney Houston and Beyoncé. While Scott and Kurt continued shooting their video, I hung out by the band against the sexy backdrop of Best Buy, Staples, Target and Marshalls, sipping my margarita and eating “street” tacos from the nearby La Paz.

It was now too late and Scott too tired to contemplate going to the Strawberry Festival in South Carolina. Alas, Strawberry Jam – the free concert at the festival – would have to wait.

But it was not too late for Trader Joe’s, right next to the band, where we bought almond milk, yogurt and bananas.

Then we went to the movies.

Rapid Integration Weekend

Six months, a week and a day after our move to Charlotte, our integration felt complete.

It started on Friday evening with our visit to the Charlotte Fair. Scott and his business partner had met the event organizers the day before and had taken video footage of the fair. When Scott and I arrived the next day, he had already befriended the promoter and the ticket collector, who waved us through a side entrance, bypassing the line of people waiting to pay for their admissions. It wasn’t the same as getting past the velvet rope on a Saturday night in the Meatpacking – it was better.

Instead of watching the mating rituals of Manhattanites, we saw baby animals at the petting zoo that resulted from actual mating at the fair. Furry lambs with budding horns stuck their heads out of the wire fence eager to be petted or fed; a baby chick that just broke free from its eggshell struggled to learn to walk while her days-old siblings piled up on top of each other in one fuzzy yellow heap; a dozen piglets lay in a row by their mother suckling and napping; and a dairy cow was being milked to feed the three hungry calves playing nearby. I even got to see the 1,600-pound World’s Fattest Pig without paying the 50¢ that the guard with a cowboy hat was collecting. It was as good as getting past the bouncer at a swanky club without paying a cover charge.

Then we waltzed into the adjoining collectibles car auction where Scott chatted business with the venue’s General Manager. A couple of hundred cars – from early 1900s Model-Ts to 50s Chevy Sport Coupes to 80s Datsuns – were on display. Aficionados, mostly middle-aged men, walked about admiring the automobiles and peering under the hoods to scrutinize the engines. A parade of cars was being driven one by one to the auction arena where a hundred potential buyers sat focused on the rapid fire auctioneer. A stunning cherry red Thunderbird from the 50s was in line heading for the auction arena when I saw a man run his fingers lasciviously over its curves. It looked almost pornographic. In fact, I felt like a voyeur. The auction was an intimate glimpse into a subculture that I bet few Charlotteans know about.

The next day, we became members of the Mint Museum. It is the MoMA of Charlotte and even physically resembles it. I was impressed and honestly relieved that such a museum existed in Charlotte, and was happy to find a worthy replacement for my lapsed MoMA membership.

What capped the weekend of Rapid Integration was the result of the campaign picnic hosted by the Democratic candidate for city commissioner, who Scott was doing some work with. We met the candidate, his wife, his campaign manager, and the crew who roasted a whole pig – Carolina style – in a smoker hauled in for the occasion. The pork and slaw was delicious and I wished I could’ve brought leftovers home with me.

What we did bring home though, were a few lawn signs urging people to vote for the candidate. Actually, they never made it home. On our way back, we stopped to stick our Marc for Meck signs into the side of the road, right next to those from his competition – Craig Madans County Commissioner At Large and Oronde McLean for Meck County.

From Charlotte’s low to its high brow, in one weekend, we covered it all.

DC Part Deux

In protest of airfares that were unjustifiably expensive for a mere hour’s flight, we embarked on another eight-hour road trip to DC last weekend. Unjustifiable to me anyway, since we could fly almost twice the distance to NY for much less.

It also helped that we just traded in Scott’s 17-year old Acura Vigor for a new Subaru Outback. Compared to the Vigor which had no working radio or plug to charge our phones (a can of Coke had exploded on the media console) and that the only working component was the cassette deck (yes, cassette deck,) the drive in the Outback was downright luxurious. Satellite radio, USB port, Bluetooth, cupholders. It was like trading up to high speed after years of dial-up.

A couple of hours into our drive we stopped at Shoney’s for dinner. It was the least evil option out of KFC, Peking Palace, Pizza Hut and Dairy Queen. We wisely opted out of the all-you-can-eat all-day breakfast and fried chicken bar and had meatloaf and grilled chicken, the latter of which was surprisingly tasty and moist. (In fact, it was better than the grilled chicken from the trendy Madhatter in DC a couple of nights later.) We were fascinated by their indestructible pewter salad plates, which could be the very same ones in use over 60 years ago when the restaurant chain got started.

The next day, aided by my foodie friend, we kicked off our gourmet weekend with lunch at Tabard Inn  – a charming historic inn that housed a popular restaurant. My seafood gumbo with fried oysters was AMAZING and I suddenly realized how long it’s been since I’d tasted innovative cooking.

Other culinary delights included Rasika – not a simple feat since Ms. Foodie had to make a hard-won reservation over two months ago. It was fancy Indian and our group of five shared excellent appetizers, but the entrees were unremarkable. The next day we had dim sum at Ping Pong, a modern and business client-worthy take on the old noisy push-cart variety in Chinatown. Our favorite was the steamed pork bun but we were disappointed that one of our favorite standards – rice-flour rolls stuffed with shrimp or other fixings – was not even on the menu.

Speaking of Chinatown, which boasts an impressive pagoda gateway, runs for exactly one block. Unless you count all the businesses surrounding that block that proudly display their Chinese heritage: AnnTaylor Loft, Vapiano Pasta Pizza Bar, Starbucks, Verizon Center, Fuddruckers.

The real reason for the trip was not to gorge ourselves but to participate in the annual Cherry Blossom Run. The scenic route looped around the Tidal Basin near the Jefferson Memorial and ran along the riverfront, circling the East Potomac golf course. As the ultimate false advertisement, 15,000 runners showed up with no cherry blossoms to be found. We were 10 days late in one of the earliest blooms in recent history. As consolation, hearty pompoms of pink apple blossoms appeared along the way to cheer us on.

Despite inadequate training, Scott broke his personal goal and finished the race in 1h27m. It took me 18 more minutes but I succeeded in not stopping. Our friend Jenn finished well ahead of expectations, and Ms. Foodie finished the 5K with a 9:51 minute mile with no prior training, then took off promptly for brunch.

With that under my belt, who knows, the Nike Half Marathon in San Francisco may be next. I heard they give out Tiffany necklaces. That’s gotta be a step up from the T-shirts we got, which Scott may just use to wipe dirt off our Outback.

Community Banking

Last week, we opened a joint account at the American Community Bank on the other side of our building.

I heard “Hello there!” “Welcome back!” as soon as we walked in. Since there weren’t any other customers and the two ladies behind the counter were smiling directly at us, I figured they meant us. I’m not used to getting so much attention at a bank, and with one of them standing to my left, the other to my right, I struggled to make eye contact with both of them to explain we needed a new account. It was like watching a tennis match from mid court.

We were shown to an office where a third lady did the paper work. She remembered Scott from a few months ago and they chatted about how the bank used to be a diner, the NCAA basketball tournament, her daughter who lives in Atlanta, her commute to work. I asked about the name of the bank and got elbowed by Scott. That just cost us another five minutes of chatting.

After the branch manager Peggy came in to say hello and talked about the neighborhood happenings that night, it came time for me to choose a user name for online banking. Scott suggested “wong” and it went through. Not “wong2012”, “wong123” or "wongnc. Just “wong.”

According to Wikipedia, there are 60 million Wongs in the world. At the Charlotte American Community Bank, it's possible I'm the only one.

Lake Wylie Adventures

Despite a schizophrenic forecast showing downpours followed by an 80-degree sun, we decided to explore the Lake Wylie area in South Carolina.

At the state line we stopped in the South Carolina Visitors Center, which was surprisingly impressive. It was nice, clean, and fully stocked with free brochures organized by regions. Who knew South Carolina had more to offer than just Charleston? It was one of the few occasions when I truly appreciated the use of tax dollars.

An hour later we arrived at the town of York, eager to sample the fare at Jasmine Café, which was touted for having a great brunch. As we approached, the deserted main street didn’t bode well and sure enough, we rolled up to an empty parking lot and a locked door. We had forgotten that everything is closed on Sundays. Except churches. If they were to set up cafes, they’d make a killing.

It’s now two hours since we left home. Hungry and cranky, we contemplated our options nearby: pretzels from the gas station, a sandwich from Food Lion, McDonalds, Jersey Mike’s Subs. I decided I’d rather starve.

Hoping that there’s a café on their 110-acre property, we drove another 15 minutes to the Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden. No such luck. It looked amazing though and we plan to come back when we’re not light-headed from hunger.

Another 30 minutes later we arrived at T-Bones on the Lake, where we got to eat at last. The menu – salads, burgers, fish tacos – was tamer than the taxidermy décor would suggest. A stuffed Kodiak bear with a sea captain’s cap guarded the entrance; jackalopes and antelopes stared down at us from walls; bobcats and raccoons lurched in corners ready to pounce, and armadillos lay on their backs to sip beers. The remaining wall space was plastered with signs and banners from fellow Southern states. Since Scott is delighted with all things Texan, he was especially partial to the sign that said “Don’t Mess With Texas.”

Outside on the deck, catfish nibbled on fries that people threw into the lake. Someone was fishing off the pier and he almost hooked one several times, but it wriggled free each time. A few moments later, a giant catfish appeared and circled around his bait. Then it bit and we watched with anticipation the ensuing struggle until he finally pulled the fish out of the water. It wasn’t quite Old Man and the Sea sized but it must have been at least a foot and a half long. I felt a little sad that the fish lost its freedom for a soggy fry, even as I contemplated how I’d cook it. The guy was just about to put away his catch when his friends made him pose for one last photo. The fish flopped in his arms a couple of times, then splashed back into the lake and disappeared. I hope the picture turned out to be a good one.

After lunch, we discovered the scenic Riverwalk Trail - renamed as the enticing "Piedmont Medical Center Trail" - that flanked the Catawba River. The trail is only 2 miles long but is well kept and picturesque. We climbed down from the trail to soak our feet in the icy water and skipped stones from the river bank. After years of failed attempts, I was finally able to make them skip - one more checkmark on my childhood to-do list.

Back on the trail, we ventured into a building which we thought was a recreation center for the surrounding housing development. It turned out to be a new special events space named Brakefield at Riverwalk, its design inspired by the grand European architecture from a Thomas Kincaid painting. A bridal photography session was taking place as the owner proudly showed us around. Despite my misgivings about her taste in art, her business vision was impressive. She had commissioned the structure from scratch and had chosen a prime spot on a hill overlooking the river. The space was not even officially open yet and she had already booked 80 events.

Just before sundown, we visited Glencairn Garden in Rock Hill. Though free to the public, it could easily rival any botanical garden that one has to pay for. Windy paths curved around handsome landscaping, punctuated by lovers swaying to their own rhythm on swinging benches; flowerbeds bursting with pink azaleas lined the paths and the bubbling creek; a promenade of white dogwoods created a snowy canopy overhead, and a lane of “cupcake” trees carpeted the ground with deep pink blossoms topped with yellow “icing.” We couldn’t believe that such a garden was maintained by the city, had no graffiti, trash or skateboarders anywhere, and yet so few of our friends have heard about it. Hands down, it was the best discovery we’ve ever made.

Turns out, at least one friend of Scott’s had made the discovery years earlier, when she would stop at the garden for a make out session before heading home from a date.

Night fell and we ended our Lake Wylie tour at Hickory Tavern where I indulged in one of my new favorite dishes – shrimp and grits.

‘Twas another typical day trip in the South.

The Charlotte Spring

We came back mid-March from a 10-day vacation and found Charlotte in full spring.

The only activists in this spring are the frenzied bees that dive in and out of flowers and trees that suddenly came to full bloom. All over the city, streets are lined with dogwoods – “cotton ball trees” as I call them – with puffs of tiny pure white or pale pink blossoms that completely take over the trees. When pedals fall, float down in the air and settle on the sidewalks, they resemble snowflakes. Magnolias were stunning with their purple and white blossoms as big as the size of your hand. To me they represent the South even more than grits and fried chicken do.

If that weren’t enough of a sign of spring, I found that everything on my desk, in front of an open window, is covered with a fine coat of yellow dust. When it rained yesterday and I saw yellow water running down the road, I thought that it was chemical waste. I was just about to make a racket when I realized that it was pollen washed off from tops of cars, buildings and the parking lot.

I’ve traded black Manhattan dust for yellow Charlotte dust.

We’re actually a little worried about this “spring,” which really started in February and has already hit a few 80+ degree days. We don’t know what this means for summer, but at this rate, we wouldn’t be surprised if winter hits in July.

The Road to Boone Part II

After five hours on the road and with just two hours left of daylight that turned freezing cold and wet, we gave up the idea of a hike.

At the edge of town, Scott pulled into Shannon’s Curtain Bed & Bath where he did business years ago. The charismatic and stylish proprietress was still there and together they lamented about the downward spiral of the industry and the difficulty of running a mom-and-pop in the age of cheap imports and big box stores. In addition to reaffirming Scott’s desire to help small local businesses, the conversation reinforced his wish to introduce the fetching lady to our bachelor neighbor Dave.

A main attraction in the area was the iconic original Mast General Store located in the next town named Valle Crucis, where I thought we were headed but we didn't actually arrive until a detour of three antique shops and a ski resort later (where Scott wanted to go tubing down the icy slope in the drizzling rain but I refused). We made it to the store minutes before they closed.

Mast General is a retail wonder of a bygone era. It miraculously survived the 19th century general store format that sold everything from clothing and toys to houseware, food and hardware. It has eight locations now and the original store built in the late 1800s is a recognized historical landmark.

At the store, I found a red flannel shirt that would go perfectly with my cowboy boots for my new countrified style. Scott found a Western plaid shirt and flannel pajamas. We browsed a full floor of outdoor and winter gear before slipping through the small side door that led to the candy store. More than 500 types of old fashioned candies were sold and I filled my basket with Mary Janes, gummy Coke bottles, Bit-O-Honeys, Lemon Heads, butter toffees, caramels and chocolate malt balls as fast as I could before the store closed. The candy bag was so big that Scott was shocked when it cost more than his pajama pants.

As we checked out, the shop ladies told us that two tenths of a mile down the road was another Mast General that closed half an hour later. That turned out to be the original store instead and we were glad we didn’t miss it.

Upon entering, there was a wall of antique U.S. post office boxes which were still in service. Down the main aisle were homemade breads and other country fare, followed by two hundred-year-old wooden towers fitted with small triangular drawers that housed nuts and screws of varying sizes. In the menswear section, among denim overalls and heavy duty flannel shirts, I found a red adult-sized onesie with a buttoned flap for the derriere. I threatened to buy it to wear around the house but the visual was too scary even for me.

We found another area full of toys, and above that, one full of cast iron skillets, ceramics and other kitchen ware. We didn’t want to leave this retail labyrinth but once again the staff was ready to close shop. We made out with country ham, strawberry butter, and a box of old fashioned candy sticks.

Now, almost 7pm, we were finally ready to explore the heart of Boone.

The main drag was abuzz with pubs, pizza joints, a coffee shop and other eateries where students of Appalachian State University hung out. Along the strip we decided to make a quick stop at Earthfare, a natural, health food supermarket just like Whole Foods, only better, homier, and less expensive.

It was Scott’s turn to be a kid in a candy store and he combed every aisle in wide-eye wonder. We spent 20 minutes at the bulk granolas, nuts and seeds aisle and gawked hungrily at the rotisserie chicken in the hot foods section. At the bakery aisle, while Scott wasn’t looking, I loaded the cart with Challah, roasted pepper focaccia and a loaf of multigrain bread. At Scott’s admonishment I reluctantly put one back. I left him surveying the rows of fizzy drinks before meeting up again at the meat counter displaying a large variety of fresh meats, sausages and seafood. At the cereal aisle we pondered whether toasted wheat germ was better than plain. A full hour later, we emerged from the market loaded with breads, potato chips, crackers, four kinds of granola, and giant malt balls as big as ping-pong balls.

It was time to eat. We went to Hob Nob Farm Café in hopes of finding Southern comfort food made from locally grown ingredients. What we found was a room full of screaming kids and a menu featuring Mexican, Thai, Jamaican, Cuban, Greek, Italian, Indian, Japanese, Southeast and Southwest specialties. It was as far from comfort as it can get.

At our grocery clerk’s recommendation, we discovered Proper on a desolate side street situated at the foot of a motel where a couple was parked in the dark. There was no visible parking within blocks of the restaurant and we were prepared to flee town for Plan C before finding a spot a couple of blocks away.

To our pleasant surprise, Proper was a charming, candlelit converted home that offered a simple, inexpensive yet original Southern menu.

We started with home fries smothered in gravy and Australian white cheddar which was gooey and sinfully rich, and came with homemade ketchup. Entrees on the menu were $8.95, including two sides and biscuit or cornbread. You could choose from a few nightly specials and on Saturday night, they had meatloaf, baked ziti, fried chicken and fried catfish. We had the meatloaf and cornmeal crusted fried chicken, with sides of braised cabbage, green beans, root vegetable soufflé, and corn bread cake with dirty rice and sausage topped with pimento cheese. We scratched our heads at the last one but it was delicious. For dessert, we had a smooth and creamy cappuccino and a spicy chocolate chip cookie with cayenne pepper. Although the food had room for improvement, we found the overall experience a solid four thumbs up.

As always, we didn't leave until the staff cleaned up and was ready to go home. By now it was 10pm, much later than we thought our day trip would end. Poor Scott had a two-hour drive ahead of him while I, as usual, drifted off to sleep until he pulled into our building’s parking lot.

The Road to Boone Part I

It was to be a warm, sunny Saturday in Charlotte and we decided to take a road trip to Boone, a cute college town in the Appalachian Mountains where we could take a hike.

It should have taken two hours but it took us five. That might have been all the antique shops, furniture warehouse, country store and flea market where we were compelled to stop along the way.

About 45 minutes in, we stopped in the town of Lincolnton where a search for “antiques” on Google Map yielded a couple of hits. On Main Street, most of the shops were closed and we were among only a handful of people in sight. Like many other towns we’ve visited, an antique shop or two were among the only ones open. We couldn’t be sure whether the others were typically closed on Saturdays or that they were out of business altogether.

Which was too bad. Had it been open, we would have loved to see what R&W Carp Juice was all about. The decal on the window claimed that it was “a legend”, “a flavoring company that offered a full line of carp suppliers.” Well that cleared it up.

On the other side of the highway, flanked by tall weeds and boarded up buildings, was an exuberant structure painted head-to-toe with a waterfall, whales, dolphins, sea turtles and other ocean life. We thought it was an aquarium, situated in the middle of nowhere. Then we saw that it was the Lamp Shades & Lamps store.

That was Lincolnton.

Back on the highway, another 45 minutes and a furniture outlet warehouse later, we reached Hudson, NC. Scott spotted the rows of wooden stalls that advertised a flea market and we made a quick u-turn. Rinky-dink flea markets are where you can find the best deals, assured Scott.

Most of the stalls had already been packed up and emptied except a couple of tables that displayed muddy jars, mismatched dishes, rusty nails and tarnished rifles. The open air stalls were rimmed by ramshackle shacks that said “Come on in.” We thought the invitation was nice but something told us to stay away.

In the back of the compound there was a grimy storefront that advertised baked goods where we thought we could get a snack. It turned out to be a junk shop with a back room that sold used clothes by the pound. A few bags of popcorn were on offer but I shook my head when Scott asked if he should buy one. “Cayome baeck aind sayee us agayin,” said the shop lady sweetly when we walked out, even as I eyed the long haired man next to her with suspicion. It was a relief when we finally got back into the car. We drove a little further and Scott noted a wire fence strung with old junk and an adjoining shack he wanted to investigate. As he was about to walk in, a man stepped out and spewed a wad of spit on the ground before returning inside. Once inside, Scott heard a woman hiss at the man “if yewr gonna smoke yew do it awtside” then turned to Scott pleasantly and said “let me know if you nyeed anythang.” Scott came out a minute later, not having found anything of interest among the tables full of ceramic figurines. I was glad I stayed in the car for this one.
We stopped for lunch across the highway at a hangar shaped hot pink building that was The BBQ Man, which goes by the motto “if we can’t smoke it, we grill it.” After the flea market, I was simply relieved that the restaurant was clean. We both liked the kitschy, country décor that showcased hundreds of photos and figurines of pigs, never mind that pigs would not looked so happy if they knew they were a staple on the menu.

We’re quite the BBQ experts by now and rated the brisket, pulled pork, and collard greens just so so, the BBQ slaw sour, but the free and freshly deep fried hush puppies awesome if a bit dangerous. We also liked the Brunswick stew made of vegetables, beans and meat – a pot of whatever’s unsold at the end of the day with a touch of tomato sauce.

Another ten minutes on the road brought us to Lenoir, NC where we stopped at the Black Bear General Store. They had firewood, apples, a dozen different ciders, jellies, pickled vegetables, moccasins, fudge, boiled peanuts, handmade baskets, pork skins, old fashioned candies and more. With several dozen sauces and jams we already had at home, we restricted ourselves to buying only two gallons of cider and a small jar of apple butter (which I insisted I needed but later excavated another new jar deep in our pantry.)

Half an hour later, we found ourselves in Blowing Rock where the main attraction was the rock itself, which jutted out from cliffs 4,000 feet high. The name came to be because the spot was so windy that if you threw small objects down the cliff, the wind would blow them right back to you. The Native Indian legend had it that a man leapt off the rock in distress, only to be blown back into his lover’s arms a couple of days later. I can imagine a Stephen King story in which people jump off the cliff and get blown back half alive and in pieces.

Another fifteen minutes and a full five hours after we left Charlotte, we rolled into Boone, finding ourselves covered by a cold drizzle.

Stay tuned for our next installment, The Road to Boone Part II.