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- Coast to Coast Part 2
Coast to Coast Part 2
- By Dan Clarke
- Published 05/24/2007
- Beyond California
Dan Clarke
California Wine Press publishes two internet magazines.
www.californiawineandfood.com (CWF) addresses the interests of restaurant and hospitality professionals.
Your kind comments have been much appreciated. Thank you. You may contact us at info@californiawineandfood.com
Regards,
Dan Clarke, Publisher
Editor’s note: Last week (starting article) we brought you the first of three articles resultant from our reporter’s adventures on a food and wine tour of Virginia. The saga continues:
The historic Homestead in Hot Springs.
We are due to check in at the historic Homestead in Hot Springs this afternoon. It’s nearly two o’clock when we leave Wade’s Mill and we have another stop scheduled in the Raphine area. After a hurried—but surprisingly thorough—tasting at Rockbridge Vineyard, we head for the famed resort. The roads are winding, but the scenery is beautiful and we get there about an hour-and-a-half later.
Coming into Hot Springs, we spot our destination immediately, but need to take a somewhat circular drive around The Homestead (www.thehomestead.com) before entering its grounds. Our hosts have visited before, but few—if any—of their charges have. This spring afternoon the grounds are lush and very attractive. Our vans park in front of the main entrance and bellmen unload our bags. We enter the main building through a broad covered porch to find ourselves in a high-ceilinged lobby. The place is handsome and the feeling more comfortable and genteel than flashy. The property, after all, was established in 1766. It’s had about two-and-a-half centuries to polish its act.
Black and white pictures on the walls testify to the comprehensive offerings of the Homestead over the years. Families of means are shown enjoying golf, tennis, fly fishing, skeet shooting, horseback riding. In another era the pursuit of pleasure must have been more leisurely—something well beyond a hurried weekend away from the office.
The Homestead boasts three golf courses, the most notable being The Cascades. I’d love to play it, but we have only about two hours before dinner. And I don’t think it is the kind of place where I could talk the starter into giving me a bag full of clubs and permission to play holes one and two before returning to the clubhouse. My alternative golf experience is to have a pre-dinner drink at Sam Snead’s Tavern, which is sort of across the street from the main grounds of the Homestead--though this is about a 10-minute walk. (I have always associated Snead with the Greenbrier, which is in West Virginia, but learn that he was actually a native Hot Springs and gave lessons to guests here at the Homestead as a young pro in the mid-1930s.) After freshening up in the room and ironing a shirt (jacket and tie is the standard for gentlemen in The Dining Room), I just have time for a quick one before dinner—if I hurry.
Striding smartly through the main building in the direction of Sam Snead’s, I take a short cut through the Presidents Lounge. It is a refined and clubby environment featuring portraits of the 22 U.S. Presidents who’ve stayed at the Homestead and is much closer to the dining room where are to assemble for dinner in just half-an-hour. I notice one of my colleagues at the bar and opt to join her, rather than rush to and from the Tavern.
You can imagine having a drink with a presidential visitor.
The history of the Homestead is such that it isn’t much of a stretch to imagine yourself in its public rooms at another time. The circular bar of The Presidents Lounge looks like it might be of fairly recent origin, but surely there’s been a bar here of one definition or another for a long time, one would think. In fact, I think I do see a familiar face over at a table near the corner. Yes, the fellow with a cigarette holder--he must have some influence because they’ve let him bring a little black dog in here. He’s with a group of guys, but I think he’s waving me over. Maybe he thinks we’ve met. I am about to join him for a drink when Christie Miller arrives to announce that our party is about to be seated for dinner, interrupting my reverie of what never was.
The high-ceilinged Dining Room seems both formal and comfortable. A tinkling piano in the background sets the mood. The diners are well dressed and have a confident air. Most of them are older. This place seems familiar. I know I’ve never been to Virginia before, but I’ve been in dining rooms like this—and not just in fantasies like I had in the Presidents Lounge. Perhaps the Claremont in Berkeley looked like this before some of its latter-day remodelings. Maybe the mood reminds me of the Garden Court at San Francisco’s Palace Hotel. In any case, 50 years ago I experienced a few places like this with my parents. Continuity is not entirely a bad thing in this age of frenetic change for the sake of change. The menu confirms that the Homestead’s clientele prefers the familiar. The chef has acknowledged modernity with his appetizers and desserts, but most of the main courses are likely Homestead staples favored by tonight’s diners and maybe their parents before them. I order Prime Rib, an offering seldom found on California menus these days.
Salmon two ways in a tasty appetizer.
Dinner is enjoyable. Conversation is good and conviviality the rule. Robin Sullenberger is seated across the table from me. He is the Chief Executive Officer of Shenandoah Valley Partnership and has been with us for some of the day’s activities. I tell Robin that we Californians have a Shenandoah Valley, too, and that it’s located just 40 minutes east of my home. I’m unsure about how our Shenandoah came by its identity, but I’ve always assumed that a Virginian who’d come west for the gold rush of 1849 had something to do with it.
Desserts look really good and all indulge. We are sated. Nevertheless, several of us adjourn for a nightcap back at the Presidents Lounge. When the last of the Martell VSOP is drained from my snifter I head for the room. Tomorrow is another day and, unfortunately, an early departure from this iconic resort.
We visit Maple Leaf Bakery in Roanoke on the morning of getaway day. The plant does, indeed, have the Canadian connection suggested in their name, but the bakery supplies commercial customers across the United States. As usual, our visiting time is short and the tour will show us just the workings of their “artisan” line, rather than that of the volume bread making that, I presume, is the larger part of their business.
These artisan loaves are made to the specifications of many upscale groceries, which receive the products partially baked and frozen. While this may not sound especially appealing, the technique produces excellent quality, as the retail outlets complete the baking process to serve a finished product that is warm and fresh tasting. Grace Bakery, a Maple Leaf affiliate located in the San Francisco Bay Area, uses this technique to supply an excellent Pugliese bread to clients in Northern California.
With miles to go and stops in Philadelphia and Denver before I can return to my own bed back in California, I am excused from the afternoon tour of the Gatorade facility in Wytheville. Anne Piedmont, Director of Research and Communications for the Roanoke Valley, is kind enough to help me make the most of my remaining time in Virginia by giving me a tour before taking me to the airport for my three o’clock flight. Medical facilities being developed in conjunction with nearby Virginia Tech are impressive and bode well for the economy of the city of Roanoke and its future vitality, but it is charming residential areas and a seemingly well-preserved (or well-rehabbed) downtown that most impress me. While we are a little late to catch the morning action at the six-day-a-week farmers’ market held on the downtown sidewalks, we do enjoy lunch at Trio, a popular bistro on Market Street (www.triowinebar.com). The wine list is terrific and I’m able to introduce my Roanoke guide to a Clos Pegase Chardonnay from the Carneros region back home and tell her stories about the winery’s owner, Jan Shrem and his wife Mitsuko.
An hour later I’m on the first of three planes that will take me home. It seems that our group has been very busy as I reflect on the last several days. There’s so much that we experienced, yet the moments were fleeting. Before our turbo-prop touches down in Philadelphia I make a note to return to Virginia. There’s way more than a wine and food writer can absorb in his rookie trip.
The historic Homestead in Hot Springs.
We are due to check in at the historic Homestead in Hot Springs this afternoon. It’s nearly two o’clock when we leave Wade’s Mill and we have another stop scheduled in the Raphine area. After a hurried—but surprisingly thorough—tasting at Rockbridge Vineyard, we head for the famed resort. The roads are winding, but the scenery is beautiful and we get there about an hour-and-a-half later.
Coming into Hot Springs, we spot our destination immediately, but need to take a somewhat circular drive around The Homestead (www.thehomestead.com) before entering its grounds. Our hosts have visited before, but few—if any—of their charges have. This spring afternoon the grounds are lush and very attractive. Our vans park in front of the main entrance and bellmen unload our bags. We enter the main building through a broad covered porch to find ourselves in a high-ceilinged lobby. The place is handsome and the feeling more comfortable and genteel than flashy. The property, after all, was established in 1766. It’s had about two-and-a-half centuries to polish its act.
Black and white pictures on the walls testify to the comprehensive offerings of the Homestead over the years. Families of means are shown enjoying golf, tennis, fly fishing, skeet shooting, horseback riding. In another era the pursuit of pleasure must have been more leisurely—something well beyond a hurried weekend away from the office.
The Homestead boasts three golf courses, the most notable being The Cascades. I’d love to play it, but we have only about two hours before dinner. And I don’t think it is the kind of place where I could talk the starter into giving me a bag full of clubs and permission to play holes one and two before returning to the clubhouse. My alternative golf experience is to have a pre-dinner drink at Sam Snead’s Tavern, which is sort of across the street from the main grounds of the Homestead--though this is about a 10-minute walk. (I have always associated Snead with the Greenbrier, which is in West Virginia, but learn that he was actually a native Hot Springs and gave lessons to guests here at the Homestead as a young pro in the mid-1930s.) After freshening up in the room and ironing a shirt (jacket and tie is the standard for gentlemen in The Dining Room), I just have time for a quick one before dinner—if I hurry.
Striding smartly through the main building in the direction of Sam Snead’s, I take a short cut through the Presidents Lounge. It is a refined and clubby environment featuring portraits of the 22 U.S. Presidents who’ve stayed at the Homestead and is much closer to the dining room where are to assemble for dinner in just half-an-hour. I notice one of my colleagues at the bar and opt to join her, rather than rush to and from the Tavern.
You can imagine having a drink with a presidential visitor.
The history of the Homestead is such that it isn’t much of a stretch to imagine yourself in its public rooms at another time. The circular bar of The Presidents Lounge looks like it might be of fairly recent origin, but surely there’s been a bar here of one definition or another for a long time, one would think. In fact, I think I do see a familiar face over at a table near the corner. Yes, the fellow with a cigarette holder--he must have some influence because they’ve let him bring a little black dog in here. He’s with a group of guys, but I think he’s waving me over. Maybe he thinks we’ve met. I am about to join him for a drink when Christie Miller arrives to announce that our party is about to be seated for dinner, interrupting my reverie of what never was.
The high-ceilinged Dining Room seems both formal and comfortable. A tinkling piano in the background sets the mood. The diners are well dressed and have a confident air. Most of them are older. This place seems familiar. I know I’ve never been to Virginia before, but I’ve been in dining rooms like this—and not just in fantasies like I had in the Presidents Lounge. Perhaps the Claremont in Berkeley looked like this before some of its latter-day remodelings. Maybe the mood reminds me of the Garden Court at San Francisco’s Palace Hotel. In any case, 50 years ago I experienced a few places like this with my parents. Continuity is not entirely a bad thing in this age of frenetic change for the sake of change. The menu confirms that the Homestead’s clientele prefers the familiar. The chef has acknowledged modernity with his appetizers and desserts, but most of the main courses are likely Homestead staples favored by tonight’s diners and maybe their parents before them. I order Prime Rib, an offering seldom found on California menus these days.
Salmon two ways in a tasty appetizer.
Dinner is enjoyable. Conversation is good and conviviality the rule. Robin Sullenberger is seated across the table from me. He is the Chief Executive Officer of Shenandoah Valley Partnership and has been with us for some of the day’s activities. I tell Robin that we Californians have a Shenandoah Valley, too, and that it’s located just 40 minutes east of my home. I’m unsure about how our Shenandoah came by its identity, but I’ve always assumed that a Virginian who’d come west for the gold rush of 1849 had something to do with it.
Desserts look really good and all indulge. We are sated. Nevertheless, several of us adjourn for a nightcap back at the Presidents Lounge. When the last of the Martell VSOP is drained from my snifter I head for the room. Tomorrow is another day and, unfortunately, an early departure from this iconic resort.
We visit Maple Leaf Bakery in Roanoke on the morning of getaway day. The plant does, indeed, have the Canadian connection suggested in their name, but the bakery supplies commercial customers across the United States. As usual, our visiting time is short and the tour will show us just the workings of their “artisan” line, rather than that of the volume bread making that, I presume, is the larger part of their business.
These artisan loaves are made to the specifications of many upscale groceries, which receive the products partially baked and frozen. While this may not sound especially appealing, the technique produces excellent quality, as the retail outlets complete the baking process to serve a finished product that is warm and fresh tasting. Grace Bakery, a Maple Leaf affiliate located in the San Francisco Bay Area, uses this technique to supply an excellent Pugliese bread to clients in Northern California.
With miles to go and stops in Philadelphia and Denver before I can return to my own bed back in California, I am excused from the afternoon tour of the Gatorade facility in Wytheville. Anne Piedmont, Director of Research and Communications for the Roanoke Valley, is kind enough to help me make the most of my remaining time in Virginia by giving me a tour before taking me to the airport for my three o’clock flight. Medical facilities being developed in conjunction with nearby Virginia Tech are impressive and bode well for the economy of the city of Roanoke and its future vitality, but it is charming residential areas and a seemingly well-preserved (or well-rehabbed) downtown that most impress me. While we are a little late to catch the morning action at the six-day-a-week farmers’ market held on the downtown sidewalks, we do enjoy lunch at Trio, a popular bistro on Market Street (www.triowinebar.com). The wine list is terrific and I’m able to introduce my Roanoke guide to a Clos Pegase Chardonnay from the Carneros region back home and tell her stories about the winery’s owner, Jan Shrem and his wife Mitsuko.
An hour later I’m on the first of three planes that will take me home. It seems that our group has been very busy as I reflect on the last several days. There’s so much that we experienced, yet the moments were fleeting. Before our turbo-prop touches down in Philadelphia I make a note to return to Virginia. There’s way more than a wine and food writer can absorb in his rookie trip.