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The One Ten Experience: five courses, five wines, infinite delights for the five senses…
The menu at One Ten Craft Meatery reads like a tome of all my innermost desires; a beautiful book that holds all the words I cherish most. My own delicious thoughts and dreams–black ink on paper. An entire page is dedicated solely to various cuts of steak and beckons to me: “Would the princess prefer the Wagyu Tomahawk Ribeye, a Grassfed Filet, or a Bone-In Dry-Aged New York Strip this evening?” The princess would prefer not to choose. I hate making choices; especially ones that force me to decide on one single star from a constellation comprised of all I love most in this universe. No matter what I choose: I know I will enjoy the choice, yet still regret missing the things I did not choose to enjoy. While Duck Fat Fries, Flights of Bacon, and masterfully crafted plates of Wild Boar all call to me like some sort of foodie siren song, there are few things I’m more fond of than a gorgeous steak (on the rare side) with a glass of perfectly paired red wine. The varietal of choice will always depend on the cut of steak being served, but I tell you, there are many brilliant options on offer at One Ten Craft Meatery to satisfy this particular craving. Reading over their menu is poetry for my hungry soul. My eyes eagerly devour every decadent word on the page describing the delectable dishes; yet there is a phrase on the menu offering no description at all. The words are small and could be easily overlooked–but, the text remains perched on page–like an ancient incantation waiting to be discovered, to be read, to be realized. To utter the words is to seal your fate, a destiny written in the stars for only the most adventurous of gourmandizers: The One Ten Experience.
The One Ten Experience is a five course tasting menu with optional wine pairing. I was recently contacted by One Ten Craft Meatery and offered the auspicious opportunity to sample their tasting menu, with wine pairings included, on the house. Their only request: that I write about the experience. Believe me, this is one of those moments where it’s very much not lost on me how lucky I am. I was, and remain to be, beyond grateful to be offered this opportunity by One Ten Craft Meatery. The One Ten Experience has long been on my bucket list of meals to try; but on my writer’s salary (ha…what salary?), it can be difficult for me to indulge in this class of luxe feast as often as I might wish. The five course dinner is $75 per person, with the additional wine pairings priced at $55 per person. When I announced online that I would be writing about this special dinner, I was immediately privately contacted by a local food influencer who expressed that they were eager to hear my thoughts, as they’d previously heard the meal was “pricy for what you get.” I immediately became infuriated on behalf of One Ten Craft Meatery–not at the influencer, but at the expressed sentiment.
I’m getting really sick of people saying things like, “It’s expensive for what you get. I could make this at home for less.” No. You couldn’t. (Yes, I’m sure there are some who could–but, with few exceptions, I stand by my words.) You don’t have the talent required to make these skillfully crafted dishes, Jeff–that’s why you’re a CPA and not an executive chef. You think salt is something you only need sparingly, Carol. You find black pepper to be “too spicy,” Mike. Nobody should trust your opinions or your cooking skills because you’re really all just a bunch of bitter Karens with bland palates. Yes, I know, I am the girl who continues to say that taste is deeply personal–but, at some point we have to admit, there is good food and then there is food that’s not so good. One Ten Craft Meatery is an almost entirely scratch kitchen, meaning basically everything they serve, they hand-craft. They are immensely thoughtful about sourcing their ingredients–utilizing local produce as much as possible and supporting ethical farming practices. You are paying for high quality ingredients that are painstakingly prepared and served by accomplished professionals. The food and the effort put into its preparation–and I mean every step taken from farm to table–is entirely worth the price being asked. Yes, I had the privilege of enjoying this meal at no cost to me–but I will more than happily go back and pay for this experience again. It’s something I will gladly budget for because I understand that it’s more than worth the price tag. As far as I’m concerned, this experience is unparalleled in Indiana. A bold claim from a girl who has only lived in the Midwest for two years–but I said what I said. The One Ten Experience is a dining delight that stands up against meals I’ve been served by Michelin Star Chefs. It’s the sort of meal I’d expect somewhere like New York City–not something I ever expected to experience once I moved to Indiana. It’s special.
I arrived at One Ten Craft Meatery on a Friday evening; my senses buzzing in anticipation of the meal to come. Often, when we go to a restaurant, we have some idea of what we’re going to eat. Likely, we’ve at least perused a menu before arriving–I mean, that’s what I typically do. (Is that weird? Because I’d rather be weird than disappointed in my dinner.) The thing about The One Ten Experience that might shake a less adventurous diner is: there’s no glimpse of the future provided. With no prescribed menu to look at beforehand, no indication of what flavors the night might bring, there’s a lot of uncertainty that accompanies the experience–giving way to a mix of excitement and just a little twinge of nervousness. If the unknown is something you simply can’t face, you don’t necessarily have to skip the tasting menu. Our server, who was boundlessly warm and kind, actually asked if we’d prefer to be surprised or get a heads up about what dishes would be coming our way. I think you need to make whatever choice is best for you, but ultimately I’d like to emphasize my belief that the element of surprise is essential in properly experiencing a meal like this.
When you’ve built trust with a restaurant, it’s easy to throw your hands in the air, relinquish your sense of control, and just enjoy the delicious journey. So, I showed up to One Ten Craft Meatery with an open mind, an eager mouth, and an overwhelming abundance of something that doesn’t always come easily to me: trust. But, I tell you, they have earned my trust through many positive dining experiences. At worst, previous meals there have been great. At their best, they set a standard that I will compare future dining experiences against. For me, the One Ten Experience is a new gold standard. While the five course tasting menu may be akin to a trust fall for the senses, the high that accompanies the payoff of relinquishing control of your meal to a brilliantly talented chef is exquisite and elevates each and every bite of surprise cuisine to previously unknown levels of lusciousness. If you simply let go and let chef, your faith will be rewarded.
Our delicious adventure began with an amuse-bouche of sesame cucumber salad. Never before have I so enjoyed cucumber that wasn’t specifically a half-sour pickle. Spicy and fresh–for a little bite, it packed a big flavor. A single spoonful was more than enough to tantalize my tastebuds. Not to spoil the little dopamine hit that we, as humans, get whenever we experience a tiny, unexpected, happy surprise: but an amuse-bouche is part of every meal at One Ten Craft Meatery. Even knowing that it’s something I should expect when dining there, I’m always still delighted to experience this tiny taste. I’ve spoiled no big secrets, as the single spoonful of ingredients is constantly changing. It’s the experience of the amuse-bouche that helped me to gain confidence and trust in the culinary craftsmanship of One Ten Craft Meatery. No matter what they serve up on a spoon to start my meal, it is always–without exception–scrumptious.
The first plate of the evening was their Cherries and Cheese appetizer. Gorgeous, plump marinated cherries dressed with Fresno chiles and a delicate chiffonade of mint were served upon a lush–and more than generous–mountain of whipped goat cheese. House-made, grilled focaccia served as the vessel to transport this decadent bite to your mouth. This is the first time I’ve truly, deeply fallen in love with cherries. The gobs of goat cheese that were there to ease the introduction certainly aided the formation of this new love affair. The plate was sweet enough, but also complex enough, that I’d be delighted to begin or end a meal with it. To compliment, a sparkling Italian rosé. I believe it was the Pizzolato Italian Spumante, but don’t quote me on that. I’m pretty good when it comes to wine, but there will always be more for me to learn. The wine was gorgeous and pale pink in color. Lazy bubbles in the glass were much more assertive on my tongue–with notes of apple and strawberry. This wine was ideal to compliment the ultra creamy, soft goat cheese. I would go back just to enjoy this plate and wine together again–but I could say that of any of the pairings I enjoyed as part of the One Ten Experience.
For the second plate of the evening, we were presented with a dish by the chef. It was something that I’ve not personally seen on their menu before–at very least, I can say with absolute certainty that it is not currently offered on their menu. The chef explained that the plate of local Kosciusko mushrooms were prepared in a variety of ways. Chanterelle, chicken of the woods, and oyster mushrooms were all present in this dish. I believe the oysters were braised, the chanterelles roasted, and the chicken of the woods breaded and fried–but again, don’t quote me. I went fully swoony upon first bite, so the exact details got a bit lost in my haze of enjoyment. I do know with absolute certainty that the mushrooms were served atop a bed of two sauces: a Brie Mornay and a pine nut romesco. I can also say that this was–beyond a shadow of a doubt–the absolute best mushroom dish I’ve ever eaten in my entire life. It completely changed my perception of mushrooms. Before I get ahead of myself, let me just be clear–the Brie Mornay was heavenly, but the romesco…sheeeeeeesh! When the kids say, “Goated with the sauce,” this must be the sauce they’re talking about. I deeply love the whole dish but the wine pairing really elevated the experience–as a good pairing should. I’ve said before that fried foods and bubbly are best friends, but breaded and fried chicken of the woods mushrooms should marry the Blanc de Blancs I was served with this dish. What is Blanc de Blancs? As you may (or may not) know, Champagne is typically made with white and black grapes: namely Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. A Blanc de Blancs, as the name suggests, is made with no black grapes–the term can apply to Champagne or to bubblies produced elsewhere. The glass I enjoyed alongside the mushroom dish was a dazzling straw hue, effervescent, and similar in flavor to a typical Champagne while specifically being not-a-Champagne. I think I was detecting the familiar notes of lemon and toast. The pairing was exquisite and really set a high standard for the remainder of the evening.
Next, a well-loved menu item at One Ten Craft Meatery: the Stoned Duck. A mouthwatering union of succulent, perfectly cooked duck–with just a taste of crispy skin–stone fruit salsa, pickled red onion, a delicate bed of spinach, and a tempting schmear of blackberry goat cheese punctuated with crispy prosciutto. This is a highly craveable menu item for a reason. As someone who doesn’t typically choose duck (especially not when steak is an option) I believe my praise of this dish should carry serious clout. I challenge you to find a more fulfilling plate of duck than this. (Spoiler: you won’t.) This dish is so well-crafted that it could make me question whether or not I wanted to feast upon duck or steak. At this point, I have to tell you about Javin. A server, though not technically my server, who stopped by the table throughout the evening to chat a bit. A big, vibrant personality–the kind of person who makes a room better just by being in it–Javin stopped by the table to ask if I was told how they make the Stoned Duck. I was intrigued. His explanation: “We become really good friends with the duck, take it up to Michigan and go to a dispensary…” I’m hooked: on both Javin and this duck.
By this point in the evening I realized that, with the amount of goat cheese I was consuming in one single sitting, I will probably never need an antidepressant again–I’m cured. Nothing provides pure dopamine quite like goat cheese does. But, if the cheese wasn’t enough to fulfill the pursuit of happiness, the wines of the evening certainly would carry me across the finish line to foodie nirvana. Our server kept commenting that she was impressed with my dining companion and me: we didn’t ask to box anything and continued to clean our plates throughout the evening. Apparently, most people box at least a few bites when partaking in the One Ten Experience: foiled by eyes larger than their stomachs. Not us. We ate, ravenously, determined to relish in all that the night had to offer–the promise of gourmandizer’s heaven always looming on the horizon. Valhalla, I am coming! The Stoned Duck was accompanied by the 2021 Belle Glos Pinot Noir; the third pairing of the evening and it was a real treat. I’m a girl who loves all wines. I don’t discriminate. But red wine will always hold a special place in my heart. This Pinot Noir had lush notes of dark fruit, with some red fruit–perhaps cherry, but more like a cherry cola. Velvety in my mouth and acidic enough to balance the succulent duck dish; I urge you, if the five course menu is outside of your comfort zone, at very least: try this pairing. It’s simply too good to miss.
The most “me” taste of the evening was the final savory dish: the penultimate plate. Nearing our final destination, the fourth (before the fifth) was a picanha steak–the tip of the sirloin–upon a bed of seasoned rice and bedecked with elote style corn and vibrant, green, herbaceous chimichurri. Steak is one of my love languages and my trysts with One Ten Craft Meatery always leave me satisfied. Their steaks are–without exception–exceptional, with the perfect amount of pink, and primped with all the best, most scrummy accompaniments. Those who know me well can attest that I have this silly little habit of dancing when I eat something that really pleases me. Even seated at my table, while eating the picanha, I could not control myself from performing a boogie in my chair. My mouth was busy chewing and my bootie was busy grooving. I uttered, “We’re about to get nasty. I’m about to ‘Yes, Chef’ my steak,” and “Please don’t tell the Stoned Duck that I’m cheating on it.” I can’t act right when I’m really vibing with my food. It didn’t help that I was also entirely smitten with the wine pairing for this plate. A 2021 Tempranillo from Spain, it was–without a single hesitation–my favorite wine of the evening. Fruity, but with hints of baking spice and perhaps even just a tiny suggestion of orange zest, this wine left me wanting a second pour. This is the one I’d buy a bottle of for the sake of simply enjoying at home–but that all comes down to personal preference. I was flirting with my wine; talking to it, trying to figure it out and decipher its layers. My dining companion, jealous and feeling left out, asked if I wanted to include them in the conversation. To this I said, “This is an A and B conversation and you can C your way out.” I am nothing if not a child; a steak-and-wine-obsessed child. But, don’t blame me–blame the excellent cuisine. It’s not hard to fall in love with the food at One Ten Craft Meatery. Javin quipped, “Half the reason I work here is just to get half-off the food.” If delicious cuisine doesn’t drive your decision making, I don’t know if we can be friends. But Javin is cool. We can hang.
The final plate of the evening was, of course, dessert. Like all good love affairs, all truly excellent meals should end on a sweet note and The One Ten Experience is nothing if not a truly excellent meal–and, for those of us predisposed to falling in love with all things ephemeral and delicious, it’s a pretty good short-lived love affair, too. A chocolate cake inspired by the very cake Chef Jason’s grandmother used to prepare: the Dotty Cake. Cream cheese meringue and brandied cherries accentuate the heavenly, chocolatey slice of cake–dense and rich enough to feel decadent, but not so heavy as to sit like a rock in your tummy after an already sizable and sinful meal. To pair, a small sip of 2006 Vinsanto Del Chianti. Of all wines, dessert wines are the ones I enjoy least of all–though I do still enjoy them. When it comes to wine, I do prefer dry to sweet, but I still feel that there is a time and place for sweet wines. The end of a big meal is really the ideal time to partake in the sipping of dessert wine. Of all dessert wines: Vinsanto is by far my favorite. It tends to have really interesting notes of dried fruits, caramel, and scrumptious nuttiness. Oddly enough, I have a bottle of 2006 Vinsanto Del Chianti sitting on my personal wine rack just waiting to be opened and enjoyed–perhaps this winter I’ll crack it open.
The life of a food and wine writer is folly. Last night, I was eating one of the most exquisite meals I’ve ever had the pleasure of enjoying, with exceptional wines to accompany and compliment the feast. Today I’m munching on Totino’s Pizza Rolls, quaffing a mediocre locally-crafted Petite Sirah, and trying to find all the right words to elucidate the all-time-highs of the utterly unmatched dining experience of the evening prior. Last night’s meal will remain in my mind as a benchmark that I will compare future meals against. Well done, all–you have created a genuinely magical experience. What is so perfect about this five course tasting menu is that it lacks pretense–nothing is deconstructed or fussy. There’s no scientific gastronomy at play; no foams and gels to confound the senses. It’s just good, real, whole food prepared exceptionally well with evident skill, attention to detail, and heart. Of note–Chef Jason was the first chef to ever reach out to me directly after my first write-up on One Ten Craft Meatery. He made sure I understood that my words had an impact–and his kindness has informed how I’ve written about food and wine ever since. On Friday, when I finally got to feast upon The One Ten Experience, it was the official one year anniversary of Plonk & Pleasure. I can think of nowhere in the world that I would have rather celebrated this delicious journey. The timing, though unintentional, was impeccable. I am so grateful for the experience. The biggest, most heartfelt thank you to Chef Jason and the entire team of One Ten Craft Meatery. Each and every one of you is a masterful artist of your craft–thank you for sharing your skills and talents with me. I will forever, endlessly, await my next taste of the perfection you unfailingly bring to the table.
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Plonk & Pleasure: a manifesto
Well, baby, it’s been a year. Happy Birthday, blog. I haven’t even come close to reaching the goals that I set for myself when I started this venture. By the one year mark, I was really hoping to have at least 1,000 Instagram followers, some sort of income associated with my writing, and a local reputation as a respectable food and wine writer. (Respectable? Me? Maybe I mean notorious?) I’ve fallen short of these goals in a big way. But, it would seem, I’ve achieved things that I never anticipated…perhaps better things. What is a thousand Instagram followers compared to new, meaningful, tangible friendships? What is getting paid to write when compared to touching people’s hearts with my words? (Haha…I still very badly want to get paid.) What is earning a reputation as a skilled food writer–oh wait, I’ve begun chipping away at that one. A local chef hung my words near their desk. I don’t know if the ink-covered paper is still hanging there–but any number of days that my words served to inspire, to whisper ‘keep going,’ or to simply bring a smile is more than I ever fully anticipated. That knowledge alone can break my heart and then glue it back together in an instant. That singular action makes all of the effort I’ve tirelessly poured into this entirely worth it for me. Silly as it may seem, knowing that my words moved someone actually means infinitely more to me than money…it just doesn’t pay my bills, unfortunately. I’ve been told by someone who I believe I can trust that I’ve given people hope. I truly didn’t understand the impact that I’ve had on others. I never thought I’d be responsible for spreading that dirty four letter word amongst the masses: yet here we are, friend. It’s just you and me–and perhaps all we have is hope–but maybe it can be enough, for now. You know, it’s a symbiotic relationship, really. If I can see the good in you, others surely can. If you can see the worth in me, perhaps others will, too. I like this sort of hopeful thinking. It’s new to me, but I think it will be good for us in the long run: healthy for our hearts and brains.
There was a recent push within my little community to help get my Instagram page to 500 followers by my one year anniversary–half of my initial goal, but certainly a more attainable dream. Numbers shouldn’t matter. In a way, they don’t. But, if we’re being honest: my brain uses them as a tangible measure of my success. It shouldn’t. I need to work on that. For now, it’s my reality. When I started Plonk & Pleasure, I quite literally knew no one in Fort Wayne–not a soul. All of the friends I’ve made since moving here have been because of this blog. So, to see friends (people who just a few short months ago were strangers) rally in support of me was overwhelming, to say the least. I got misty-eyed…just kidding, I wept like a baby. It was something small, but it truly meant so much to me, so I just want to ensure that each and everyone who shared their support knows how deeply touched I was. It meant the world to me. I was honestly at a point where giving up felt like the best option. You helped me to realize that the only option is to keep going. I feel seen. I feel understood. That is the best gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you.
When I started this wild, delicious adventure, I believe I didn’t fully comprehend what I was doing. Perhaps it would be more honest to say I misunderstood what I was doing. I thought I wanted to be a food and wine critic until I realized that 1) I don’t want to be responsible for having any serious influence over someone else’s opinion 2) I don’t believe I have any right to fuck with someone’s income via negative reviews and 3) I don’t want to write down anything that might negatively impact the mental health of another. Words last forever. I won’t use my words to potentially inflict an unending sort of mental anguish on another. I won’t. If somebody lets me live in their head rent-free, I hope it’s because I dished out a compliment so excellent that they don’t ever want to let go of it.
Just a few weeks ago, too drunk on my front porch, a local chef asked me who I was writing for–and I didn’t know the answer to that question. They asked if I was writing for chefs. I froze–I hadn’t really considered my audience. Perhaps that is the biggest mistake that I’ve made in my first year of writing Plonk & Pleasure. Growing this blog from nothing, I was happy to have anyone reading–so I never thought much about who I wanted to read my words. Selfishly, I think I truly started writing for nobody but myself–because I had to. Because I am a creature who must write: whether or not anyone will read the fruits of my labors. Multiple unpublished novels–because I’ve hoarded them away from the public like precious jewels–serve as testimonials that I will blacken pages for the benefit of no one but myself.
In the last year, I’ve learned so much about what I didn’t want to do with my words. Learning the lesson was no picnic. There were days, more than I’d like to admit, where I struggled to accept that I’d written anything more than glorified Yelp reviews; stupid, slabbering paragraphs of little to no value filled with bottom-shelf fanciful language about whatever I’d most recently shoved in my brainless gob–read by few, appreciated by fewer. I’d get mean with myself and let my brain convince me I was more of a Karen than a writer. Who died and told me that my opinion on the subject of food and wine matters? No one. Unproductive thinking? You bet. Unhealthy thinking? I know. Solvable? Perhaps. I fear that self-doubt will always be in the back of my mind: but I’m learning to control the volume of the critic in my head. I do my best to turn that fucker all the way down to two and then blast some early 2000s alt to drown the cranky bastard out–in case you were curious what the inside of my head sounds like most days. I’m a tough cookie, but my asshole-brain knows exactly when to suckerpunch me to leave the biggest impact; it doesn’t matter how tough I am once I’ve knocked myself on my ass. Getting back up again is hellish. Staring myself down and stripping away all the self-deprecation, self-effacement, and self-hatred was a painful process: but entirely necessary to see the growth and progress I’ve made in the past year. It’s now so clear to me that I quickly grew past what I thought I wanted out of this experience–but then I never defined what I did want. I’m sorry. That was careless of me. I’ll try to do better in the future, but I’m human and I’m built to fuck up. In fact, I’m really good at it. I’m flawed: perhaps more than most. But…I’m trying my hardest. Please, stick with me. Show me grace and patience–and I’ll always do my utmost to return the courtesy.
About a week after the drunken conversation on my front porch, I was riding in the car with my best friend. They were talking to me about my writing. (They help to edit most of it, so they probably know it better than anyone else.) Without being asked, without me even bringing up the subject, seemingly out of nowhere: they told me who I’ve been writing for. It didn’t surprise me at all, but somehow it also floored me. Perhaps I was too close to see what’s been so clear to others–it happens. More likely, for some reason I haven’t been able to unpack yet, I knew the answer all along but didn’t want to accept it. So, allow me to elucidate for anyone who has been just as lost as I was on this subject.
I am writing for the chefs, the line cooks, the bakers, the geniuses, creatives, dreamers, and makers. My words are for the vintners and brewers. I write for the small business owners; the doers. Whether your hands are crafting or carrying plates, my words are for you. If the hungry consumers, the foodies, and gourmandizers consume my content and are so inspired as to support their local community through eating and imbibing–all the better. I secretly want them to be guided to feast, to enjoy, to support. Because I want to see you win. I want to see everyone win: and I believe the shared experience of dining is how we achieve this–together. But don’t ever question why my words focus on the positive and, frankly, ignore the negative. I’m writing for hard-won egos: some unflappable, some fragile. I am writing for hands that have been burned and sliced but carry-on, unwavering; for feelings calloused by experience then subsequently swallowed to protect any shred of delicacy that might secretly remain. I’m writing for the delicious actions led by love, passion, and a little bit of self-loathing; for the ones who despite years of training, earned talent, and masterfully learned skills still sometimes question if they are enough. My words are meant to help combat the shitty tip you got from some chooch, when we both know you deserved so much better–and to gently remind that the couple of meager dollars doled out by some diner often has literally zero correlation to how good you are at your job and it has even less still to do with your worth as a person. I’m writing in hopes that you don’t cry in the walk-in or while driving home after work. I’m writing to help combat the voice screaming in your head to do better, go harder–when you’ve already given too much of yourself. I’m writing to remind you of the good that you bring into the world–it’s more than enough.
If this doesn’t make sense, then I’m probably not writing for you–but you’re still welcome to read. In fact, I want you to. Is a birthday cake really for you if it’s not your birthday? No: but you’re meant to partake and enjoy. It’s something that’s not made for you, but is shared with you. When it comes to my writing, there’s plenty of cake for everyone. There’s room enough for everybody at this table, whoever you may be. We should all be feasting–together. But I like carrot cake for my birthday. Some people don’t like carrot cake any day of the week–and that’s okay. Maybe you feel like carrot cake is on every menu in town and you’re getting a little sick of it. You’re entitled to your opinion: but I’m still going to have the cake that I want because it’s my birthday. And besides: just because you haven’t liked other carrot cakes in the past doesn’t mean you won’t like this one. Our tastes change all the time. Maybe you like carrot cake more than you think. So if you’re annoyed that the bounty that is my writing isn’t honest enough, that it is not well balanced, that it could stand to be more salty, or is distasteful to you for lack of harsh criticism–simply look at what I’m not saying. Watch for the subjects I deftly dance around. I whirl around the downside with the trained precision of Fred Astaire. I sugar coat it to the point that you don’t even realize you’ve swallowed the poison. I’m so good at it: you’ve been missing it this whole time. That’s on you, not me. I can put the nutmeg in the mashed potatoes; your palate determines whether you detect it or not.
Like a good chef, what I craft comes from the heart. I have put countless hours of careful thought and consideration into the importance of what I do say–and even more precise care and consideration has been given to what I don’t say. I stand firm in my decision that in my little corner of the internet we don’t beat down our fellow humans for being vulnerable and selflessly sharing pieces of themselves with us. We lift them up and thank them for sharing–for sacrificing so much of themselves so that we may dine. We tell them what they’ve done that made an impact. We acknowledge their accomplishments. We hope it gives them the confidence to keep doing the good stuff well…because we accept that all humans are flawed. No person is perfect, just as no meal is ever truly perfect. But damn it—aren’t we all just constantly trying to achieve this unachievable standard and then beating the shit out of ourselves when we fall short? We should probably stop doing that.
Lest anyone accuse me of dishonesty, let me confess that in many ways I am also still writing this for myself–because in many ways, I am not unlike my chosen audience. I am going to fucking lose it if you don’t let me write about the flavors of my life. Want to see my best impression of Girl Interrupted? Take away my ability to put word to page: especially where food and wine are concerned. Starve me–both physically and artistically–and watch how I perish. Dramatic? Perhaps. Honest? To a fault. But, I am certain that you will understand: because we both suffer from passion. Driven beyond desire, beyond compulsion–it is a need. As necessary as breath is to life. We’re both creating because we have no other choice. We’re simply using different mediums. If I could choose not to write, I would. If I could choose to do literally anything else and feel like even half-a-human doing it: I’d say, “Sign me up!” But I can’t. I suspect neither can you. It’s a little bit nice to be understood, isn’t it? So, I’ll be writing about food and wine; probably for the rest of my life. I don’t like to make big promises like that. None of us can see the future with any sort of clarity–but I’d like to believe that we’ll all be in this together for a long time.
What I won’t ever be doing is critiquing food–with the exception of the occasional cereal or chicken nuggie review. These little deviations don’t count. Corporations aren’t people. Instead I’ll keep on writing my love letters, and using all the weirdest (but ultimately kind) words to tell you how food has fed me; body and soul. I think we all can agree that food is a love language–and maybe I’m just a little bit in love with each and every one of you and the toothsome, tantalizing, tasty things you turn out–I want to focus on that: because it’s beautiful. I’m never going to overwhelm a kitchen by ordering every plate on the menu, insisting they all come out at the same time, waiting to try even a single bite of anything until each plate has arrived at my table as demanded, and then have the audacity to write that the food wasn’t hot enough–without ever acknowledging that the wound was self-inflicted. If that’s what it means to be a food critic: I think we both know, I will never be that. I love you too much to put you through that. I’m never going to call a restaurant and ask for a comped six-top “because I’m an influencer.” I think we both know–I’m no influencer, and while I’ll graciously accept what is offered to me, I never expect to be given anything. That’s not how you treat people you love. I’m not a critic. I can throw daggers and pretend like my palate is superior, sweetie, but I have zero interest in this silly, ego-driven way of writing. I’m not an influencer. Fort Wayne already has their fair share of food influencers. Respect. Many of them are doing truly amazing, commendable work to champion local businesses and bolster the local economy. Absolutely zero shade to the babes who are slaying–we’re just different beasts. I’m a writer. That’s all I know how to be, and I will choose writing over everything else; every day, always.
So, we understand each other. We know that what is appetizing to one person may not necessarily appeal to another. We accept that taste is extremely personal–and that our personal preferences are no reason to tear down another person’s dreams, take shots at their livelihood, or question their levels of skill and commitment to their craft. We understand that a scale of one through ten is no way to judge another human being. We must never forget that behind every dish there is the person who created it. This is why I choose to speak and write with kindness: because I can’t forget the human–and you shouldn’t allow yourself to, either. These people should be celebrated. I’m writing this for the humans with their hands in the game. I see you. I appreciate you. Keep going. Thank you for feeding me. And always: cook from the heart–please. Keep living your dream (for you and for me) because without you, I don’t get to live my dream. Like I said, it’s a symbiotic relationship.
So, happy one year anniversary, baby. Let’s raise a glass of whatever–but it’ll always be wine for me–and propose a toast to the chefs, the line cooks, the bakers, vintners, and brewers; the geniuses, creatives, dreamers, makers, and doers: whether your hands are crafting or carrying plates. To the hungry consumers, the foodies, and gourmandizers–the influencers, content creators, and people who feed their phones first. And of course, to the writer: who eats the dreams of others, drinks their ambitions, and bleeds words. I am only lucky enough to do so because all that you sacrifice of yourself makes it possible for me to be…well, me. Thank you for enabling me, tolerating me, feeding me, and giving me a home. No matter what happens now, come what may, at least the days that led me here have tasted so fucking delicious.
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Monday Night Tasting Dinner at Junk Ditch: Mondays have never tasted so good…
Sometimes I feel like the world is my oyster–and it’s rotten. My life hasn’t been all peaches and cream. I’ve had many moments that were starved of joy. Haven’t we all? I suppose that’s why when life is truly delicious, with whipped cream and a cherry on top, I try so desperately to savor the experience entirely. You never know when something sweet will give way to sour.
One of the sweetest things in my life is my lovely neighbor and friend, Katie Jo. For those not in the know, Katie Jo is the content queen for Junk Ditch Brewing. There are few human beings who more closely embody a literal ray of sunshine. Whether navigating the mean streets of Fort Wayne, the local food scene, or my own sometimes messy life: since the day we met, Katie Jo has always been there to offer guidance, moral support, and infectious laughter. Get yourself a friend who is literally the best hype-person in the business! I count myself endlessly lucky to know Katie Jo. They have the biggest heart. To wit, it has been their dream to share a meal with their nearest and dearest foodie friends. When they were able to score a table for the sake of “content creation” at the very first in an upcoming series of Monday Night Tasting Dinners at Junk Ditch Brewing, I was fortunate enough to be one of the people they considered a foodie friend. Be still my freaking heart. To be considered not just a friend, but a foodie friend, by Katie Jo is definitely one of the sweeter moments in my life. It was my honeyed-delight to dine with Katie Jo, Will, and Volchy at Junk Ditch’s first Monday Night Tasting Dinner. I wish I were smug enough to refer to us as the crème de la crème of the Fort Wayne foodie scene–but I’m not. (And I certainly don’t want to hurt the feelings of other brilliant locals who weren’t present at our dinner table–but you should be so lucky. Hate us ‘cause you ain’t us.) Here’s the facts: we are indisputably cutie pies and we sure do know some shit when it comes to culinary delights. Thank you, thank you, a million times thank you to Katie Jo and Junk Ditch Brewing for making this dinner possible.
The evening was lovely. Obviously, the company was exceptional. It’s not often that I get to dine in the presence of such absolutely darling and brilliant human beings; all entirely gorgeous, well spoken, and with such impeccable taste. These people shine like neon signs in a dark alleyway after midnight–beacons of good times, good food, and good vibes. The high-octane gourmandizing camaraderie of my dining companions could have easily overshadowed a mediocre meal; but this is Junk Ditch we’re talking about. The food more than held its own against the presence of my esteemed companions: and we all enjoyed the experience very much. Bet. We delighted in the five course tasting menu with optional beer pairings to compliment.
The menu was released in advance of the evening and I know that there were some individuals who questioned if the $65 price tag (plus additional $25 if you wished to partake in the beer pairing) was a worthwhile investment–particularly because some of the menu items were, perhaps, unusual to the less adventurous eater. I hate to repeat myself, but I will scream this from the rooftops until you all hear me: we don’t really know what we like! We think we know our own palates intimately, but we’re all sort of idiots. In truth, you can’t really know that you don’t like something until it’s in your mouth. And just because you never liked beets before, and you didn’t like beets yesterday, it doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy a particular preparation of beets if you simply try them today. I’m begging you: explore. I’m urging you–try! I’m asking you to push your own boundaries. I fully believe that there are certain restaurants where (and certain chefs with whom) it is safer to be adventurous. Junk Ditch is one of the local establishments where I genuinely feel you can more easily let your guard down and simply trust that whatever is presented to you will be delish–whether you think you will like it or not. I went into this dinner fully armed with the knowledge that there were certain items on the menu that, perhaps, weren’t my favorite foods. Nevertheless I remained hopeful that it would be a tremendously yummy evening. I trust Junk Ditch. I trust my friends. I haven’t been let down yet.
The first taste to begin our evening was a bread plate complete with gougères and a vegan focaccia. The vegan focaccia was surprisingly pleasant–and I only say “surprisingly” because my bread preference tends to lie with enriched doughs benefiting from all the animal fats the planet has to offer. Give me a buttery brioche and I’m a happy girl. But this vegan focaccia did not disappoint. The texture was pillowy and the flavor was complex. Primarily herbaceous bites of rosemary, punctuated with bursts of bright salt, and a subtle hint of earthiness from porcini: the bread was dope. But, my friends, the gougères were heaven. I am obsessive about these traditional little French bites of cheesy choux. The last time that I had the pleasure of eating them was when celebrating my last birthday at a French bistro in Indianapolis. On that evening, the gougères were yummy AF, but my complaint was that they fell a little flat. I had no such complaint about the gougères produced by Junk Ditch. They were puffed to perfection, light yet satisfying, and bursting with scrumptious buttery-cheesy-flavor. I think I ate three before consciously restraining myself from asking for more. I could eat gougères all day long. If these were a regular menu item, it would be something I’d order for every visit. Hands down. Not up for debate. Fort Wayne is, frankly, lacking when it comes to skillful execution of French cuisine. The simple, humble gougère deserves to be represented on somebody’s menu–so I was beyond delighted to have the privilege of enjoying them last night! Now I’ll just be over here minding my business and quietly hoping that they make another appearance at Junk Ditch.
Next, an amuse-bouche: because is it really a Junk Ditch meal without an extra “unexpected” little bite to get the party started? This one-bite-wonder was essentially a deconstructed potato salad. Creamy aioli, tender tater, pickled vibes (primarily from mustard seed) and grated egg yolk all came together to create a decidedly satisfying nibble. My dining companions and I all agreed: there’s never enough aioli anytime, anyplace, anywhere. But, we are all aioli monsters; more than happy to swim up to our elbows in the stuff and never fearing the mess we make as we relish in delicious creaminess. I would gladly munch this potato salad again, but I have to preface this by admitting that I am fully a mustard girl. If you don’t like mustard in your potato salad, perhaps this isn’t for you…and, if that’s the case, perhaps I’m not for you, either. My love of mustard is non-negotiable and shared enthusiasm for mustard is a quality I look for in my nearest and dearest. If you’ve got mustard problems, I feel bad for you, hun–don’t look in my fridge, you’ll have a panic attack when you see the myriad bottles of mustard.The first plate of the evening was Oyster with Kimchi, Tomatillo, Bonito, Onion, and Lemon. Each diner received two small oysters to enjoy–delightfully teensy and cute! The balance of oceanic brine and heat played swimmingly together. This plate was so enthusiastically enjoyed by my table that it immediately prompted a discussion about how far we’d have to drive to reach the East Coast to enjoy oysters–because two oysters is simply not enough. Two is the perfect number of oysters to make you crave more oysters. Two is the perfect number of oysters to awaken the slumbering oyster crazed beast in your belly. Two is the perfect number of oysters to start–but not end–your meal. When it was decided that a drive to the East Coast was simply too long of a journey, we started looking for flights to New Orleans. (Shout out to Mr. Ed’s Oyster Bar–I fucking miss you, baby.) So…I guess you could say we enjoyed the oysters. We honestly debated dropping hundreds of dollars on a plane ticket just to satisfy our now insatiable lust for more oysters. So, yeah…nice going, Junk Ditch…you gave me oysters so good that I almost made bad decisions. This first plate was paired with the Dach Pils which is objectively my favorite Junk Ditch beer. It’s the first beer that I ever tried at Junk Ditch and it came highly recommended by multiple beer-enthusiast friends–and for good reason: it’s superb. This crisp German lager is refreshing enough to be a porch sipper, but refined enough to more-than-deserve a place on your dinner table. The noble hops played nicely with the oysters. It was certainly a delicious start to the evening–they set the bar high with this first pairing!
The next plate in our pairing adventure was a tomato salad topped with a more than generous slice of Capriole O’Bannon goat cheese, a fine chiffonade of mint, and fried quinoa. Honestly, for me, this is the “it” plate of the summer and will live rent-free in my mind at least until the weather changes–maybe longer. As far as I’m concerned, this dish summed up the summer experience–like some sort of piquant, pithy thesis statement–in just a few bites. Bright, acidic, umami tomato paired with lusciously creamy goat cheese and then punctuated with the crisp nuttiness of the quinoa–sheeeeeeeeesh! As much as some of the other plates, perhaps, have more “wow factor,” this is the one that I actually want to eat again and again. Simple ingredients coming together to create something more than the sum of their parts–there’s no culinary feat more exciting, in my humble opinion. This plate was paired with the Midwest Nice, an IPA that even this IPA-hater could love. I found this beer perfectly sippable thanks in large part to it being well-balanced rather than hop-centric; it certainly elevated the tomato salad, which is exactly what you want from a good pairing. Katie Jo had the brilliant idea of using some of our remaining herbaceous vegan focaccia to sop up the saucy tomato goodness–probably the biggest boss move of the evening. I can’t recommend this tasty hack highly enough. Had I been alone and not in the company of GOATs at a nice restaurant, I probably would have been licking this plate like the trash panda heathen I am. I really did enjoy it that much.
After the salad, we moved on to pasta. I’m sure y’all are probably getting sick of me writing about pasta…but I’m not getting sick of eating it. I’ve got words–so pay attention, cuties. This Gemelli with Fennel, Peppadew, Tomato, and Octopus was exceptional. I know my dining companions were apt to rate this dish the best of the evening–and other diners who stopped by our table to greet Katie Jo (Behold! The neverending toils of being the popular kid!) even commented on how much they enjoyed this pasta dish. I’m going to quote myself and rehash my new favorite catch phrase, but this time I mean something a little different when I say it. “Pasta is never just pasta.” On this particular evening, it was my first time in a long time re-trying octopus. For me, this pasta dish was a boundary pushing experience: it challenged my ethics. I typically refuse to eat octopus–they’re such intelligent creatures and it’s easy to avoid, so I just don’t. As an omnivore, I struggle with the ethics of my willingness to consume animal proteins. I’m absolutely not saying that one life matters more than another, but if I had to rank which animal protein I’d quit first, octopus is near the top of my list. I just feel like maybe we shouldn’t eat big-brained cephalopods that are consistently smart enough to break free of the cages we put them in, like state-of-the-art aquarium enclosures. It’s not like octopus is a common protein on every menu in town; so my aversion doesn’t really impact my daily life. But I went into this evening fully aware and mentally prepared that I was going to eat octopus–because I wanted to experience every aspect of this meal as intended. Period. My willingness to push my own boundaries paid off–it tasted good. My foodie friends, who all have more experience with octopus than I do, assured me that this was an exceptional preparation of octopus–a perfectly crisp exterior and excellent flavor. My dining buddy Will explained octopus as “slightly funky lobster,” and I think that is the best description of this food. I certainly couldn’t put it better, so I borrowed his words with his permission. I won’t be adding octopus into my usual rotation of foods; not because of flavor, but because of my own feelings on the subject of the consumption of octopus. With that said, I’m so glad I trusted Junk Ditch and tried octopus. All of my personal feelings aside, it really was a lovely plate. But, in truth: I personally would have probably enjoyed the pasta just as much even if the excellently prepared octopus had not been included. It was a great little plate of pasta! The fresh noodles were accompanied by a sauce of sofrito and confit tomato with just the slightest kick of heat, crunchy hazelnuts, and funky brine–paired with the Batch Extra Strong Bitter, it was a match made in heaven. The amber hued ale provided a light, hoppy sip to balance the just slightly spicy pasta.The main plate of the evening also challenged my personal boundaries. While this plate offered the option of having either Quail or Veal Cheek as the main protein, I consciously chose the protein that pushed my ethics slightly more. Typically, veal is an absolute nonstarter for me. So, you may be curious why I’d opt for the Veal Cheek with Red Pea, Corn, and Chow Chow rather than partake in a porcini stuffed quail. Simply put: I trust Junk Ditch because I know that they source their proteins thoughtfully. White veal is, inarguably, inhumanely raised–but that simply isn’t what was served by Junk Ditch. They sourced their veal from Strauss Farm; a local farm utilizing European, free-ranging practices to raise pink veal. While not as ultra-tender as white veal, this dish was still insanely lush–no knife needed–and we could all feel less guilty enjoying it knowing that the veal was sourced locally and as ethically as possible. The beer pairing for this dish was the Viceroy–the standout beer of the evening. This brandy barrel-aged Maibock was big in every sense of the word. Seriously, this beer was a whole mood. This sip wasn’t a “sucker punch to the tastebuds,” as I so often say–this was an assertive slap across the face. This beer is classy, sassy, and knows its worth. It delivered dark, sweet, intense notes–perhaps caramel? I didn’t take notes because I was enjoying my dining experience too much to geek out that hard. As a writer, I’m regretting that decision now, just a little bit. (But I’m also proud of myself for just living in the moment. So, sorry–not sorry.) Big. Bold. Beautiful. The pairing was exceptional. Well freaking done, Junk Ditch. All involved in the creation of this should be tremendously proud of themselves.
To close out a lovely evening, we enjoyed Chocolate Crémeux with Berries and Caramelized Nut Brittle. Shards of chocolate cake, topped with thick and decadent chocolate crémeux, were punctuated with strawberries, blueberries, and a generous scattering of salty pine nut brittle. The chocolate crémeux was luxurious and pleasantly bitter–which I enjoyed tremendously when coupled with the salty pine nut brittle. The Starlight Stout paired nicely with this; because who doesn’t love a small stout alongside a decadent chocolate dessert? Notes of coffee and chocolate in the beer play brilliantly against the bitter chocolate of the crémeux and cake. But, to be fair, I was a little bit beered out by the end of the meal and that’s on me. I wanted to experience everything the evening had to offer–even the beer pairings–but truth be told, I’m no beer aficionado.I went into the experience with an empty belly and an open mind. With the safety net of good friends at my table, I chose to allow my boundaries to be pushed, my ethics to be challenged, and my taste buds tantalized with flavors–some familiar, some not. I arrived at the restaurant fully armed with the knowledge that there were certain items on the menu that, perhaps, weren’t my favorite foods: but nevertheless I remained hopeful. Sometimes hope pays off. I left Junk Ditch with a full belly and heart: delighted by the truly masterful cuisine that I was treated to, just slightly buzzy from artisanally crafted beers, glowing from good times with good friends, and genuinely proud of myself for stepping outside of my comfort zone so that I could fully experience every delicious thing the evening had to offer. I trust Junk Ditch. I trust my friends. I haven’t been let down yet. Thank you, thank you, thank you for such a satisfying dining experience! I look forward to more Monday Night Tasting Dinners at Junk Ditch Brewing.
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Twist Food Truck: the plot twist in the local food truck scene that nobody saw coming…
I haven’t lived in Fort Wayne for very long by my own standards. I’m just coming up on two years and I still get very lost in this weird, wild city. But, I’ve been here long enough to know that 1) we love our food trucks and 2) we love a good smashburger. I thought I knew where I’d be heading every single time I wanted a good smash–in enters Twist Food Truck–the plot twist that redirects my ultimate smashburger destination. Don’t get mad. No hate, no shade: just an observation of where the yummy is at. Stick with me on this, please.
Anthony Bourdain famously has words on burgers–in fact, he has ten commandments. I have so much love and respect for Bourdain. Who am I to disagree with anything he’s ever said? The man was a pioneer. But I won’t lie to you: I don’t agree with all ten of his burger commandments. I’ll be the first to admit that when gastropubs started up with the bougie burgers, I was amongst the first to fully buy into the hype. A behemoth burger with Tropical Punch Pop Rocks and caramel mayo? Sign me up, friend! I think our hearts and tummies have room enough for all sorts of burgers from basic to bougie and super-sized to smashed. All burgers deserve love. As a girl living in the ‘07, you know where I’m going to go any time I want a specialty smashburger–whether it’s topped with peanut butter and jalapenos, smokey gouda cheese, or shrooms and swiss–there’s only one place for a deliciously fancy little smashburg.
But what about when I want to listen to the sacred words of Saint Bourdain just a little more closely? I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. Don’t come for me. There’s only one place I want to go and it’s Twist Food Truck. Their brand is taking the basics and elevating through little twists. (Maybe you already know this if you ever had the pleasure of enjoying their previous business: Twisted Pantry. I missed out, but I’ve heard exceptional things about their big, fat cookies–especially the s’mores.) When it comes to their double smashburger: they know what’s up. There’s nothing quite like it. It’s unparalleled. My heart tends to lie more with the foods that are a little more complicated–a little bit extra. You know I love a peanut butter burger. But damn, Twist Food Truck has fully got me with the excellence via simplicity of their burger. I think I’ll be jonesing for a second burger for a long time to come. It’s so basic. American cheese–because we know that’s how Bourdain would want it–white onions, dill pickle chips, and their special “Twist” sauce. Simple. Delicious. Those beef patties though: freaking buckled my knees upon first bite. Sooooo thinly smashed. The flavor that they achieve on those crispy outer edges of the patties–sensational. It is truly one of the most superb smashburgers I’ve ever had the pleasure of enjoying. You’ve got a girl who loves excess finally embracing the possibility that maybe less is more. A double smashburger that can change your outlook on life? Who would be dumb enough to pass up the opportunity to try something so earth-shatteringly-scrumptious? Not you, I’m sure–and certainly not me. I’ll be counting down the days to my next Twist Food Truck double smashburger.
As for the hotdog: it’s good. I’m sure nobody is surprised there. It has literally identical toppings to the burger–so the flavor profile is obviously very similar. They split their dogs, which I get logistically. For me, I’m klutzy, and it made it a little bit of a complicated nom because there’s a lot happening on this dog. Would I still order it? Probably. I think my heart lies more strongly with the burger, but the dog is a solid choice for anyone with 1) a bigger mouth than I have 2) better hand-eye coordination and 3) a preference for dogs over ‘burgs.
And now…the thing that I’ve really been dying to tell you about since I started pouring out words on the subject of Twist Food Truck: their wings. Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude. I don’t typically eat wings. I’m not good at it. They’re messy. They’re sticky. You have to chomp meat off of bones and it’s a whole thing. Bestie is a wing connoisseur–so I always steal a wing or two–but it’s never my go-to meal. It was always too much mess and effort for me…until now. Twist Food Truck wings are worth it all. Catch a grenade for these wings? They would never ask that of me–but you bet I would. We got the Maple Buffalo wings and to say I’m obsessed is an understatement. First, let’s get this straight: I’m asserting that these are the best wings in Fort Wayne. Period. Hands down. Frankly, I don’t want to hear about contradictory opinions. These might actually be the best wings bestie and I have ever tasted in our combined lifespan. Come for me, if you must. Throw hands if you want to catch some. These wings are where life begins and ends, as far as I’m concerned. I ate them on a sidewalk and then proceeded to suck my fingers clean, like the freaky little foodie I am–no shame. Did I eat the leftover sauce with a spoon? Fuck off with your personal questions. Also, YES I DID, and maybe I’m a little bit proud about it. We couldn’t shut up about how amazing the wings were while we were eating them. It was like: 1) bite, followed by 2) awkward semi-sexual moan, proceeded by 3) an utterance of something like, “Duuuuuude…this is the best, right? Isn’t this the best?!” The sauce is so perfectly balanced: sweet and spicy. The stickiest, most luxurious wing sauce I’ve ever encountered in my life–I would do unspeakable things for this sauce. The wings are so crispy that I started emphatically referring to them as “cwispy” while eating them–not on brand for me, but the spirit freaking moved me. Somehow, they manage to remain tender and juicy, even with their ultimate exterior crisp–the Twist Food Truck 24-hour brined and twice-fried method is obviously superior to all else. There is no better wing. The gentlemen running the truck know what they’re doing–I’d expect no less from two dudes who attended The Culinary Institute of America. My bestie is trying to budget for weekly wings. He and I will follow the Twist Food Truck anywhere, like they’re The Grateful Dead or something. Next time, I will want to try the other wing flavor: Korean BBQ. However, I’ll also need to eat the Maple Buffalo again…so, I suppose I’ll have to get two orders of wings. They even serve naked wings, which I would normally consider kind of lame and pointless, but I’m definitely naked-wing-curious: their wings are that special.
Of course, we got a soda float. The truck offers a root beer float with Sprecher Root Beer. While not locally crafted, I am actually a big fan of Sprecher Root Beer. If I’m not drinking local: it’s my root beer of choice. As some of you already know, I love a good root beer. I’m not a soda drinker…until root beer is an option. I have a lot of opinions. So, for me to give Sprecher the green light is a pretty high compliment. I would love to see the possibility of a Sprecher Maple Root Beer float option offered in the fall–because paired with the Maple Buffalo wings, that would be soooooo choice. But…I’m just dreaming out loud with that. Ultimately, I didn’t get a root beer float today, so I have no reason to be prattling on about them other than my deep love of root beer. Instead we opted to drink local and did “A Damn Fine Soda” Float instead. By this point in the day, I had already consumed a flight of beer and told bestie that I didn’t need my own soda float and would just steal a few sips of his. Did we end up going back to the truck for a second float? I think we both know the answer to that question. I don’t need to write it into reality. The blueberry soda poured over vanilla ice cream is not just a gorgeous color, it’s a delicious sip. To go to the Twist Food Truck and not get a soda float is, frankly, silly. Don’t be a dingus who makes silly moves. Just get the soda float–we both know you’re going to enjoy the hell out of it. They don’t call it “A Damn Fine Soda” for nothing–and ice cream makes everything better.
I understand that I’m still an outsider. I wasn’t born and raised here. I don’t have the ties to certain local establishments that Fort Wayne lifers do. For me to rock in and say that this relatively new food truck has the best basic double smashburgers and the best wings in Fort Wayne is brazen–I know. Believe me, I know. So, you must realize that I wouldn’t dare dream of saying any of this if I didn’t feel very strongly about it. Y’all, I’m hooked. I’m obsessed. I’m gobsmacked and eternally gluttonous for these noms. After a single meal, I have a deep unshakeable passion for Twist Food Truck. That says more than something–it says volumes about what they’re accomplishing on their food truck journey. It speaks to their unmatched flavors and pristine execution of Americana classics. If you’re not sold yet–did you know that they compost? Like, big time. So, you’re basically saving the planet by eating Twist Food Truck. Do the planet, and yourself, a favor and try them if you haven’t yet. Seriously–do it now before they blow up and you have to wait in a ridiculous line for hours. That’s the future I see for Twist Food Truck. They’re the darkhorse of the Fort Wayne food truck scene right now–but once the plot twist hits and people realize the caliber of food being served on that truck, there will be lines around the block, and I’ll be trying to score chicken wings in a dark alley at a markup of like 75%–but I’ll pay it, because I’m a Maple Buffalo wing junky desperate for a fix. Some might say the future I’ve described is bleak. I’m not sad about it. Any future where I’m eating Maple Buffalo chicken wings from Twist Food Truck can’t be anything but happy. So, if you ask me, as long as Twist Food Truck is churning out kick ass burgers, hot dogs, wings, and floats–the future is bright!
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For Love of Pizza: I will never know a greater love…
I attended my second pizza night at Hawkins Family Farm and, although it almost felt like I was going against the wishes of the universe by attending, I had a beautiful evening. I invited a friend but she wasn’t able to make it, so I ventured on. Alone. A large section of the road heading to the farm was closed; this required me to drive around road signs. We don’t act like this back home–if a road is closed, it really means it’s closed. Dotting the pavement like glaring, cautionary orange beacons begging me to turn around and make a different choice for myself–I ignored the signs and carried forward. This is a skill I’ve been perfecting as of late–I am not who I once was. In my little pink car, navigating around the warning signs while I played chicken with semis, crossing over yellow lines on the arrow straight country road–with the windows down, I could hear the terrifying whiz and feel the windy gust of a metal beast passing too quickly and too close–but these are the choices that we make for love of pizza.
Thanks to the incomparable Katie Jo, pizza night prodigy, I got to pop into the belly of the beast once again and finally meet the locally renowned Chef Sean Richardson. Surely, you’ve heard of him before–or, at very least, you’ve dreamt of one day snagging a seat at one of his Rune pop-up events. I was first introduced to Chef Sean just by name; he was hyper-focused, as a chef should be. Then, by my writing–Plonk and Pleasure. (If your friends don’t hype you up the way that Katie Jo hypes me up when introducing me to new people: are they even really your friends?) Chef Sean not only was familiar with my blog, but complimented my writing. Has a kinder and simultaneously more talented human being ever existed? Henceforth, I was flabbergasted–nearly lobotomized. I said my goodbyes and trudged off with my pizzas to set up camp in the buggy shade of the fruit trees where I’ve so quickly come to feel at home–even with no company but my own ridiculous, ever-spinning mind.
My brain is a gift and a curse. Its status quo is loud and full to spilling. So full, in fact, that words simply fall out of me. Sometimes they exit my mouth in rapid succession and I find myself floored by what I’ve said. More often, I commit them to page (or text document) and my fingers must run marathons to keep up with the deluge of language. Someone once said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Whether it was that bastard Hemingway who said it or not is open for debate, but someone said it. Whoever said it, I think they were on to something–the phrase feels true to me. I’m no writer. I’m just a bloody mess, cleaning myself up one blank page at a time. The words come so quickly that I couldn’t stop them if I tried–so I don’t bother. Then why, last night, after eating delicious pizza in a picturesque setting with no company but my own silver-tongued-mind and a bottle of bubbly, could I not find a single word to say about the experience?
When I got back home, I tried to write but nothing came. I panicked. I cried. It’s one thing to feel unlike myself while hauling ass down a country road breaking rules, laws, expectations, and my own heart. It’s a very different thing to feel unlike myself because I suddenly, seemingly without cause, have nothing to say on the subject that, arguably, matters more to me than life itself. So I did all that I could think to do at the time–I went to sleep. When I woke in the morning, the sun was golden and a hot breeze shook the limbs of the trees in my backyard creating a scene not dissimilar to the sunlight drenched quivering greenery at Hawkins Family Farm. Still feeling mentally shaky, like a tightrope walker over a pit of hungry crocodiles, unsure of my next step but feeling the weighty importance of its required perfection: I did the only thing that made sense to me. Sleepily, I trudged to the refrigerator, retrieved my cold leftover pizza, and plopped myself down in front of a laptop with the intention of refusing to move until something happened.
A deluge didn’t come. The floodgates didn’t miraculously burst–but like a sputtering spigot in a drought, the trickles were enough to get me started. Then the rain. Then the flood: and it carried me to this literal, exact sentence. (We’re in this together now. Will you make it to the end with me?) I took my first cold bite of a pizza that I had nearly wrecked with no assistance the night before–so I must have liked it yesterday. The Harvest Special: where tender cashu pork and sesame roasted cherry tomatoes come together in the sort of perfect union that you only see in the movies. Then I remember two things. The first is that sometimes when I fall in love, my brain runs out of words. This silence has happened before and I shouldn’t be scared of it. That’s not to say that I’ve recently fallen in love with someone. That’s not to say that my lover and I are planning a secret escape to Guadalajara. It’s just to remind myself that I’ve survived the silences before. Happily. The second, and perhaps more important thing, is that I went absolutely ape-shit over those sesame roasted cherry tomatoes last night. Yes, I’m remembering–it’s all coming back to me now–that’s why I barely had any slices left to share with my best friend when they got home from work. When I think of cherry tomatoes, my brain says, “sweet.” They’re a sneaky little fruit, after all. But tomatoes are actually a harbinger of umami goodness. Roast those little fuckers in sesame oil and suddenly, like some sort of mad scientist, you’ve created complex little flavor bombs to melt the faces of your enemies or loved ones; whoever dare devour such unparalleled deliciousness. Nutty, rich, sweet–but savory–juicy and refreshing, but still somehow sumptuous. Maybe I’m just in love with these tomatoes. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling to write.
When the pizza was still hot yesterday and I was enjoying it, and still today when the pizza is cold and I’m devouring what remains, I continue to find myself thinking that I wouldn’t necessarily choose these pizza toppings for myself. But I find some of the best things to happen to me are the things I wouldn’t choose for myself–the good and the bad. It’s what shapes me into who I am: these experiences that I wouldn’t hand select. All this is to say that if Chef Sean makes it you should probably just try it; whether or not you believe it’s for you. I’m really starting to suspect that, as humans, we don’t entirely know what we like. We think we know. We think we know ourselves so well. Do we? Who’s to say. But, when it comes to this pizza, Chef Sean knows me better than I know myself. He knew exactly what I would like and he crafted it into a perfect little pizza for me to devour like the ravenous little gourmandizing gremlin that I am. Thank you.
My second pizza of the evening was the veggie pizza. Chef Sean created a dreamscape: arugula Rockefeller with pickled peppers. We already know arugula is one of, if not my absolute most favorite green. As for pickles? It feels like I haven’t been able to shut up about them as of late. Would I think to combine these two things on a pizza? I don’t know. I’m creative, but I don’t think that’s my brand of creativity. Thank goodness for Chef Sean: once again serving up a pizza that I didn’t know I needed in my life–but now I suddenly feel like this should be standard pizza-place fare. This veggie pizza is a suckerpunch of the seven elements of taste, but it’s so perfectly balanced that you’re actually experiencing everything all at once. How Chef Sean does it, I’ll never fully understand–immense skill? Years of training? Sold his mortal soul to a vampire? Just born with the gift? (And just a friendly shout out to Hawkins for serving a pizza where I actually want to eat the crust. I could kiss you for this.) This pizza brings richness, creaminess, funkyness, and then brightens itself with the refreshing zing of the pickled peppers. It’s giving.
I attended my second pizza night at Hawkins Family Farm and there was nothing second-best about it. Chef Sean served up uniquely delicious, first-rate pizzas. Though I almost felt like I was going against the wishes of the universe by attending, I’m grateful that I was able to pull off my best impression of a well-adjusted individual and enjoy the evening–for pizza’s sake. I invited trouble, but it let me be. The universe spilled my wine and kept me relatively sober; a party-foul of fate. So I ate delicious pizza. Alone. I don’t like to act like this: if a pizza is delicious, it really should be paired with excellent wine and shared amongst friends. But, perhaps, there are other times when selfishness is to be rewarded. No sharing, no pairing, just living in the rawness of the moment with a pizza pie or two. Then you write about it. This is a skill I’ve been struggling with as of late–I am not who I once was. I am just a girl who made my way home last night, in my little pink car, navigating around the warning signs while I played chicken with semis, crossing over yellow lines on the arrow straight country road–with the windows down, I could hear the terrifying whiz and feel the windy gust of a metal beast passing too quickly and too close–but these are the choices that I make for love of pizza. I will never know a greater love.
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Great Breakxpectations: an anarchist guide to a happy breakfast…
You know what I hate? Breakfast foods. Hear me out—y’all know I’m a slut for some pancakes, I think French toast is a love language, and I’m a simp for sausage. So, when I say “I hate breakfast foods,” it’s definitely not that I hate the foods. What I hate is the concept of certain foods that should be exclusively eaten at a certain time of day. Why aren’t pancakes a popular dessert? Why aren’t more of us slurping noodles for breakfast? Why does Western culture have such a weird and limited definition of breakfast? That said, I just had what could easily become my new favorite breakfast sando: chiefly because it panders to my food-crushes while subverting breakfast expectations…breakxpectations, if you will. Why can’t we just exist in our own timelines and enjoy things in our own time? Shouldn’t living life be a deeply personal experience? Why should we wilt under the crushing weight of breakxpectations when our adoration isn’t a question open for debate? We know what it is that we want: whether it’s conventional or not. We know what makes us happy.
If you’re in the Winona Lake area in the morning, go to Light Rail Cafe and try the Mortadella Breakfast Sandwich. No breakfast sandwich before has ever brought me so much unbridled happiness–got me smiling like an idiot and acting stupid for another taste. I’ll be real: not all bagels are created equal. Their sesame bagel serves as a passable (though would, if I could, trade it for another) vessel to transport mortadella, Dijonnaise, pickles, and a hard fried egg to your eager gob. That’s right, babies, I think we should all be eating more breakfast sandos with morty-d. Savory and slightly smoky, there are literally zero reasons to call bacon a “breakfast food” but then turn around and act like mortadella isn’t for the morning hours. Morty-d belongs on all tables at all hours of the day. Period. As for the pickles and mustard? I’ve already recently told you—try to keep me away. This applies to any pickled produce and all mustards or mustard-centric condiments, too. Where they go, I will follow. Perhaps these are foods that are not typical in the morning hours, but I’m done trying to play it cool. I want to wake up to them. I want them to be there in the morning. As for the hard fried egg? Not my favorite style egg, but if the yolk was runny this sando would be an absolute mess to consume. I am well aware that I don’t need more mess in my life—so, I suppose, my fingies and face can appreciate and respect the choice. It’s the right choice. Even if it’s not the choice I would make for myself: it’s valid.
Not everything about this sandwich is perfect, but I still think it’s the perfect breakfast sandwich for me. Sandwiches, like people, don’t have to be perfect to have value. Nothing has to be perfect to be wanted–and fuck, do I want this sandwich. I won’t be able to enjoy it as often as I’d like–an hour is a long way to go just for an early morning sando. But will I crave it? Of course. Enjoy it when I’m able? Certainly. Miss it wretchedly and count the pointless minutes until I can taste it again? Yes. Nothing is perfect. But a breakfast sando doesn’t have to be perfect to be perfectly delicious. And it doesn’t have to be conventional or follow all the rules (or ANY rules) that our stupid society has laid out to define what is or isn’t appropriate for breakfast. In fact: I’m glad it breaks the fucking rules. I don’t want a conventional breakfast sandwich. I want a slightly anarchist breakfast sandwich. I want it to sidestep breakxpectations. I want it to be for me: and not just cater to the tastes of every single boring AF person who has ever existed in our basic little bacon, egg, and cheese on white bread society. I’m not trying to get my tongue burned or my stomach twisted in knots on a daily basis–but I don’t want to be white-bread-bored, either. I want mortadella, mustard, and pickles. I just want what I like and I want it whenever I can have it. Breakxpectations be damned.
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Pizza Night at Hawkins Farm: Chef Rio is a pizza mastermind…
Anyone who’s read any of my blog or done even a cursory stumble around my Instagram can probably suss out: I’m a big fan of pizza. Genuinely, there’s no amount of money I wouldn’t spend, no distance I wouldn’t travel, no obstacle I wouldn’t overcome for the sake of pizza. (It’s easy to say when you’re broke and are currently stuffed from having housed several slices of delectable pizza–no one is going to ask me to put my money where my mouth is–but I assure you, if I have the means to make it happen, nothing would ever stand between me and a pizza that I want.) I genuinely believe that there are different pizzas that we need for various reasons at myriad moments of our lives. The world’s best pizza? That’s for your brain, your tastebuds, and your tummy. That’s an experience. Trash pizza? Maybe you’re just trying to feed your soul. I very recently drove over three hours to try, what I was led to believe, would be authentic Sicilian pizza. It was not. In fact, it was pretty not great. But, with where my head was at, I really needed that adventure. I really needed that (shitty) pizza at that exact moment. And though I couldn’t have known it at the time, that super-sad pizza cleansed my heart and prepared me for a deeper appreciation of the life-changing pizza to come. May pizza save my mortal soul. I wouldn’t change the experience for anything–though, if I had my druthers, the not-actually-Sicilian pizza would have been better. But pizza be like that sometimes. There are few things that I take as seriously as I do pizza. One of those few things: my mental health. Another? That’s easy: friendship. This is why I found myself at Hawkins Family Farm for pizza night this past Friday.
A forty-plus minute drive outside of Fort Wayne sits Hawkins Family Farm: a gorgeous property with acres of fields, moo-cows–yes, I’m a child–flower gardens, fruit trees, and (wouldn’t ya know it) a brick, woodfired pizza oven. I don’t consider myself to be particularly outdoorsy. The more that I’m faced with the reality of it, ending up in the Midwest was maybe a left-of-center life choice for me. But even I, who burns so easily in the sun and gets itchy just thinking about bugs, am charmed by the concept of pizza night on the farm. It’s an amazing community experience: to delight in hand-crafted pizza with farm fresh toppings sourced literally where you’re standing and then to relax and enjoy your meal in a quaint, pastoral setting. You’d have to be pretty heartless to not be charmed by pizza night at Hawkins Farm. However, this particular pizza night was extra special: the farm hosted Chef Rio as their special guest chef.
For those not in the know (and shame on you if you’re not) Chef Rio is the brains behind Shop Two Sixty and Brew Two Sixty. Yes: this is the same Chef Rio I’ve written about before. Their bagels make me want to be a better person, their Runex260x2Toms pop-up still gets me hot and bothered just thinking about it, and beyond their culinary talents they genuinely are one of the kindest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. (Killer smile. Excellent hugger.) So, like I said: there’s no obstacle that would ever stand between me and pizza. But, if Rio is making the pizza–sheeeeeeeesh. I’m going to get it. Bet.
I put on sunblock, maneuvered my life so that I’d have access to a car (the literal most difficult part of this mission), packed up a picnic basket and blanket, gassed up the little pink car, and rolled off to Hawkins Farm: windows down, sunglasses on, music blasting. Anyone who complains about the drive from here to there is simply doing it wrong. Stop looking at the drive as an obstacle that stands between you and your destination and start looking at it as part of the journey. With the wind whipping my hair, flying down country roads through farm fields, I felt more alive and more free than I have felt in a very long time. (Maybe the Midwest isn’t such a bad fit for me after all?) When did we stop believing the world was wonderful and full of infinite possibilities for us? Is the pain of adulthood self-inflicted? Is it reversible? I know no one survives adulthood: but damn, in these sunshine flooded moments of absolute happiness, I don’t feel very grown up at all. And when I finally reached my destination, and my tires kicked up dust rolling down the unpaved driveway of the farm, I felt like a little kid again: with the promise of pizza hanging over my head like a birthday piñata full to bursting–and all mine–if I simply have the guts to give it a good whack.
There’s clear signs, so even an idiot like me won’t get lost on the dusty trail to pizza. Before picking up my two pies, my friend Katie (who works at the farm making pizzas every Friday) invited me into the belly of the beast to have a little look around. When I assure you that your pizzas are being made in a room full of immaculate vibes, believe me. I may occasionally mince words for the sake of kindness when I’m describing food, but when it comes to talking about people: I’m frankly an asshole. When I say only the best, the kindest, the most passionate, and talented of humans are making these pizzas it’s not only a fact; it might be a bit of an understatement. Volchy was on the oven, Tim Brauch aka Kermie was stretching dough, Jody was cutting and boxing, and John was working as Rio’s sous chef on this particular evening. So many dope people and, thanks to Katie, I learned that Tim and Jody have been volunteering for pizza nights for over 10 years! Like–hello, this is an institution and it’s full of amazing people doing amazing work. Each and every person mentioned deserves hugs, love, kudos, and a pat on the back. Walking into their little kitchen feels like walking into a giant hug: and I assure you, it’s not just the heat radiating from the hellfires of the pizza oven. I’m shy. I’m an introvert. I don’t love being around strangers. I’d go back in a heartbeat. I hope that speaks to you.
In the shade of some trees, near a giant bed of flowers for pollinators, I set up my picnic blanket and basket. I poured myself a glass of my favorite wine to enjoy with pizza: an unoaked Pinot Noir and Chambourcin blend that’s just off-dry, with mid-acid, velvety tannins, and medium body. I don’t like to enjoy pizza without a glass of wine. I’ll do it, if push comes to shove, but I frankly won’t be happy about it. You can keep your trite and meaningless phrases like, “We go together like peanut butter and jelly.” Stupid, dumb, stupid words. It means nothing of any value to me. Pizza and wine are the OTP–and, someday, I’ll make you all listen to my thoughts on the subject.
As for this particular day, all you really need to know is that I chose my wine thoughtfully. My decision went beyond the fact that ‘this wine tastes good with pizza.’ I particularly enjoy this wine with meaty pizzas–give me a pizza with a robust red sauce, some cured meat or a really fantastic sausage (I’m a simp for sausage), and a glass of this wine and I am a blissed-out girl. But, given that this is a lighter bodied red wine, it plays nicely with earthy things like beets. The special pizzas for the evening were the Harvest Special: featuring Grandma’s Sweet & Spicy Sausage (what did I just say–simp), Onions, Roasted Garlic, and Ricotta; and the Veggie AKA Turnip the Beet-za pizza: featuring Caramelized Onion, Honey Roasted Turnips and Beets, Goat Cheese, Herb and Asian Greens Salad with a Balsamic Beet Vinaigrette. I’m not mad about my wine choice. In fact, right now, I’m not mad about any of my choices: moving to the Midwest, driving forty minutes for pizza, sitting out in the sun to enjoy it, the friends I’ve made since coming to Fort Wayne; all entirely dope choices on my part. Well done, me.
Enough patting myself on the back. It’s time for the “well done, you” portion of this blog: Chef Rio is a pizza mastermind. The way a pizza night at Hawkins Farm works is as such–the sauce and pizza dough are standard and what you might expect to enjoy any Friday pizza night at Hawkins. The pizza cheese is sourced from Hufford Dairy and the pizza sauce comes from Light Rail Cafe. The pizza dough is made with red wheat fife flour from the farm! You can go any Friday for a pie: whether you’re in it for pepperoni, sausage, ham, or a Margherita pizza, they’ve always got your basics covered. The Harvest Special and the Veggie pizza toppings will change from week to week. When there’s not a guest chef, Katie and Volchy come up with the special pizza toppings themselves. (I told you: these people are absolute pros–we should all be so lucky as to taste the fruits of their labor.) But, when there’s a guest chef, the toppings for these two pies are entirely crafted by the guest Chef utilizing produce found at the farm. I don’t know if this is common knowledge, but Chef Rio’s first Executive Chef job was at a pizza place in Dallas. They aren’t new to pizza. In fact, it’s a passion for them and it was entirely apparent upon getting to taste their creations.
Let me start with the sausage pizza, since I’ve already admitted that I’ve got a thing for sausage. (Like, just to drive the point home: my dream birthday party would be a “Sausage Fest” where all my nearest and dearest gather together for a chill hang where we drink nice tasting things and eat a vast array of different types of sausages just for the funs.) I have eaten my fair share of sausage pizza. Some might argue I’ve filled my life with too many sausage pizzas. This one was special. Rio’s sausage is phenomenal. Also: they actually made the ricotta cheese for this pizza. The skill. The effort. The dedication. The yumminess. Have they ruined me for other sausage pizzas? Possibly. Like, how am I supposed to live my life now? The next time I get a standard, run of the mill sausage pizza, I’m probably going to enjoy it–but I’ll also turn to my dining companion and say, “But Rio’s is better.” So, fuck my life, I guess.The dark horse of this pizza game is clearly the Turnip the Beet-za pizza. Why? Because it was one of the best pizzas I’ve ever eaten and I don’t think I even like beets. I don’t even know anymore. On Thursday, I was living my life secure in the knowledge that I didn’t like beets. On the drive out to the farm, I was still a girl who didn’t like beets. Now I am a girl who is fighting my friend over leftover pizza slices that I don’t want to share–and, frankly, shouldn’t have to. This pizza is too damn special and I don’t know when I’ll ever get it again–I want to savor every freaking bite. Kindness and manners be damned. This pizza is goated with the sauce. The balsamic beet vinaigrette is otherworldly and, if you didn’t go to pizza night and experience it for yourself, I’m sorry that your life is so sad and meaningless. Aside from the fact that it’s delicious: the absolute gorgeous color of it is beyond aesthetically pleasing. Remember–we eat with our eyes first, so these things matter. As a girl who wears predominantly black, I would more than happily enter my own personal version of a Barbie era if it meant that all my clothes would be balsamic beet vinaigrette hued. My god. I would do dirty, horrible things for another slice of this pizza. The audacity of Chef Rio to make a pizza that tastes this good yet is only available for one night–bravo, but also, why torture me?
Now, let’s talk about authenticity for a moment. I know: I write about food and I’m certainly not fit to give life advice. Stick with me on this journey, please. I’ve already posted some photos of my experience on the farm to my Instagram stories. The photos show me (with a filter, but we’ll get into that), my wine glass, delicious pizza on display, sitting on a quintessential little checkered picnic blanket, with my adorable picture-perfect picnic basket nearby. I had a great time–and I wanted it to look like I was having a great time–because I want you to go to Hawkins Farm and have a great time, too. Hawkins Farm is truly awe-inspiring in its beauty, so it’s easy to aesthetically capture a lovely pizza night on the farm. But are the photos an authentic representation of my time there? Not entirely. My photos are curated to ensure they convey to you that I’m having a freaking blast. Realistically, it’s summer. It’s hot out. My car told me it was 90 degrees on my drive home. Even in the shade, I was schvitzing like a schlemiel. My hair can’t stand these conditions. I’m a delicate flower made for the air conditioning. (Hence the photo-filter.) Y’all could take one look at the glistening, frizzy mess that is me and be like, “Maybe this event isn’t for me. Looks like harsh conditions.” I don’t want you to think that way. I want you to have fun times despite the effects of the summer sun. So, I try so hard to look perfect–when perfection doesn’t exist–so that your brain gets a big-ass dopamine hit and suddenly you’ve got the urge to do whatever it is that I’m doing. Social media is a lie. I’m sorry that I lied to you but I’ll probably do it again. It’s a little scary to think that, if everything were entirely honest and authentic, you might not be so into the idea. Example: don’t get me started on the bugs. Did you know they live outside? So…like, if you picnic, they’re just going to drop in and say ‘hi,’ like they own the damn place–they do, but nobody wants to see bugs in photos of food.
These are the realities of eating outside and what you really need to know about it is that I’ve never been happier enjoying a slice of pizza in my entire life. Maybe you think it’s stupid to say a pizza changed my life–but it’s honest. This is me being authentic with you. There is something deeply special about eating food, basically at its source, and knowing without question that it was prepared with an insane amount of love, respect, and passion. Sitting in a quaint pastoral setting, amongst flowers, and insects, and all elements of life, you get the absolute privilege of experiencing every one of your senses buzzing with delight: you are exactly where you’re meant to be doing exactly what you’re meant to be doing at exactly that point in time–and if it’s eating some of the most amazing pizza you’ve ever had, in a field, on a farm, enjoying a nice glass of red wine, and swatting away the occasional fly while the sun beats golden rays spanning down from the celestial heavens to kiss, or perhaps burn, your mortal skin…maybe you’re really lucky. Maybe I’m really lucky. Will I go back to the farm for pizza night again? Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I will return. Will I forever look for any possibility to eat pizza made by Rio again: it’s not even a question. Like I said earlier, I genuinely believe that there are different pizzas that we need for various reasons at myriad moments of our lives. Rio’s pizzas, made by a team of accomplished individuals and enjoyed on the picturesque Hawkins Farm, reminded me what it means to be alive. Life is a gift, and really good pizza is the shiny bow on top.
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Hungry Dog Farm: feeding community through urban farming
Have you ever found yourself on the wrong side of a debate? Said the wrong thing, though your heart was in the right place? Maybe you tried your best, but still found yourself embarrassed by your apparent shortcomings–falling short in ways you never expected you would, because you’re a pretty good person, generally speaking. (Though occasionally you flip-off shitty drivers.) I found myself in such a position recently. I like to believe I care about where my food comes from: especially where protein is concerned. Upon moving to Fort Wayne, I did some cursory research on local farms. When out to eat, I know where many restaurants source their proteins from, and so I’ve been able to feel pretty good about my dining choices. I’ll give myself a pat on the back any time I recognize a specific farm’s name on a menu–like I’m some kind of sanctimonious carnivore–one giant step below vegetarian, but still morally superior to those eagerly nomming down on Perdue chicken. I have been, in short, an idiot. This may come as no surprise to you, but I shocked myself this time.
See, I must have missed the memo on farm shares and CSAs. Maybe you’ve all grown up with this sort of convenient access to fresh produce–but I didn’t. I’ve paid attention to where my food comes from when I’m dining out: but what about when I’m eating in? I thought I was doing a good job of 1) getting fresh, local produce and 2) supporting my community by scoring tomatoes (or carrots, greens, whatever) at the Farm Market on Saturday morning–but, as it turns out, I could be doing a whole hell of a lot better. When one friend told me that they participated in a CSA during the summer, my response was basically, “Good for you.” Turns out: most of my Fort Wayne friends spend their warm weather months getting produce directly from farms. I’m the weirdo for not doing it and, yes, I’ve gotten some sideways looks from my pals for not currently being a CSA member. I get it. By joining a CSA, you’re provided with a unique opportunity to access the best, freshest, most delicious produce while interfacing with likeminded people and supporting your local community.
So, in the spirit of trying to do better, I’ve put in some effort and enlisted the help of my friends to assist with filling in any apparent gaps in my knowledge. It was, in fact, my friend Kyle Rehder of Yeasty Boy Bread Co. fame who first brought Hungry Dog Farm to my attention. Kyle and his wife have a CSA share with Hungry Dog Farm and when I probed to learn why they chose Hungry Dog Farm over another CSA option, I was really inspired by Kyle’s answer. He wrote, “It was super small and really reflected a lot of our values and feelings. We love the idea of building urban farms and they were doing just that. We also have friends who are friends with them. As budding small business owners, we felt a responsibility to support them. We don’t regret it at all. Watching their growth and seeing the changes and the amazing quality of produce really is well worth it.” He ticked all the boxes for me–quality produce, supporting community, growing urban farms–who could ask for anything more? What I can now say, pretty confidently, is that when I elect to sign up for a CSA it will probably be with Hungry Dog Farm. Those who know me (perhaps too well) might assume it’s because there’s a cute dog named Ginger who lives on the farm and sometimes greets CSA members when they come to pick up their goodies. While I definitely view interfacing with dogs as an added perk to any activity–I assure you, there are more conventional reasons for falling in love with this farm. Let’s start with the most obvious: their roosters, which are named Dumbledore and Grindelwald, and the eighty hens who live on Hungry Dog Farm. I kid, obviously. Birds are cool–especially ones who lay delicious eggs or have names plucked straight from the wizarding world–but the true element that makes Hungry Dog Farm special is its owners: Andrew and Elaina.
In 2020 they bought the property that is now Hungry Dog Farm. This urban farm is where they live and work: all of their love and effort is poured into this property–and then shared with their community through limited CSA shares. In just three years, they have been the catalysts for so much growth and change on this little farm. Previously, they were able to offer produce to non-CSA members. But as of this most recent summer share, they can no longer do that because there’s a waiting list for CSA shares! They are getting popular for a reason; the quality of their produce probably has a lot to do with it, but the fact that they’re genuinely kind and deeply passionate people certainly doesn’t hurt.
Andrew started farming in 2003. I’m bad at math, but even I can pretty quickly calculate that he’s been farming for twenty years. So, the dude knows what he’s doing. Even with twenty years of knowledge, one of his favorite parts of the job is troubleshooting new problems. In farming, every day is a new adventure, with a new possible obstacle to overcome. Andrew’s “bring it on” attitude is super endearing. The second most endearing thing about Andrew is his other favorite part of his job: making food accessible to his community.
I unfortunately haven’t gotten to meet Elaina yet, but I have it on good authority that she’s awesome. She handles a lot of the administrative tasks for the farm: which is surely no small feat, especially when you take into consideration the steps that are being taken by Hungry Dog Farm to provide the best quality produce they possibly can to as many of their neighbors as they’re able. In my uneducated mind, a CSA isn’t an affordable option for most people, as it requires that you pay a lump sum upfront for food that you’ll collect over the coming weeks. Not everyone is privileged enough to pay for food in such a way–especially not someone who lives on a writer’s salary. (Which, at the moment, is $0 for anyone who’s curious about how I afford my rock n’ roll lifestyle.) However, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that for their upcoming Fall Share, which runs for eleven weeks, vegetable shares are $300, veggies+flowers are $368.48, and adding eggs to your weekly haul is an additional $50. For me personally, the cost feels manageable, as long as I plan ahead for the expense–which I can, and so can you, as the Fall Share begins September 6th.
But for those who couldn’t imagine being able to drop $300 or more in one payment–even with the promise of really perfect fresh produce in your future–Hungry Dog Farms has options. Where I personally get really excited about this specific farm is their devotion to food access for all. I can’t say it better than they already have on the Financial Aid section of their website where they’ve written, “Food access for everyone, regardless of socioeconomic status, has always been important to us at Hungry Dog Farm.” Though they are a new, small, basically two-person endeavor, they have made sure that they’re able to accept SNAP benefits to purchase a CSA share. They’re also partnered with St. Joe Foundation and Parkview’s Veggie RX program to provide further financial aid to those who might otherwise not be able to afford a CSA share. As cool as all of that is, I find the volunteer program that they run particularly special. Though this opportunity isn’t for everyone, they are open to allowing someone to exchange labor for a CSA share. Pending a trial run, to make sure it’s a good fit for everyone involved, volunteers can work 2-2.5 hours each week in exchange for a full CSA share. Lots of local food purveyors talk about wanting to feed their community, but Andrew and Elaina at Hungry Dog Farm have really gone above and beyond when it comes to making fresh produce accessible to their neighbors.
Hungry Dog Farms has embraced their community: and if we embrace them in turn, this sort of symbiotic relationship offered by CSA shares can be the birthplace of wondrous things to come. The future could hold anything for them–expansion, bigger coolers to hold more goodies for CSA holders, air conditioning in the building–the possibilities are endless. Will they jump through the logistical hoops to be officially certified as an organic farm? (They already aren’t using herbicides or pesticides, but seeking that official certification certainly isn’t easy.) Who knows. They’re not afraid to dream big or to put in the hard work to see their dreams become a reality. I, for one, suspect their future will be very sweet.
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Junk Ditch Huntington Tap: prioritize brunch…
Pre-pandemic, I was the queen of brunch. On any given weekend, I could walk outside of my apartment and there were at least five different brunch spots that I could choose from within walking distance of my humble abode–with endless possibilities if I was only willing to hop in the car. During my Brunch Queen era I ruled the weekends; slurping mimosas and chowing down on bougie French toast with all my nearest and dearest. A weekend couldn’t pass without at least one brunch resy on the books. But my love for brunch started long before that–we’re talking the 1990s, babies. A time when brunch wasn’t a semi-lackluster weekly occurrence; brunch was a special occasion, where extended family would drive to meet up at some fancy restaurant. I’d ditch my neon-colored biker shorts and oversized Hanson t-shirt in favor of my Sunday best: some atrocious dress that my father had probably picked out. We’d all pile into the family car and hurtle toward a far-off, fantastical destination where I’d see my grandparents, cousins, and most importantly stuff my face. We used to go to this little chalet with a trout stream running through the cellar and a variety of things that could be flambéed tableside…those were the days, but that’s a story for another time. I don’t know when it happened, but at some point brunch stopped being “the event.” What do I mean by that? How do I explain? It’s like that moment where Christmas stops being about the spirit of the season and starts being about the presents–and I don’t mean the giving of gifts, I mean the receiving. It feels like there was some sort of unfortunate cultural shift where we stopped cherishing brunch, a beloved weekend pastime where good food and bevvies are shared with our favorite people, and instead we started behaving like little monsters with an unquenchable thirst for bottomless mimosas. I’m not hating, babe. If bottomless mimosas are your thing, do you. But I beg you to accept this–hedonic adaptation is a real thing, and it’s a bitch. Hedonic adaptation is that moment that your ‘new car’ just becomes your car. That type of hedonism sneaks up on you: and you never see it coming. Let’s not let hedonic adaptation steal the joy of a really good brunch. I propose we take brunch back.
Recently, Katie Jo (the Junk Ditch content queen–all hail!) was super kind enough to hook me up with a gift card with only one stipulation: that I check out Junk Ditch Huntington Tap and report back. As soon as they posted their new GK Griddle breakfast sammie on Insta, I was like, “Yeah, this is a no-brainer–I’m going there for brunch.” Sheesh, am I glad I did. I can already hear the nay-sayers in my anxiety-riddled brain being like, “But there’s a Junk Ditch in Fort Wayne. Why would you drive all the way to Huntington, you stupid-dumb-face.” And to this fictional voice manifested from my own self-doubt I say, “It was one of the smarter choices I’ve ever made.” I had a fantastical time. It was honestly only thirty minutes from door to door for me. The drive is gorgeous–do y’all who’ve lived in the Midwest for, like, ever know that you live somewhere kind of lovely? (There goes that hedonic adaptation again. Just saying.) While I flew down country roads in my little pink car, blasting the stereo with the windows down like I was young and reckless again for a moment, it provided time to think the following thought: why are we so content to stay within our little self-imposed bubbles? We gotta get out more, babies.
Junk Ditch Huntington Tap is an adorable little spot in an equally adorable little town. Walkable sidewalks flooded with sunshine–this is an excellent place to meet up with the besties for brunch. Enter the taproom and you’ll find an interior that’s chill and entirely disarming. A sort of Modern Farmhouse aesthetic with subtle nods to industrialism–with a single, primary-colored wall mural boasting the phrase “Local Farms Local Food.” How apropos! Now, this is admittedly only my second experience dining at a Junk Ditch location, but I feel really, overwhelmingly compelled to gush about the service. The first time I visited Junk Ditch in Fort Wayne, I was with my friend Lauren, and felt like the service was excellent–you can read that blog post when you finish with this one, if you’d like. But my brunch today in Huntington really cemented for me that superb service is clearly a priority at Junk Ditch. At both locations, they were very much interested in establishing if I’d been there before, if I had any allergies, any questions about the menu, and so on. Anyone who has either eaten at a renowned, fine dining restaurant or has already finished season two of The Bear knows that this level of above-and-beyond service and concern for detail isn’t found at most restaurants that the average person pops into on any given day of the week–but, truly, it elevates the experience. Upon learning it was my first time dining at the Huntington location, our waiter Tristin said, “If there’s anything that I can do to make today special for you, please just let me know.” Now, being the low-key-baddie I am, I would never take him up on this offer–he’d be lucky if I asked him for water if I was on fire. But, for me, it’s the asking that took this from just ‘eating out’ and transformed it into a truly special dining experience. That and, at the end of the meal, he sweetly provided me with a dinner menu to take home with me–in case I wanted to come back for dinner and–drum roll, please–a free piece of GK Carrot Cake to celebrate my first visit to Junk Ditch Huntington Tap. Did he know that GK Carrot Cake is my absolute favorite? Probably not. But it is. So, now I’m in love and want to spend all my time and money at Junk Ditch Huntington Tap.
It’s not just the free cake that’s got me giddy, though. My sweet, sweet babies–the food–I swoon. Finding words will be difficult for this one. It’s been over an hour, I should be entirely stuffed, but my mouth is still watering when I think about the bomb brunch I just had. So, let’s get at it: my bestie went basic and had some coffee. But, like, they have really good coffee. They serve up Conjure Coffee and, my bestie means no disrespect by this, but he thinks the Conjure Coffee from Junk Ditch actually tastes even better than what he’s gotten from going to Conjure Coffee in the past. I didn’t drink the coffee, so I can’t weigh in on this–I can only relay the message. I was too busy sucking down a Bloody Mary. Holy guacamole, if you’re into a ‘basic’ bloody that serves on flavor but with just a little tickle of heat, then this is your jam, babe. This is a bloody that’s dressed up with Tajín and lime–what’s not to love? Simple; maybe just slightly left of classic. You know, like enough to keep it interesting without reinventing the wheel. Do I recommend? You know I do.
As for food: yes, it was only two of us dining, but we got three entrées because I am a chronic overachiever and when asked to deliver I am going to freaking bring it. (Also, it’s just really hard to choose because everything on the menu is bombbbbbb.) Here’s where we landed: bestie had the GK Griddle, I had the Brunch Burger, we shared the Chicken & Waffles, and also technically shared bites of everything so we both had a bit of it all. Let’s start with the GK Griddle, the newest item on their brunch menu. This little baby is a GK Cinnamon Roll turned into a bun to hold a super yummy sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast sammie. But it’s not just ya basic SEC. Oh no, cutie–we’re talking orgasmical breakfast sausage (I said what I said), perfectly nutty Gruyère, and a pristinely executed fried egg with a picture perfect runny yolk. Bestie says this is for the McGriddle lovers who want to upgrade their breakfast experience–but that’s not my world, so I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that, upon trying a bite, I was invested. I am a sausage, egg, and cheese girl–’til death do us part; this will always be my breakfast sammie of choice. That said, I’m also a sweet and salty girl. Let me one up that, I’m also a “have my cake and eat it, too” kind of lady. This sandwich caters to all of those personality types at the same time. You get your perfect SEC, with the added benefit of sweet and salty from swapping out a regular bun or bagel for a cinnamon roll, and you’re not choosing between a sweet or savory breakfast–you’re having both without sacrificing one for the other. You’re welcome.
If the phrase “sweet and salty” caught your attention, but you’re not really feeling a breakfast sandwich, I got you, fam. The Chicken & Waffles is easily the best item on their brunch menu. Our server Tristin said it’s his favorite, and even swung back by the table later for a quick convo on the vv important subject of chicken and waffles. See–prior to starting work at Junk Ditch, he’d only ever had your basic chicken and waffles. We’re talking, like, tendies with a plain waffle. Good–but, shall we say, potentially underwhelming? Obviously, this menu item caught his eye and, if I’m remembering correctly, it was the first thing he tried after starting work at Junk Ditch–from then on, he was hooked, and frankly, my bestie and I were also hooked upon first bite. I have eaten more than my fair share of chicken and waffles in my time and this variation is truly special. Upon a perfectly crisped waffle sits pieces of deliciously seasoned, juicy fried chicken. The unexpected addition of orange slices is bizarre in my brain, but more than welcome in my mouth and belly. There’s a maple chickpea puree, adding sweetness and texture, a cilantro pesto, bringing this dish to life like a lightning bolt to Frankenstein’s monster, and an infused maple syrup–bringing sweetness, with a hint of black pepper. We go beyond the basic ‘sweet and salty’ with this dish. We’re covering the ‘road less traveled’ where we bring sweet, salty, spicy, some umami action, even a hint of bitterness all together–like some kind of flavor-based Captain Planet and The Planeteers–to create unrivaled perfection. All the elements of this dish are cool on their own; but when combined the flavor is symphonic and, honestly, better than you can conceptualize without trying it for yourself.
As for the brunch burger, it wasn’t our first time meeting. I’d gotten this burger as takeout in my very early days of living in Fort Wayne. I confidently told a cheffy friend that it’s the best brunch burger I’ve ever had–and I stand by my assessment. This brunch burger is not your average brunch burger. Why? Your average brunch burger is a regular burger, traditionally a lunch or dinner item, dressed up with some bacon and eggs–maybe maple syrup if someone is feeling frisky–and paraded in front of you just slightly earlier in the day. You’re then told, “This is a brunch item,” and you say, “Okay,” because you don’t want to be argumentative and you enjoy it enough–and besides, you came for the company, so who cares if the burger is just meh. You won’t have to go through that tired song and dance with Junk Ditch’s Brunch Burger. I posit that rather than reconstructing a dinner item (a burger) to be appropriate for brunch, they have reinvented the breakfast sandwich into a burger. Just hang with me here, we both know my brain can go in some wild directions, but have I ever let you down before–-please don’t answer that unless it’s with wild enthusiasm and exuberant positive affirmations. This very unique Brunch Burger begins with a GK English Muffin–for those in the know, obvious perfection. For those uninformed, please just try one of these English muffins so that you may understand the exquisiteness firsthand. This is my first piece of evidence: in lieu of a bun, we’re utilizing an English muffin. Already off to a better start than your average-schmuck-brunch-burger. We then insert into the doughy deliciousness a Wood Farms beef patty–there is no better choice. No more words need to be said on this subject. Top with Ossian Bacon, again, a local staple–this screams breakfast, does it not? Cheddar cheese, yes please. Crispy onion–not something you see on every breakfast table across America, but this is the small detail that reminds you that you’re eating a brilliantly conceptualized Brunch Burger and you will thank them for this addition when you try it for yourself. Then, the pièce de résistance, soft scrambled eggs. A perfect soft scramble is nearly unctuous and buttery; melding with the melty cheddar cheese and horseradish aioli to almost create a sauce of itself to coat this decadent Brunch Burger. I stand by what I’ve said: it is the best Brunch Burger I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying. You really ought to try it.Now, I know that I tend to dwell on the positives, leaving some to question as to how forthcoming my silly little reviews may be. And for those who have questioned me in the past, when I’ve had nothing to gain from sharing my thoughts, you’ll likely scrutinize me now–after all, I was incentivized to go to this location with a gift card and was then bestowed the most heavenly slice of Carrot Cake. Surely, it would be difficult for any human being to remain impartial under such lovely circumstances. But, I’d like you to notice something–I was honest about all of it. I didn’t hide the incentive that led me to having brunch at Junk Ditch Huntington Tap–I shared the truth of my journey with you. I could have gobbled down my slice of carrot cake like a greedy little gremlin in secret, but instead I shared the remarkable act of kindness–because that felt important to me–it’s so telling of what kind of hospitable institution Junk Ditch is. So, perhaps, given my honesty on all subject matters, you’ll believe me when I say that the food is truly as delicious as I describe. The staff are kind and welcoming. The vibes are immaculate. I think that this is where correcting our course begins. Prioritize your happiness. Prioritize delicious food. Prioritize brunch. Step outside your bubble–there are amazing things waiting for you there. And if you’re still not sure that you can trust my words (That’s okay, we don’t know each other that well yet–but I hope to earn your trust in time.) You should know that I’m planning to go back to Junk Ditch Huntington Tap for dinner later this week. No incentives. No hopes of free cake. Just the knowledge that great food and good times lie in store for me when I exit my comfort zone. Truly, thank you Junk Ditch Huntington Tap and Katie Jo for such a memorable meal–I can’t wait for my next adventure.
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Wes Anderson & Wine: you can’t drink wine if you don’t open the bottle…
My favorite director is Wes Anderson. Never ask me why, I’ll either say too little or too much. The whimsy, the symmetry, the style, the color palettes, the soundtracks heavily influenced by the 1960s, and the understated yet heartfelt performances speak to me. I understand that it’s polarizing–people tend to either love or hate this director. Whether you reverently meme him or mock him; it would seem we as a society collectively have a nearly morbid obsession with Anderson. I’ve pontificated that only those of us who have felt true, debilitating depression really understand and appreciate Anderson’s movies–but that’s a heavy conversation best saved for another time. For now, let’s do a brief deep dive into his film history. I won’t bore you with synopses of all of his films: but I will tell you what wine to drink with them. You’re welcome.
Bottle Rocket – I’m going to be real with you, while I love Wes Anderson, I don’t really like Bottle Rocket. Some people who aren’t a fan of Anderson’s style (or, rather, see his style as more of a twee affectation than a legitimate style) prefer this early film to his later works. I am not that person. That said, I phoned a friend for help with this pairing. I called upon someone who loves Wes Anderson, perhaps, even more than I do–hard to believe, but true. I posed my question to him of what wine to pair with the film Bottle Rocket. He answered my question with a question of his own, “What would you drink sitting by a pool at a cheap motel in Texas?” I present you with: Rosé IV by Lost Draw Cellars. Rocking in at about $18 a bottle, it’s not the cheapest option, but it certainly won’t break the bank. Drinking this light, fruity pink Texan wine would probably make Bottle Rocket more palatable to me; but I still think it’s a thoughtful pairing for those who are already a fan of this film. If you can’t get your hands on a bottle of this Texan wine, head to your local wine store, grab whatever catches your fancy off the bottom shelf, and drink it without removing the paper bag wrapping–it feels very ‘in the spirit’ of this (cough mediocre-at-best) movie.
Rushmore – Though Herman Blume orders Max a whiskey soda at the ill-fated dinner (they were supposed to be three, not four, but someone invited themselves along) there are near-empty glasses of red wine on the table and a handsome display of fine wines behind where Max is seated. A keen eye will catch that one of the wooden cases of wine reads Far Niente. This is a Napa Valley winery. Perhaps a New World wine is the right pick for this coming-of-age movie about a boy who doesn’t quite fit in at an old-money-school: but it’s his Rushmore and he loves it. A bottle of their Cabernet Sauvignon will cost you several hundred dollars. Surely, this isn’t something Max could have afforded for the table–so, any American Cab Sauv can serve as a ‘safety’ if you can’t quite attain the Sorbonne of wines. I don’t know: this just makes sense to me. I hate to say it, but I really relate to Max as a character and Cabernet Sauvignon feels like that quintessential grown up red wine that a child would order when pretending to be far more grown-up than they truly are. It feels right; though really any tannic red wine would make me happy if paired with this film on the first, crisp autumn day of the year. Tannic red wines are beautiful, complex, (O.R. they?) and invoke a sense of nostalgia in me–just like this film does.
The Royal Tenenbaums – I’ve always wanted to be a Tenenbaum. So, the wine I suggest to pair with the most quintessentially ‘New York’ of all Wes Anderson’s films is Red Tail Ridge Cab Franc. This very dry, but highly acidic Cabernet Franc hails from the New York Finger Lakes and boasts a label featuring a hawk. (Is that you Mordecai? Did you know the original bird was kidnapped, held for ransom during filming, and subsequently replaced–hence the line referencing ‘molting’ in the flick–the more you know.) I’d prefer a glass of this over a butterscotch sundae any day of the week. While this may not carry the same prestige as a Cabernet Franc from the Loire Valley; part of being a Tenenbaum is perhaps being good, but never quite good enough to impress the most refined palettes. I’m not trying to hate. Seriously. No judgment if you love a New York state Cab Franc; I certainly wouldn’t kick these wines out of bed. It’s nothing to be ashamed about. You don’t just have to be secretly in love with it and leave it at that. So, enjoy a glass or, hell, drink the whole bottle if that’s your jam–you can’t be scared of life. You’ve got to brew some recklessness into it.The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou – Objectively one of my favorites, if not, my absolute favorite Wes Anderson film. There was a time in my life when I had a Life Aquatic themed bathroom. Why? Well, because it’s a brilliant adventure, mostly at sea, in parody of Jacques Cousteau: what’s not to love? Love, unrequited love, whimsical fictional sea creatures, stylish red beanies, everybody’s favorite grumpy stoner Billy Murray and Zaddy Jeff Goldblum (Please don’t make fun of me. I just wanted to flirt with you), and a heart wrenching helicopter accident set to the tune of The Way I Feel Inside by the Zombies. Oh, did I mention the brilliant Seu Jorge tunes? Given that his presence and masterful crooning of David Bowie songs (but in Portuguese) elevates some of the most cinematic moments of this film: a wine from Portugal seems more than appropriate for this pairing. Do yourself a favor and pair a Vinho Verde from Portugal with this film. I’d suggest white, as opposed to rosé, but you do you and then tell me how that works out for you. For this, I don’t have a particular bottle to suggest because, frankly, I haven’t had the pleasure of drinking enough Vinho Verde to really know exactly what I like best yet. But, I’ll keep trying: and one day I’ll find my favorite bottle. I’m going to find it and I’m going to destroy it.
Hotel Chevalier – This short film should always be consumed prior to watching The Darjeeling Limited. But if you like to make yourself really sad, you can watch it on its own and then have a good cry. Whether in tandem with the movie it ties into or consumed singularly, Hotel Chevalier is beautiful and also will make all the ex-hopeless-romantics of the world want to puke out their feelings. I said what I said. Obviously, this movie is like a sucker punch to the gut for me. If you’ve never loved someone who doesn’t love you back, but shows up in your life repeatedly with no regard for your feelings because they’re selfish and will choose to do whatever is convenient for them, you won’t understand why this short film fucks me up so badly. (Oops. Did we just get really personal? I think we did. I guess we’re friends now.) So, since I have such big feelings surrounding this short film, I’ll offer you two logical pairings: Bloody Maries or a glass of Beaujolais and grilled cheese sandwich. I’ll let you choose whichever feels right for you. Whatever happens. I don’t want to lose you as a friend. (That’s your cue to say, “I promise, I will never be your friend: no matter what.”)
The Darjeeling Limited – While I like this film, it always feels like watching it takes years off my life. It’s such an investment: both literally, in regards to time, and emotionally. (Like…trigger warning: dead children.) I find it best to make this a ‘dinner and a movie’ sort of situation, to help me ease my way through the experience. Fuck the itinerary. I’m telling you what to eat AND drink with this movie. Nothing goes better with this film than a massive bowl of Chicken Tikka Masala and a glass of Merlot. Disagree? Fight me. I’m not backing down on this one.
Fantastic Mr. Fox – Perhaps one of Wes Anderson’s most well-loved works, even among those suffering a Wes Anderson aversion (I’m looking at you local chef and film critic Logan Bushey) pairing cider with this film makes more sense than pairing wine. So, of course, you could go the route of Apple Wine or you could go straight cider. (In the fall, I absolutely consume this movie rapidly and repeatedly while crushing the delicious elixirs that Kekionga Craft Co. creates seasonally–I’m not cussin’ with you, the Monroe Cider in particular is a perfect pairing.) However, I think an underrecognized theme of this film is celebration–of self, of family, of freedom, of life! So, I will suggest the Bridge City Bubbly by Threadbare. This Pittsburgh based company has crafted their first Champagne style cider using 100% gold rush apples. This stuff is really like liquid gold–surely Rat (the rotter) would agree, even with his dying breath. It really is (quote, unquote) fantastic.
Moonrise Kingdom – This is the first Wes Anderson film that I fell in love with in theaters. It was summertime, I was living across the street from a performing arts center and art house cinema, and I went to see this film repeatedly. (And I also worked at the venue, so I could afford to go repeatedly thanks to a sick employee discount.) I took any friend I could convince to go with me. I think I took my mom and grandma, too. I loved this film so much, I wanted everyone to see it. There’s a particular scene that always sticks in my head and makes me giggle; so the wine pairing is technically just for the sake of that scene and how much I love it. It occurs just shortly after Sam and Susie begin their adventure together. Sam is teaching Susie all of the brilliant survival skills he learned in his time as a Khaki Scout because she clearly isn’t a wilderness chick: she’s chosen Sunday School shoes as her proper ‘running away forever’ attire. They pick up pebbles from a creek bed. He has her suck on them, explaining that doing so will cause their mouths to produce saliva, thus quenching their thirst. After he gets this poor girl to put stones in her mouth he reveals with a shrug, “I brought water, too.” Why are boys like this?! So pair this film with Sauvignon Blanc; a wine with the essence of wet stone (a term oft used interchangeably with minerality). Chablis is another wine which typically has this characteristic, if you’re the kind of bird who’d rather have a French wine. What kind of bird are you?
The Grand Budapest Hotel – With this visually stunning masterpiece, drink an Alsace Riesling. These white wines from Alsace, France are drier than their German companions and able to be aged for up to twenty years. Why? Because M. Gustave liked his women rich, old, insecure, vain, superficial, blonde, and needy. I don’t need to say more.
Isle of Dogs – Not my favorite Wes Anderson film, but nevertheless one that tugs at my heartstrings, Isle of Dogs is great to watch while cuddled on the sofa with your favorite canine companion. (Walter seems to enjoy the animation. In terms of attitude: I think he’s sort of a Duke but he sometimes also gives off Chief energy. Like, “I’m not doing this because you commanded me to. I’m doing this because I feel sorry for you.”) But what to drink with this nearly post-apocalyptic animation? Tricky to find, but the perfect pairing if you can make it happen: drink Lucky Dog Sake while watching Wes Anderson’s Isle of Dogs. The pairing is so ideal because it’s basically a Sake (aka Rice Wine) juice box with a cute dog on it. No need to thank me.
The French Dispatch – This film is beautiful and truly genius; though I know not all agree with this sentiment. With diverse stylistic changes throughout the movie, it’s difficult to suggest a singular wine to pair with this flick. Something French seems fitting. We see several different wines appear throughout the various stories told–in fact, there’s so much alcohol featured in this film, Bon Appetit released an entire article on the subject. (It’s a great read so, if this sort of thing interests you, I highly recommend it.) As for pairing a wine with The French Dispatch, I feel like there’s only one right answer. For a French wine that pairs well with a great number of many different things, regardless of style, and is appropriate whether you’re happy, sad, celebrating, or crying–Champagne! Fact: Champagne tastes better when Jarvis Cocker is wailing the song Aline in the background. So, if there’s one thing I want you to take away from this, darling, it’s that Champagne is always an appropriate choice. Always.
Asteroid City – I went to the cinema to catch this film on its opening day. I was the second person in the theater for the first showing in my city. Without spoiling the film, I can tell you that it’s the most absurd and chaotic of Anderson’s films thus far–but I’m no film critic, so take my words with several dashes of salt, I suppose. As someone who has revered Anderson for ages, I’m well aware of what people don’t like about his movies. I read an article recently about his latest film that suggests he’s ‘disappeared up on his own ass.’ I counter that Asteroid City is the first of Anderson’s movies to hear the criticism, digest it, and regurgitate it on the nay-sayers. If you think he’s disappeared up his own ass, the joke is on you now–because you were the one looking up his ass. But as for drinks, I can tell you with absolute certainty that you should not pair this movie with bad root beer and movie theater popcorn. (Has it gotten worse? I could barely stomach a handful of popcorn and the stale, chemical-butter taste lingered with me all evening.) Unfortunately, if I’m being entirely honest, this movie also shouldn’t really be paired with wine. I am someone who would like to believe that every movie is a wine movie–but some just simply aren’t that. This is not a wine movie. It’s a flapjacks and black coffee movie. I would even consider an ice cold martini with this movie–but make mine very, very dirty. As for wine–I don’t know, dude. With the intense color palette practically radiating the desert heat through the screen as you watch (or was it that the theater I was in seemed to have no functional air conditioning?) whatever you opt to drink better either be 100% thematically on point or beyond refreshing. Perhaps this is a sangria film. Fruity and refreshing; often masking high contents of alcohol with sugary sweetness. Would you drink sangria in a desert? I might. Especially the one that I had from Bravas–all pink and perfect. Sure. That would fit the aesthetic. That would be the right bevvy of choice for a film where Zaddy Goldblum only has one line: but, sheesh, is he out of this world in this film.
Plonk & Pleasure 