BBQ

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stories  by  J. Clayton Barbour
photography by  Keith Lanpher

Barbecue has captured a cultural and visceral spot in our collective psyche,
inspiring powerful loyalties. We sent one North Carolina native and barbecue
lover out to sample the local barbecue scene and find a tasty home recipe.
Here’s what he discovered.
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It’s not something you do; it’s something you eat. And that “something,” in most of the country, is slow-cooked, finely seasoned, pork. Pulled pork, preferably, though minced will do.

Few dishes in American fare generate the kind of loyalty – some would say obsession – that barbecue does. And fittingly, few cause such heated debate
over styles.

Chili, perhaps, in the West. Fried chicken and collards in the South. But those dishes tend to be cook-specific. I’ve seen more than one family reunion devolve into a fight over a collard recipe.

Barbecue is regional. Your opinion of a style is typically based on where you grew up – or, rather, where you grew up in proximity to North Carolina, Memphis, Kansas City and Texas. That’s because there are four basic styles, each linked to one of those locations. Kansas City is known for ribs, made with a dry rub. Most Texans skip pork altogether, using beef to make ribs and brisket sandwiches. Memphians make a pretty tasty pulled pork, though they douse the meat in a sweet tomato-based sauce.

The original style (and best, if you ask this native) comes from the Tar Heel State and is made with a mixture of vinegar, red pepper and, sometimes, brown sugar. It is a delicacy typically served with cold slaw on top and cornbread or hush puppies on the side.

The vinegar-based sauce is known to natives as “Eastern North Carolina barbecue.” Among the orthodoxy, it is the preferred style. But if you travel west of Greensboro, you’re likely to find a tomato-based heresy known as Lexington Barbecue.

There are those who prefer it.

They are apostates.

Don’t even get me started on the South Carolina style, which replaces vinegar with mustard, the result of early German migration.

For some reason, Virginia (and by extension, Hampton Roads) never fell in love with barbecue. Perhaps it was the coastal influence. The call of the sea is strong, and crab cakes are delicious.

Of course, it could have been a history of lies. Dirty, dirty lies.Distinction, Distinctionhr, Hampton Roads Magazine, Distinction Magazine, Belmont house of smoke, doumars, malbon bros., Pollards, Moseberths, Pierces, County Grill, Smalls Smokehouse, bbq
In the 18th century, Virginian William Byrd wrote poorly of my ancestors in his book The History of the Dividing Line Betwixt Virginia and North Carolina.

Byrd wrote of my fellow Tar Heels, “The truth of
it is, the inhabitants of North Carolina devour so
much swine’s flesh, that it fills them full of gross humours. … whenever a severe cold happens to constitutions thus vitiated, it is apt to improve into the yaws, called there very justly the country distemper. … This calamity is so common and familiar here, that it ceases to be a scandal.”

Yaws was one of those old diseases that sounds made up, like “consumption” or “Jake-leg,” but evidently was pretty devastating.

Whatever the reason, barbecue never really caught on north of the state line, at least not to the degree it has in other parts of the country.

Still, if you look hard enough, you can find some pretty tasty pulled pork sandwiches in Hampton Roads, most of them variations of the North Carolina specialty. These are some of my favorites.

I promise, you will not develop a case of the yaws.

Though you might grunt a little.Distinction, Distinctionhr, Hampton Roads Magazine, Distinction Magazine, Belmont house of smoke, doumars, malbon bros., Pollards, Moseberths, Pierces, County Grill, Smalls Smokehouse, bbq

1. Belmont House of Smoke
Since around 2009, the Belmont has become something of a Ghent hotspot. A two-story restaurant with a bar upstairs (often home to live music), the Belmont is known for its dry-rub and wet-rub ribs, cooked in the styles of Memphis and Kansas City. But the restaurant does offer a wide selection of sandwiches, including a very tasty pulled pork. The cooks smoke the meat in a brown sugar dry-rub and serve it with vinegar sauce. You can add more if you like, but I didn’t find it necessary. The combination of brown sugar and vinegar had me right at home. If only they served it on cornbread.
2117 Colonial Ave., Norfolk. 757.623.4477. 

2. Doumar’s
A Norfolk staple since 1904, Doumar’s is known for ice cream cones and burgers, but it makes a pretty righteous pulled pork sandwich, or technically a “minced” pork sandwich. I got the small sandwich with slaw on top. Tasty. Vinegar-based. It hit the spot. And at a cost of $2.60, the price was hard to beat. Also hard to beat: the atmosphere. Doumar’s is an old-school drive-in. I enjoyed my sandwich indoors. Feel free to drive up and eat one in your car. But make a note: Doumar’s is cash-only and closed on Sundays.
1919 Monticello Ave., Norfolk. 757.627.4163.

3. Malbon Bros. BBQ & Catering
Malbon Bros. is one of the few places in Hampton Roads dedicated to barbecue in all of its forms, including brisket, baby back ribs and pulled pork. The pulled pork sandwich is essentially a sweet North Carolina style. I got mine with hush puppies and French fries. The restaurant sells containers of pulled pork, in case you want to take one home.
1896 General Booth Blvd., Virginia Beach. 757.427.9607.
1601 Hilltop West, Laskin Rd., Virginia Beach. 757.428.2266.

4. Pollard’s Chicken & Catering
Pollard’s is known for its chicken. The restaurant is said to have some of the best fried fowl around. But Pollard’s also offers a North Carolina-style minced pork sandwich, served with cold slaw on top. It is similar to Doumar’s, though with a bit more pepper (which I prefer). The restaurant has several locations, so chances are one is close to you. But I prefer the Tidewater Drive location. It has the feel of a place with some history.
8370 Tidewater Dr., Norfolk. 757.587.8185.
3033 Ballentine Blvd., Norfolk. 757.855.7864.
717 Battlefield Blvd. South, Chesapeake. 757.482.3200.
3545 Buckner Blvd., Virginia Beach. 757.416.0003.
1924 Centerville Tnpk., Virginia Beach. 757.333.3313.
6523 College Park Sq., Virginia Beach. 757.424.2024.
100 London Bridge Rd., Virginia Beach. 757.340.2565.
405 S. Witchduck Rd., Virginia Beach. 757.519.9000.

5. Moseberth’s Fried Chicken
Moseberth’s, like Pollard’s, is best known for its fried chicken. But this place makes possibly the best North Carolina-style minced pork sandwich in the region. With just the right combination of vinegar and pepper, Moseberth’s had me thinking I was back home. I had the sandwich combo, which came with slaw on top and fries and hush puppies on the side. Servers will open your box at the counter to make sure you approve of the meal. If you can keep from grabbing a hush puppy when that happens, you’re a better person than I. Moseberth’s is take-out only and closed Sundays and Mondays. The restaurant has a very small parking lot, but overflow is allowed across the street.
1505 Airline Blvd., Portsmouth. 757.393.1721.

6. Pierce’s Pitt Bar-B-Que
If vinegar is not your thing, 50 miles up I-64 is Pierce’s, a very popular restaurant that offers several types of barbecue, including a pulled pork sandwich. Pierce’s recipe seems closest in styles to a mix between Memphis and western North Carolina. It is tomato-based, but not as sweet as the Memphis style. I got mine with slaw and crinkle fries. The restaurant does a heavy business, despite its slightly hidden location a bit off the highway. Follow the signs, or use the GPS.
447 E. Rochambeau Dr., Williamsburg. 757.565.2955.

7. County Grill & Smokehouse
Up the road a bit in Hampton is the County Grill & Smokehouse, a restaurant and bar that offers a different atmosphere from the other barbecue joints. From the outside, the County Grill is brick and boxy and looks for all the world like a VFW. From the inside it looks like a traditional bar, complete with 20 beers on tap. But don’t let that fool you into thinking barbecue isn’t taken seriously. County Grill serves true pulled pork that has been smoked on premises. It is tender, but rather bland. The restaurant offers six sauces to add at the table: North Carolina (east and west), Texas, Kansas City, Savannah (basically South Carolina mustard-based) and Memphis.

Some people may like that approach and selection, but to a true barbecue lover, it’s as different as marinating meat and dousing it after cooking.
26 E. Mercury Blvd., Hampton. 757.723.0600.
1215-A George Washington Hwy., Yorktown. 757.591.0600.

8. Small’s Smokehouse & Oyster Bar
The latest entry into this category is Small’s, a new restaurant and catering company not far from the Belmont in Norfolk. I have to admit, seeing “oyster” in the name did not immediately fill me with confidence about the barbecue. But I found the pulled pork sandwich to be among the area’s best. Small’s pulled pork is smoked in-house and served in vinegar sauce with a touch of brown sugar. The taste is excellent. It is also very similar to the Belmont’s. Fitting, given that Small’s head chef used to work there.
2700 Hampton Blvd., Norfolk. 757.626.3440.

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It sits in an old service station with a country-store feel and dining rooms no bigger than truck beds. The floors are unfinished and the slat walls are lined with pictures from the floods it survived.

It seems more fit for a country song than for a culinary delight. But if you want expertly prepared vinegar-based pulled pork, you can do no better than Bunn’s Barbecue. Located just off Highway 17 in Windsor, North Carolina, Bunn’s is a local landmark that has been making the dish since 1938.

The restaurant serves its barbecue in a rather unique way – between two slices of cornbread.

Sure you can get it on a bun. But why would you?

Baked fresh daily, the cornbread is firm enough to hold the pork yet soft enough to soak up the juices. It’s so good that it makes you question why more things aren’t served this way.

In the ’40s and ’50s, Bunn’s was a local secret. Farmers and factory workers crowded the place at lunch, their work clothes covered in dust and mud.Distinction, Distinctionhr, Hampton Roads Magazine, Distinction Magazine, Belmont house of smoke, doumars, malbon bros., Pollards, Moseberths, Pierces, County Grill, Smalls Smokehouse, bbq
The changing economy shuttered a tobacco market, three lumber mills and a clothing factory, costing the lunch hot spot hundreds of regulars.

These days the place has become something of a tourist attraction. Magazines like Southern Living and Garden & Gun have introduced Bunn’s to a new clientele of expat Southerners jonesing for a taste of the past. They detour off I-95 and drive an hour through the winding roads of eastern North Carolina for the experience.

The restaurant is as simple now as it was when overalls and flatbeds outnumbered Bluetooths and SUVs. The food is served on a paper plate. The waitresses are also the cooks. The owner runs the register. Cards are not accepted.

Several years back, Bunn’s added a few other dishes to the menu. Depending on the day, you can now get Brunswick stew, hot dogs with homemade chili, grilled chicken and chicken pastry.

“Can’t eat barbecue every day of the week,” says Russ Russell, whose family has owned the restaurant since 1969.

True. But after one visit to Bunn’s, you’d sure be tempted to try.

127 N. King St., Windsor, North Carolina (just over 90 minutes south of downtown Norfolk). 252.794.2274. Open 10 to 2 Mondays through Thursdays, and Saturdays; 10 to 5 Fridays. Cash only.

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Joe   Pavey understands comfort  food.

At his 80/20 Burger Bar, where he is chef and co-owner, he expertly crafts grass-fed hamburgers – the quintessential American comfort food.

But Pavey at heart is a Southern cook who first learned the craft by watching his grandmother. Maude Pavey was an expert with all dishes Southern. Collards. Chitlins. Fried chicken. And, of course, barbecue.

“She would do it in a crock pot,” he says. “It was sort of a combination of braising and confit.”

Maude made her barbecue with vinegar, molasses and crushed red pepper. Joe took her recipe and added some personal touches, including bourbon.

“It’s funny how ready people are to argue about which style is the best,” he says from his restaurant in Ghent. “But really, it’s nostalgia. Barbecue keeps us tied to our youth.”

For the record, his favorite barbecue is just across the state line in Corolla, at Corolla Village Barbecue.

“It’s just a shack, not far from the lighthouse,” he says. “You can’t even go inside.”

Pavey’s Bourbon-Molasses Barbecue

Ingredients
3- or 4-pound Boston butt
Kosher salt to taste
1 cup brown sugar, firmly packed
1 cup apple cider vinegar
2 tablespoons granulated garlic
½ cup dried onion
2 tablespoons crushed red pepper
½ cup molasses
2 ounces bourbon

Directions
Mix all ingredients into a paste. Rub it onto the Boston butt. Let the meat sit overnight in refrigerator. Cook it in a slow cooker on medium for at least 4 or 5 hours. It’s better if you cook it up to 10 hours. Take it out of the pot and let it sit for 15 minutes. Put on gloves and pull the meat apart by hand. Mix the juices from the pot in with the meat and serve.

You say ‘tomato’…


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by Selene D. Guerrero
photography by Amanda Lucier

Madelyn Maggard is known by local restaurateurs as “The Tomato Lady,” a title that makes her wince. Then again, tomatoes are her job – and she wouldn’t change that.

She and her husband were in the restaurant business for many years, but when his health declined they began selling locally grown tomatoes to restaurants. After he died, she expanded the business. “I sell tomatoes for a living – how crazy is that?” she exclaims. “But it works perfectly for me.”

All these years have yielded a few tomato tips that she’s happy to pass on.

For starters, planting. Some tomato fans would rather plant than buy. For them, April 15 is considered tomato-planting day for picking to start at the Fourth. But if you haven’t planted yet, it’s OK; Maggard suggests staggering seed-planting, with another set planted in May for the later fall months. Here, tomato season runs till the first freeze.

For people who’d rather buy (in season, she gets hers from farmers in Pungo and on the Eastern Shore), she offers these tips: “Tomatoes ripen from the inside out,” she says. If the skin is slightly pale or pink, the tomato will be pale inside. Look for a ruby red color; if the tomato is slightly pale, put it on a window sill to ripen – getting redder and better. Feel for firmness. And never refrigerate a tomato; refrigeration changes the texture and stops the ripening process.

When prep time comes, never skimp on high-quality ingredients, Maggard stresses:  “You always buy the freshest and the best you can afford.” Rule 2: Serve tomatoes simple.

One of her favorite pairings is a perfectly grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup, but she took that unassuming dish to another level when she married the sandwich with tomato. Her grilled pimento cheese and tomato sandwich is messy and comforting. The pimento cheese gives the sandwich bite and the slice of sweet tomato in the middle neutralizes the spicy pimento. “You want it to be gooey and yummy,” she says, laughing. And although it can be intimidating to bite into, every morsel is worth the untidiness.

For a less unkempt dish, Maggard prefers a refreshing tomato salad that combines robust beefsteaks, heirlooms and an avocado. The recipe is simple and open to interpretation. For instance, you can add a creamy goat cheese or a bold blue-veined cheese as a topping. And of course, “use good quality, finishing olive oil.”

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Tomato Salad
Ingredients

4 tomatoes (Maggard uses combinations that include beefsteak and heirloom tomatoes, but you can use any kind)
1 avocado
Fresh lemon
Olive oil
Kosher salt
Freshly cracked pepper

Preparation
With a serrated knife, cut the tomatoes into wedges, from the stem down.

Cut the avocado lengthwise and slice into sections. Separate segmented slices using a spoon or your fingers.

Combine the tomatoes and avocado on a salad plate, drizzle high-quality olive oil to taste, squeeze lemon over the salad and sprinkle kosher salt and freshly cracked pepper to taste.

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Grilled Pimento Cheese and Tomato Sandwich
Ingredients

Two 1-inch thick slices of white, hand-cut bread
½ cup pimento cheese (Maggard uses one from Taste Unlimited)
3 tablespoons of butter, separated
1 slice of beefsteak tomato

Preparation
Heat a skillet over medium heat. Add one tablespoon of butter.

Evenly spread 1 tablespoon of butter to one side of both slices of bread. Divide the half-cup of pimento cheese evenly and spread on both slices, on the unbuttered side.

Place both slices of bread open-faced, butter side down in the skillet and cook for five minutes to achieve a crisped crust and melted cheese that seeps into a slightly toasted middle.

Remove from skillet, place the slice of tomato between bread slices and serve.

 

True Italian Cuisine


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by Janine Latus
photography by Keith Lanpher

Fabio Rinaldi welcomes his customer by name and ushers her to her usual table at his restaurant, Sirena, in downtown Norfolk. He’s wearing a crisply pressed shirt and trousers, sharp enough to indicate the restaurant is fine dining but without a coat or tie that might seem intimidating. He walks smoothly, like the athlete he is.

“A four-top, yes?” he says, in his thick Italian accent. “Your children are coming?”

His restaurant is filling quickly with diners who will then walk across Granby to Scope or Chrysler Hall for a speaker or musical or musician. On event days he tapes a sign on the door telling people without reservations that they’re welcome to return after 7:30, when the restaurant empties as people head to the theater.

“We can seat 50, 55 people. I can take an extra 10 people and make a bunch of people unhappy? No,” he says. “Good things shouldn’t be rushed. I want people to enjoy, relax, take their time, maybe sip a cup of coffee after dinner.”

For him it’s a cultural thing.

“Where I’m from,” he says, “we spend time on our food. It’s important what you put in your mouth.”

He greets another group of customers. A waiter brings a glass of wine here, a plate of bruschetta there, the bread charred so customers get the taste of the Old World under the tomatoes and olive oil and basil. This is Italian food, not Italian-American.

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Rinaldi, 49, was a child when his mother would pull a chair up to the side of the counter and hand him his own piece of dough as she made ravioli and gnocchi and lasagna. He has pictures of his son doing the same thing, flour scattered everywhere. It was how he was raised back in Rome, charring peppers, roasting tomatoes, caramelizing onions.

It’s how his staff of three cooks now.

“Even when we’re busy,” he says, “you order and they take down the pan and put in the oil and they cook for you.”

Nothing is cooked in advance, to sit under a heat lamp and get rubbery. The minute a plate is ready it is swooped out to the table, whether by a waiter or Rinaldi himself. Every day the quality is the same, whether the restaurant is busy or slow. The same cook makes your pasta, the same one cooks your fish. Rinaldi’s three cooks have been with him for at least three years each – in an industry where cooks train and then move on quickly – and they know how Rinaldi wants things done. “They’re better cooks than I am,” he says.

The other day he put on his chef’s coat to help them, but he had a hard time keeping up.

“They do it every night and they’re quick,” he says. “To put in long, hot hours in the kitchen you have to be young.”

Everything is fresh. The bread comes unbaked from a bakery in TriBeCa, then left to rise in the kitchen before going into the oven. The Sirena people smoke their own salmon and make their own pancetta from pork bellies they rub with a dozen spices and herbs, then hang in the walk-in for a week to cure.

Most days Marcos Ordonez comes in hours before the other cooks, to mix imported Italian flour and fresh eggs into a dough that he kneads on a big stainless steel table before feeding it into a pasta machine that sends it out in sheets – thinner for ravioli, thicker for fettuccini – that he’ll cut and fill and freeze and later drop into boiling water minutes after it’s ordered by a customer.

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“Sirena is one of the only places you can have true Italian cuisine in Hampton Roads,” says Ken Trinder, who brings both his family and his business clients there. “Those of us who have been to Italy can appreciate the European approach to dinner. It is a true culinary event.”

Now a major study has shown that a Mediterranean diet rich in olive oil and fish and vegetables cuts the risk of heart attack and stroke by 30 percent, and Rinaldi raises his hands, saying, “Of course!”

He’s constantly frustrated that plates go out with fish or veal and a colorful array of vegetables and they come back with the vegetables untouched.

“I want to say, ‘Excuse me, is this too healthy for you?’ I love the vegetables, but they think they are a decoration, just to look good on the plate.”

Rinaldi says he eats no cream sauces or butter, only olive oil. He eats seafood daily and limits himself to one glass of wine a night, even though sipping a good glass of wine is one of his greatest joys. He plays soccer every Sunday, priding himself on being in shape.

“I’m competitive, very competitive. It’s no fun having people run circles around you,” he says. “It’s more fun when you can run circles around them.”

Rinaldi spent his first 30 years in Italy, where he was the country’s junior champion in the high dive at the same time Greg Louganis was medaling in the Olympics. He wanted to be a flight attendant,
he says, so he moved to England to immerse himself in English, working in restaurants to pay his way. For about a year he worked for Air Italia, flying all over the world in 747s and seeing things he’d never imagined, but it got old quickly. “You’re always tired and jet lagged,” he says, and you have no time for family.

The job did, however, introduce him to the beauty of California, and in 1993 he moved to the San Diego, where he surfed every day at dawn. He and partners from Milano opened two restaurants, but as with all partnerships, there were disagreements.

“Partnership is good when it’s an odd number,” Rinaldi says, holding up one finger. “If you want to fight you have to look at yourself in the mirror. I like to be my own boss. Wrong or right I’m always right, right? I like to take responsibility if I do bad; if I do good I take credit.”

He came to Norfolk in the early 2000s to attend the wedding of his wife’s little sister, and his father-in-law, financial adviser Jim O’Brien, showed him around the downtown, telling him about the tower that was going up at the corner of Granby and Brambleton and about how downtown was a happening place.

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Rinaldi and his wife, Melissa, sold their house in California and bought what was then a big box of a building on the corner of Granby and Charlotte. They gutted it, then turned it into a warm and comfortable space, the walls light green, the bar fronted by wooden wine crates. They put up awnings and set out planters to frame their patio seating, and in the spring of 2004 they opened Sirena, pronounced “see-RAY-nah,” like siren, which is Italian for mermaid. The S on the logo has a fish tail.

Rinaldi, who lives at the North End of the Beach, walks his son to the bus stop every morning, then continues across Atlantic Avenue to the ocean, where he lets his dog run in the sand. The waves are too small for the kind of surfing he likes to do, but at least he gets to see the water every day.

Later he goes to Restaurant Depot on Witchduck Road, where he presses the fish to make sure it’s fresh, and snaps a stalk of asparagus to make sure it isn’t woody. He makes his day’s selections, then drives to the restaurant, where he shows his cooks how to make the special of the day.

As owner and self-professed “big kahuna,” a title he chose over “chef-owner” or “proprietor” or any of the other stuffier options, he does whatever needs doing.

“When I’m in the front I host,” he says. “When it’s busy I bus. I go back there and shake your martini, I pour you your wine. Whatever it takes.”

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The restaurant wouldn’t have survived the economic downturn of 2008 or the three-year disruption of the light rail construction, he says, if he hadn’t been able to do so many things himself. People got out of the habit of coming downtown, he says; they thought it would be a hassle, they chose Ghent or Town Center, places where the parking is free and the streets are well lighted.

The promised tower didn’t go up, and the huge festivals at the redesigned Town Point Park scare away people who think his place will be packed, he says, but his core of customers keeps coming, drawn by warmth and good food. It kills him that people go to chain restaurants where the food is an afterthought. For him the food is everything.

“I’m no rich guy. I do this for the passion,” he says. “I love to share my passion for food and wine and people.”

Beer Reborn

by MIKE HIXENBAUGH
photography by RICH-JOSEPH FACUN

Two decades before the craft beer explosion swept Hampton Roads, one of the nation’s most celebrated microbrews flowed from old dairy tanks in a tiny plant off London Bridge Road.

It was 1986, long before Sierra Nevada and New Belgium became staples on grocery store beer racks, and a 26-year-old Allen Young had just landed in Virginia Beach. He joined a ragtag group of beer lovers with radical plans to sell German-style specialty beers on the East Coast.

Together they started Chesapeake Bay Brewing Company and soon became rising stars in a fledgling industry, winning a gold medal in the inaugural Great American Beer Festival taste contest the very next year and establishing a cult following in the brew pubs of suburban Washington.

“We were like rock stars up there,” a more grizzled Young says now, recalling the response in D.C. after the little-known brewery unveiled its signature Chesbay Double Bock. “But down here – down the street from where we were actually making this stuff – we couldn’t get anyone to buy in. We were brewing a dark, malty beer in a strictly Budweiser kind of town.”

Allen Young

Only a handful of Beach pubs agreed to sell the award-winning beer. Six-packs of the brewery’s other offerings – Chesbay Amber and Chesbay Gold – collected dust on store shelves. Within a few years, the operation was shuttered.

“We were way ahead of our time and on the wrong coast,” Young says. “They weren’t ready for us.”

He left Virginia Beach in 1990 to work at another brewery, in an Ohio college town. When he returned in 2006, something had changed.

A beer revolution was brewing in Hampton Roads.

Weeks before Allen Young and his friends tapped their first barrel, Chris Jones and his wife, Diane Catanzaro, were falling in love with beer in a dimly lighted Norfolk parking lot. It was their first time attending a meeting of the Hampton Roads Brewing and Tasting Society. The club’s half-dozen members were gathered around a white van behind a bar on Colley Avenue and pouring samples of homemade brews into plastic cups.

Catanzaro remembers sipping a bold blueberry ale – it was unlike anything she had ever tasted – and asking the club’s president how he’d made it. In this spot behind what’s now Public House, he whipped out a notepad and enthusiastically read through a list of ingredients and detailed brewing instructions. Within weeks, Jones and Catanzaro were working on their own batch. “What we were making was so much better than anything you could buy in a store,” she says. “Back then, if you wanted to drink a good beer – anything with a little bit of color and taste – you had to make it yourself.”

The couple became evangelists for craft beer. They invited friends to drink their creations – sometimes brewed using hops grown in their backyard. They served nothing but imported specialty beers at dinner parties and chastised guests who insisted on bringing six-packs of Bud Light. Some friends called them beer snobs; others joined the home brewing club.

“Change takes time,” Jones says, sipping homemade India pale ale at home in Ghent. “It’s a long-term investment in your friends to get them to go from drinking swill to drinking things that are wonderful. They have to try it a couple times. Eventually they come to realize how a good beer ought to taste and smell. We’ve seen the same process play out in the domestic beer market.”

Jones and Catanzaro swirl and sniff beer before sipping from small glasses and speak in terms a wine connoisseur might use to describe the flavor and texture of a drink. For years, the only decent beer they bought came from vacations in Belgium. Now they can walk a few blocks and get some of their favorite beer, straight from the craft brewery on 25th Street.

Kevin O’Connor’s father scoffed when he came home from college in 1995 and said he wanted to open a brewery in Norfolk. “You’re just an Irish kid who’s been drinking too much,” his old man told him.

Every home-brewer-turned-wannabe-businessman who had come before him had failed in South Hampton Roads – including Steamship Brewing Company in Norfolk. A few startups lasted only weeks before closing. O’Connor took his dad’s advice and, though he interned at Steamship that summer, set his dream aside. He eventually earned a degree in business management from Old Dominion University and went to work in sales for a local food distributor.

Kevin O’Connor

Years passed as O’Connor foundered in an unfulfilling job. In his free time, he drank specialty beers and scribbled detailed business plans on bar napkins. He watched from afar as microbreweries opened in every progressive city in the country. His own city lagged far behind.

In 2005, the girlfriend who would later become his wife told him to snap out of his funk. “You brew beer in the backyard,” she told him. “That’s your passion. Why don’t you just quit your job?”

He did, and soon he was learning the industry while volunteering at St. George Brewing Company in Hampton – until then the region’s lone microbrewery success story. Later he took a sales job with a specialty beer distributor, where he learned firsthand the challenges of getting craft beer onto store shelves.

He squirreled away what he could and borrowed money from family and friends. He leased a dingy warehouse, bought used equipment online and traveled to Rhode Island to load more than a dozen tanks onto a flatbed truck. With the help of friends, he installed the system himself.

The list of microbreweries to launch, then fizzle, had grown even longer by the time O’Connor filled the fermenters at his 25th Street plant for the first time. He filled his first barrel of Norfolk Canyon Pale Ale in April of 2010, and his friends at Cogan’s Pizza agreed to sell a sample batch on tap that weekend.

If history were a guide, O’Connor’s little brewery would sputter. He had already calculated how much money he could recover by scrapping his equipment. He looked around the bustling pizzeria, seeing a room full of college students and young professionals.

He hoped this time would be different.

The brewery Allen Young helped open in Virginia Beach years earlier was pieced together using old equipment from a shuttered R.C. Cola plant, scrap dairy tanks and refurbished parts harvested from decommissioned Navy vessels.

The brewery’s signature creation, the Chesbay Double Bock, was revolutionary in these parts – a strong yet smooth brew with a low hops profile.

“It was a hit with beer enthusiasts, but we were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” says Young, who brewed his first batch of beer as a squeaky-voiced middle schooler. “At that time we were about the same size or bigger than Sierra Nevada out in California. If we had been on Chico Bay instead of the Chesapeake Bay, we might be telling a different story right now.”

Sierra Nevada went global; Chesapeake Bay Brewing went under.

Sixteen years later, in 2006, Young took a call from an old colleague. A Gordon Biersch restaurant was going to open at a new development in Virginia Beach called Town Center, and the chain restaurant’s manager was looking for someone to run its microbrewery.

“By then the craft beer craze had swept just about every major market in the country, but it still hadn’t taken off in Hampton Roads,” Young says. “This region was sort of the last great frontier for craft beer.”

He had always believed a microbrewery could succeed in South Hampton Roads. He came back to prove it.

Bottling at O’Connors Brewery

Kevin O’Connor emptied 15 kegs that opening weekend at Cogan’s and at another nearby bar, much more than he’d expected. Six months later, he was sitting on a stool at A.W. Shucks Raw Bar and Grill when he heard his name spoken at the other end of the bar.

“You got any of that O’Connor beer?” a burly shipyard worker asked.

The bartender poured a pint of O’Connor’s Green Can Golden Ale, then motioned toward the man who’d brewed it. The worker with a gray beard and dirty jumpsuit sprang out of his seat, walked toward O’Connor and greeted him with a slap on the back.

“I’ve been drinking Bud Light since I was 12 years old,” the gruff old shipyard worker said. “And I’ve got to hand it to you; I’m a craft believer now. I love your beer. It’s all I drink.”

O’Connor knew then he’d made it – even in this blue-collar port town.

More than two years later, he can’t keep up with demand. With O’Connor and his small staff often working 18-hour days to stay ahead of orders, his modest plant is churning out more than 1,000 kegs and 15,000 bottles a month. Thanks to a previously unheard-of partnership with a major beer distributor, Hoffman Beverage Company, O’Connor’s creations can be found at dozens of grocery stores and on taps across the region – from local bars to Applebee’s restaurants.

Boots at O’Connor and Smartmouth Cleaning Up

“Our business is not glamorous at all,” he says, standing in rubber boots outside his facility as an automated bottler hums. “It’s cold; it’s hot; it’s wet. The cool part is going to a bar and seeing people drinking your beer. They don’t see behind the scenes where you’re burning your arm or spilling chemicals on your knee or you’ve cut your fingers because you’re bottling right now. But we’re making it.”

O’Connor’s success seems to have paved the way for others. Three other microbreweries have started up in South Hampton Roads since early 2010, and at least one more is on the way.

Hundreds of people gathered at Town Center last fall for the inaugural Arts and Drafts beer festival. Each of the region’s microbrewers poured samples, and beer lovers danced to live music. Gordon Biersch, which organized the event, has been packed since the day it opened in 2006, says Young, at the time Biersch’s head brewer for the Mid-Atlantic region.

“It’s like a complete reversal from my days at Chesbay,” he says. “Now people show up at bars and stores, and they want to know what’s local. Hampton Roads might have been late to the party, but the market is blowing up now.”

Take Porter Hardy IV, who walked away from his comfortable life as a corporate lawyer last year to open Smartmouth Brewing Company in a 9,500-square-foot warehouse in West Ghent. The former home-brewer’s American amber was flowing at numerous pubs by late fall.

From left: Smartmouth’s Porter Hardy and Beach Brewing’s Justin MacDonald

And at Beach Brewing in Virginia Beach, Justin MacDonald and his wife, Kristin, celebrated the brewery’s two-year anniversary in October at a festival outside the factory on Horse Pasture Road. Like O’Connor, MacDonald has used skills learned while earning a business degree at Old Dominion University to market his specialty beer, which is on tap at several Oceanfront restaurants. MacDonald will have competition from Back Bay Brewing, a Beach startup that started selling a full-bodied red ale at a few restaurants last fall. Also in Virginia Beach, a pair of former soldiers who served in the Iraq war have been raising money to launch Young Veterans Brewing. They have plans for an entire line of military-themed brews, including a “Jet Noise Double IPA” and a “New Recruit Honey Blonde.”

On the Peninsula, St. George’s and Williamsburg’s AleWerks each reported seeing sales figures nearly double over the past few years.

And two years after The Birch bar opened in West Ghent, with all of its 21 taps dedicated to obscure craft beers, owner Ben Bublick and his wife, Malia, said they’ve seen their customer base grow beyond beer aficionados.

“I always drank Pabst Blue Ribbon before I started coming here,” one of those customers, Steve Billings, said between sips of an $8 witbier from Japan. “I’d rather pay more and try something new.”

People didn’t talk like that in the 1980s. Back then, Allen Young would have been happy to get a handful of nearby restaurants to sell Chesbay on tap. He came to Virginia Beach the first time to learn the tricks of the trade. He returned two decades later with a well-earned nickname: “The Kevin Bacon of Beer.” “In the world of craft beer, people measure their connections against the Six Degrees of Allen Young,” says Paul Hutchings, president of the Hampton Roads Brewing and Tasting Society. “That guy has worked everywhere.”

Along the way, he never forgot Hampton Roads.

“I always knew we could do it in this market,” he says.  “If we could just get the product in front of the sailors over at Oceana, or if we could get a grocery store to put our cases on a display rack, I knew people would buy it. That’s finally happening now.”

Need more proof? In January, Young accepted a sales job with a company that imports raw beer ingredients and sells them to craft breweries. As recently as 10 years ago, there wasn’t a market for the position in this part of the country, Young says. His new bosses wanted him to live someplace within a half-day’s drive of at least 50 breweries – a location at the center of the craft beer boom.

They agreed to let him stay in Virginia Beach.

A few months after moving here for the second time, Young was reminded that things didn’t always work that way. While browsing the racks at a long-established wine and beer shop on Laskin Road, he spotted a familiar-looking case sitting on a shelf.

Last known bottle of Chesbay Beer

He blinked hard and looked again.

There sat six unopened bottles of Chesbay Gold. Allen Young laughed when the store owner explained the 20-year-old relic.

Nobody ever bought the last six-pack.

Simply Harper

A young chef reclaims – and refreshes – his Southern roots
with a welcoming restaurant in downtown Suffolk.

by Michelle Washington
photography by Keith Lanpher

Friday night brings a swell of customers to Harper’s Table, and the temperature in the kitchen quickly hits 95.

A roaring oven and the clang of pots combine for an ear-ringing din. Harper Bradshaw and his staff keep their conversation to a minimum, working smoothly together as dish after dish leaves the kitchen for the dining room.

Bradshaw mans the grill, rotating steaks through degrees of doneness, finishing pork chops already made velvet-tender by an overnight sous-vide bath, adding thick slices of cheddar and Benton bacon (you should, says the menu) to sizzling burgers.

Each dish gets a quick scan from Bradshaw before it heads to the dining room, a careful drizzle of red wine butter sauce on a rib-eye, a pass with a serrated knife through a burger a guest has asked to share.

Although Bradshaw has worked in and led kitchens at several of Hampton Roads’ best restaurants, Harper’s Table marks his first endeavor as chef and owner. The menu bares his Southern roots and upbringing. His kitchen and the way he runs it reflect years honing his craft. And his dining room illustrates his belief that a superior dinner depends on more than the food – it requires comfort, timing that seems effortless, and hospitality that makes the entire experience one to remember.

“At the end of the day you don’t have a business without customers coming through the door,” he says. “It’s really important to me that you have a great time while you’re here.”

At first, cooking seemed to Bradshaw like something to do until he found a real job.

He tossed salads and topped pizzas at a restaurant until the guy at the   grill left. Bradshaw took his place. On that day in 2003, cooking started to seem like something serious, a real job of its own.

Bradshaw worked in restaurant kitchens all over Hampton Roads, including Brutti’s and Todd Jurich’s Bistro. His work took him to Vintage Tavern in Suffolk in 2006, where he became chef de cuisine – head of the kitchen.

After five years, during which he was part of the team that guided Vintage Tavern to local and national acclaim, Bradshaw had another epiphany about the career he had stumbled into.

“I realized I was totally committed to following my dreams of being a restaurant owner. I made up my mind,” he says. “I told them the next day.” In a month’s time, he quit to start planning his own place.

That first Monday, freshly unemployed, with no money, no place to start and no plan, Bradshaw sat at a desk in his father’s financial planning office in Franklin and tried to figure out what to do next.

He headed to North Carolina, touring barbecue joints from Lexington to Charlotte. It’s an area with fierce loyalties and deep divisions on the proper way to cook a pig, as well as what kinds of sauce might best accompany it, which vegetables might possibly honor meat as succulent as roasted pork. He ate at restaurant after restaurant that elevated the cuisine of the region to giddy heights.

By the time Bradshaw returned to Suffolk last summer, he knew he wanted something similar: a place to celebrate Virginia’s food legacy as well as his own.

“Coming down the line!”

Cooks shout the warning to avoid accidental scaldings as they walk down the narrow passage that separates prep areas from blazing burners. Bradshaw anchors the line; other cooks take positions at the flat-top stove, at the fryer and oven, at a station to make desserts and salads.

Nearly every member of the staff joined it to learn from Bradshaw.

Gina Smith makes the salads and the breads; she’s still in school at the Culinary Institute of Virginia and has the least experience of anyone on the cooking team. “Harper took me under his wing,” she says. “It’s great because of the guidance he gives.”

Fish sizzles as Verdell Godfrey Jr. sears it in olive oil, adding a crisp brown crust before finishing it in the oven below. He has cooked in restaurant kitchens all over Hampton Roads and was head chef at his last gig. But he, too, wants to open a place of his own one day. “You have to give yourself an opportunity to learn more,” he says. He’s learning about building, financing, meeting with lawyers – all the business stuff that comes ahead of the first day in the kitchen.

Bradshaw, in turn, credits the other chefs he worked with in the area for providing the techniques that keep his kitchen running smoothly. He learned that a tidy kitchen runs more smoothly than a messy one. He assimilated styles and memorized standard sauces by watching other chefs prepare them dozens of times a night, and then asking to take over. He learned to favor simplicity over elaborate technique, seasoning with generous hits of salt and pepper, adorning plates with pinches of fresh thyme, parsley and chives.

That preference for simplicity put down roots long ago. His grandma’s black cast iron skillet figures prominently in his childhood memories of food. She made fried chicken, sometimes hamburgers, stirring up dish after tasty dish in the same heavy pan.

“It’s a prime symbol of Southern cuisine,” Bradshaw says.

She and his grandfather owned a restaurant in Burkeville, a simple place with burgers, steaks and a sign that boasted “salad and potato bar. Breakfast any time.” His grandfather kept a huge wheel of cheddar in the refrigerator. Bradshaw realized that his grandparents ate what they loved, simple foods that tasted good.

He did not attend formal cooking school – he thought his “real job” would involve a career working outdoors, so he took classes in recreation management at James Madison University.  He left in 2003, just shy of graduation. He earned part of his food education through hands-on experience in restaurant kitchens. Reading about food and about restaurants through menus, magazines and books has been “critically important” to his understanding of creating a great dining experience. Bradshaw points to the 1999 publication of The French Laundry Cookbook as a watershed: The Napa Valley restaurant and chef Thomas Keller’s techniques redefined American cuisine and American ingredients. Keller’s focus on an immersive dining experience that catered to all the senses was as crucial to the success of his restaurant as the recipes. And from Frank Stitt’s Southern Table, Bradshaw embraced “homey roots, but a level of elegance using humble ingredients.”

As Bradshaw learned to cook, he recognized that Virginia rarely gets its culinary due. Our state, and Hampton Roads in particular, boasts an incredible richness of earthy ingredients that give backbone to dishes both hearty and refined: oysters, clams and crabs; pork salted, smoked or fresh; sweet potatoes, peanuts, greens. His menu features plenty of those local ingredients.

“We really need to embrace it,” he says.

Hampton Roads’ heritage shows itself in the space Bradshaw chose for his restaurant, as well. When he set out on his own, he thought he wanted a spot in a strip mall on a busy stretch of road. He reasoned he could convert the steady flow of traffic into a steady customer stream. But he quickly realized it didn’t feel like home.

He began looking at a location in downtown Suffolk. It’s his wife Laura’s hometown, and although he spent most of his youth in Franklin he finished high school at Nansemond-Suffolk Academy. A shell of a building on Main Street provided a downtown location and a small-town address.

The spot offered pride of place and pieces of history. Bradshaw used wood from a peanut warehouse in his wife’s family to create a canopy over the seating area. He used more salvaged wood to create table tops and serving boards branded with the Harper’s Table logo, a small H and a big T fashioned into a chair and table. Paintings of farm scenes decorate each booth; burlap like that used to make peanut shipping sacks covers the lamp shades. An 18th-century barn door, cleaned and preserved, provides camouflage for a flat-screen television.

Bradshaw helped during demolition to save a few bucks in renovating the place. As he swung a sledgehammer to expose the original brick walls, he discovered the lower part of a century-old painted Coca-Cola mural, its vibrant colors protected for decades by layers of drywall. Bradshaw had to reconfigure his plans to incorporate the mural into the design of the restaurant; it became a showy centerpiece for his bar, along with a support beam he’d salvaged to create a liquor shelf.

“That shelf is one of the coolest things in the whole building,” he says. “And it was just a piece of rotten wood.”

Finally, he paid tribute to his grandmother and her kitchen. He serves side dishes like potato salad in miniature iron skillets.

Local ingredients and cooking in the old way star on the menu at Harper’s Table. He makes his own butter and buttermilk, ingredients that find their way into and onto steaming squares of golden, slightly sweet cornbread. He smokes meats and tomatoes. Trips to the farmer’s market snare seasonal produce for menu additions like butter beans made savory with a soak in a pork-scented pot liquor.

For $10, Bradshaw serves a juicy hamburger on brioche, made with red Angus beef from Windhaven Farm in Isle of Wight County. His inability to stop snacking on handsful of local raspberries prompted him to create a salad using the berries along with prosciutto from Windhaven and fresh goat cheese. On a plain white plate, colors combine with the effect of a scattering of gems, each ingredient allowed room to shine. Salty pork contrasts with the sweetness of the berries, and the creaminess of the cheese resets the palate for another bite. Chesapeake Bay flounder, seared outside, moist and flaky inside, comes with stone-ground grits, a broth rich with tomatoes, and baby okra, slender as a lady’s pinky finger.

Most of the menu items Bradshaw features describe in just a few words what a diner will be eating. He uses English words, even for French techniques like sous-vide, a kind of low-temperature slow braise that entered the popular gastronomic lexicon through television shows like Top Chef.

“American food has created enough of an identity for itself,” he says. The regional ingredients he cares for so deeply stand on their own in his dishes. American cooks once deemed sweet potatoes too dull to eat without a drift of marshmallows. Bradshaw puts them on the menu unadorned as “old myrtle sweet potatoes,” and serves them in cubes with greens under a massive pork steak. It’s a simple presentation with a technique refined to bring out the best in each ingredient.

The plain language underscores another part of Bradshaw’s restaurant recipe. Even more than he wants the food to be great, he wants people to be comfortable, to find such a gracious plenty of hospitality that eating there feels like eating at a good friend’s place. He dined at the French Laundry about eight years ago; it was his first four-star restaurant experience. Servers replaced toasted brioche after one bite because it was “better warm.” He ate caviar and chose from five types of salt, one from the ocean floor off the coast of Japan, to adorn his course of foie gras.

But even as the food dazzled him, the experience of dining in such a refined place intimidated him. “This is supposed to be fun,” he said. “Why am I so nervous? Why am I so stiff? Why am I wearing something I’m not comfortable in?”

On this Friday night, dinner hour brings sailors in blue camouflage, families with small kids, a man in pressed denims with a belt buckle like a tricycle tire, couples dressed in date night finery.

As guests get comfy out front, Bradshaw gets serious in the kitchen.

His favorite combinations play “fancy” against “down home” to stunning effect: one dish features lowly mackerel topped with crab. He presents seared foie gras with sauteed and fresh apples on a ribbon of sorghum. Smoky molasses acts as a foil for the richness of the foie gras. At $22 it’s the most expensive starter on the menu; nonetheless it sells well.

One dish offers a primer on Bradshaw’s style of cooking: Pork belly biscuits sit atop the menu for $3 each. “I think everyone should start with a pork belly biscuit,” he says. He loves biscuits, and pork belly speaks both to luxury and familiarity – it’s made from the same part of the pig as bacon, but it’s fresh rather than cured.

The biscuits arrive at the table piping hot, accompanied by a warm, salty aroma. Golden crust yields to a puffy, feathery-light biscuit. A crescent of thinly sliced Gala apple provides a snap of crispness before the fatty succulence of the pork belly. A hit of apple-onion butter adds a savory backnote.

It is Harper Bradshaw’s kitchen philosophy, layered on a sandwich: homey, fresh, local, decadent.

Inn At Perry Cabin

 

ST. MICHAELS, Maryland

by Kristen Davis
photography by Keith Lanpher

The Inn at Perry Cabin sprawls along the mouth of the Miles River, a stately colonial set amid gnarled old trees at the edge of the Town that Fooled the British two centuries ago.

Just how this Eastern Shore enclave outsmarted the Redcoats is not immediately obvious. The St. Michaels welcome sign that claims this distinction offers no detail. By the time

I have reached the far end of downtown’s Talbot Street, the Inn at Perry Cabin comes into view and takes hold of my attention entirely.

 The painted white inn looks as if it took root with the trees that tower over the property, and perhaps it did: The original columned manor house went up in 1816. More than 150 years later, a St. Michaels family turned Perry Cabin into a six-room hotel and restaurant; a decade ago, the inn’s most recent owner, Orient-Express Hotels, undertook a $17 million renovation that created the 78-room hotel, four-diamond restaurant and full-service spa rambling before me.

 Just a three-hour drive from Hampton Roads, this onetime shipping and shipbuilding community now attracts visitors with its charm – downtown streets lined with gift shops and antique stores, seafood-flavored restaurants and historic homes.

 The Inn at Perry Cabin sits on a grassy riverbank off Route 33.

A bricked, tree-lined drive leads visitors to the resort’s main entrance. Once you arrive, you won’t have to leave until the getaway ends – and chances are you won’t want to. The inn has two restaurants and a pub; the spa; and a library with shelves of old books and oversized furniture overlooking the river. Daily, there are activities like bocce ball and croquet; Sherwood’s Landing, the main restaurant, offers cooking demonstrations; and there’s afternoon tea in the Morning Room.

Nearly every hallway and corner offers a pair of chairs to sink into; nearly every shelf is filled with some special antique – Depression glass fills one built-in glass cabinet on a stair landing; a console table holds a giant model of the Amerigo Vespucci, a full-rigged, three-masted Italian ship built in 1930. Light pours in from endless windows, and the five working fireplaces make cold weather forgettable.

 I spend my first evening here unwinding with a pile of magazines on the balcony off my room, intermittently reading and raising my eyes to take in still water and graceful sailboats. I’ll soon be meeting my best friend, Jessica, here on this brisk autumn weekend for our fourth annual girls’ getaway – and what turns out to be the best yet.

We order room service Saturday morning, something simple     since we plan to indulge later: coffee and orange juice, pastries and fruit served on china with sea-green edges. The juice is fresh-squeezed, the pastries flaky, the fruit ample. We watch boats slip by while we eat, watch the sun rise high over the Miles River, a postcard-perfect view that is hard to take our eyes off of. But we want to explore the grounds and gardens, which are pretty even when many trees are bare. There’s a centuries-old holly tree that serves as St. Michaels’ official Christmas tree, magnolias, boxwood and towering pines. For now the vegetable garden lies dormant, but when spring arrives, rosemary, basil, eggplant, green peppers, tomatoes and more will flourish – and find their way onto the plates of restaurant guests.

 We begin our walk on the inn’s vast front lawn, where a stand of weeping willows spills tangles of branches from giant crowns and a few uninterested bees flitter around the apiary. We cross over Linden Tree Lane, where there’s a croquet lawn, a bocce ball court and a greenhouse; from here, a tree-lined path winds along the riverbank. All is silent except for gravel crunching under our feet and a cheerful hello called out by an inn employee who wants to know how we are enjoying our stay so far. Guests lounge in Adirondack chairs that overlook the water, and one couple, still in pajamas, eat breakfast at a table just outside their room.

 We could spend the rest of the day here, take kayaks out on the river or grab bicycles from the inn’s fleet or sink into the big furniture in the library with an old book. But we wander downtown instead, just an easy stroll from the inn, where the shops with their artful storefronts sell everything from antiques, toys and Christmas decor to furniture, art and knickknacks. Calico Toys & Games fills two floors on Talbot Street and every corner and cranny is crammed full of kid stuff. A Wish Called Wanda specializes in unique gifts and crafts by local artists. Old furniture, stained glass and decoys fill White Swan Antiques. At Silver Linings, a jewelry store, I find a blue crab pendant made from gemstones.

 Downtown St. Michaels offers at least half a dozen places to eat, and we ultimately settle on Big Pickle Food Bar for its quirky name and reasonably priced, wide-ranging menu: Fried pickles and fried chicken, crab soup and crab cakes, corned beef and pit beef. For lunch I get the crab cake sandwich, which comes with German-style potato salad. Jessica gets the pit beef sandwich, and it is piled so high that she needs a fork to eat it.

 By the time we leave, it is midafternoon, and we head to the centrally located Maritime Museum to catch a cruise on the passenger boat Patriot, which has plied these waters for nearly 45 years. Passengers get a narrated history lesson on the hourlong ride, and there’s a bar on the climate-controlled lower level. Soon after the Patriot departs, the narration begins, and we learn that the Algonquin Indians were this area’s first residents, long before there was even a Chesapeake Bay. They had all but vanished at the start of the American Revolution, when their successors made their living on the water – shipping, fishing, boatbuilding. The town might have disappeared altogether the night of August 10, 1813, had the townsfolk not fooled the attacking British by hanging their lanterns high in the treetops outside town. Only one building was struck when the British flung cannonballs from their ships – and no one died. The British had aimed for the light, and overshot the town.

This town is full of stories – of pirates and oystermen and the Underground Railroad, and out on the Chesapeake Bay estuary, where sailboats perch on the horizon like seabirds, they are easy to envision. Before we head back, the Patriot captain gives riders turns steering the boat. Jessica and I both give it a try. But it reminds me of when my mom would ask me to take the wheel of the car while she tended to something else, and I am petrified. The good-natured captain never takes his eyes off the water, though, and helps me steer safely around a sailboat.

An hour before dinner at Sherwood’s Landing, we get a drink at Purser’s Pub, just down the hallway from the four-diamond restaurant. The bar serves cocktails, wine, beer and signature coffee drinks from midafternoon to midnight. A wide, wood-burning fireplace puts off just the right amount of heat at the back of the cozy pub and there are lots of oyster tin from Quinby, Virginia; and a yellow and black can from Pocomoke Sound Oyster Company that once held one pound of “fresh oysters.”

 According to the inn, oyster companies were responding with a marketing campaign to bad press that followed the death in 1902 of a man in Atlantic City from tainted oysters. The massive campaign, aimed to convince wary consumers that oysters were plenty safe, included selling them in hermetically sealed cans kept on ice. Mermaids, maidens, schooners and sloops decorated the tins. The places to sit: a pair of facing leather loveseats, tables for two, deep wingback chairs, all arranged on dark hardwood floors. There’s also a big-screen TV closer to the bar, but we choose ambiance near the hearth. Two couples are celebrating wedding anniversaries. One group of guests is in town for a women’s conference.

 We enjoy our drinks – white wine and red – in two of the comfy chairs with a table between us. Prints of ships hang on white-paneled walls, and built-in shelves flank the fireplace. The shelves hold one of the Inn at Perry Cabin’s most special collections: antique oyster tins in a rainbow of colors. There’s the Montauk Saltwater Oyster tin painted in pretty red letters; a blue and white Quinby Brand campaign lasted for decades.

 A second celebrated collection – oyster plates – is on display at Sherwood’s Landing, where we settle for dinner after leaving Purser’s Pub. The plates came into fashion when oysters reigned king in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, according to the inn, and the delicacy was at its best “in their most natural form” – on the halfshell. But melting ice made a mess. Oyster plates remedied that and other issues. The porcelain plates set inside a curio at Sherwood’s Landing have gilded edges, dainty flower patterns and pretty scrollwork. Some are more elaborate than others; one is painted in soft shades of pink and trimmed in gold.

Soon after we are seated, we are offered a bread basket with the standard rolls and croissants – and seven-layer herb and cheddar muffins baked by Gustina Harmon. Miss Gussie, as she is affectionately called, has made these muffins here for the past 20 years. She is also responsible for the perfectly baked chocolate chip cookies we will find in our room later tonight, for the cornbread that comes with the oyster stew and for the baked goods served at tea time each afternoon in the Morning Room – tea breads, scones, cookies and pastries. The muffins are fluffy on the inside and packed full of flavor, thanks to Miss Gussie’s painstaking layering. When the bread basket comes around again, I will myself to say no thank you.

Sherwood’s Landing partners with local farms and watermen, and the menu indicates exactly where many of the selections came from: Jameson Farms rack of lamb, Brandt Farm beef tenderloin, and a beet and goat cheese salad featuring Everrona Farm goat cheese and arugula from the resort’s garden. If you can’t decide – and I almost can’t – there’s a chef tasting menu that lets you get a little bit of a lot.

I at last settle on farm-raised chicken and crepes with fried kale, and cheddar and bacon crepes in a mushroom maple broth. Jessica starts with oyster stew and the beet and goat cheese salad, and finishes up with sauteed sea scallops. Afterward, we choose a dessert called essences of strawberry shortcake: strawberry sorbet with vanilla sponge cake and Chantilly cream.

We’ll have to save Miss Gussie’s cookies for later.

Sunday is a day of leisure. We rise just early enough to amble over to Linden Spa, where you can take a yoga class, hop on an elliptical or meet with a certified personal trainer who will develop a fitness plan tailored for you. Or you can just get pampered. This is what we are here for.

Linden Spa offers more than a dozen facial and body treatments with names like Five Flower Solace, Body Dessert and Back to Vibrancy. We want massages. Within minutes of our arrival, we’re handed slippers and robes and sent to the relaxation room that overlooks a garden. We help ourselves to cucumber water, nuts and granola, and berries, then settle into reclining chairs until a pair of massage therapists retrieve us.

An hour later, the lingering tightness in my shoul-ders has vanished. There is time for one final meal here before checkout: a late breakfast on the patio. The canine-friendly Inn at Perry Cabin is hosting a dog show on the grounds later today, and people wander along the gleaming river with their pets. Deciding on a selection this morning is as challenging as dinner the night before. For me, it’s a toss-up between the bananas Foster waffle with bourbon maple caramel, bananas and pecans, and the French toast with Grand Marnier chantilly. I order the latter. Jessica gets the Perry Cabin benedict with jumbo lump crab, hollandaise, Virginia ham and grilled asparagus. It is, as with everything else here, delectable.

We sit in the sun as long as we can, watching the water and the time, steeling ourselves for a return to reality – made a little easier with Miss Gussie’s cookies.

Flavors of the Holidays

by Victoria Bourne | photography by Rich-Joseph Facun | illustrations by Walt Taylor | chalk art by Jordan Trotter

The appreciation of the holiday meal starts long before the table is set – first with the nose, then the eyes, and finally the tongue. When we have finished indulging, we have sated more than our appetites. Our souls are filled by family – relations of blood or our own making – celebrating bounty and love.  Here at Distinction we know what those who merely savor the meal may never realize: the joy of building the perfect menu. In that spirit, we bring you five holiday recipes from five wonderful local chefs.  Please, enjoy.

Serves 4-6

Ingredients

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 pound small cremini mushrooms

¾ cup thinly sliced shallots

2 cloves garlic, finely minced

1 pound whole chestnuts (from a jar or bag)

2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves

cup dry sherry

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 cup heavy cream

¼ cup chopped Italian parsley

 

Preparation

Melt butter in sauté pan over medium-high heat.

Add mushrooms and sauté till tender and browned.

Add shallots and garlic, and cook until shallots are softened.

Add chestnuts, thyme, dry sherry, and salt and pepper to taste. Cook until sherry is evaporated.

Add heavy cream; simmer until cream is thickened to a light sauce.

Re-season with salt and pepper, if needed. Garnish with parsley and serve.

Erick Heilig
Executive chef & owner
of Eat: An American Bistro
Virginia Beach

 For Erick Heilig, family holidays are a time of camaraderie, not obligation.
“A lot of families say they get together and they see people they don’t want to see,” Heilig says. “That’s not it at all with us. We’re always stoked about the food, and excited about seeing each other and hanging out.”  ”My favorite thing in the world is turkey. I love Thanksgiving turkey – it’s the highlight for me.”  Many dishes dot the holiday table: his mom’s stuffing, which is famous among his friends and frequent dinner companions; a creamed corn dish his sister can’t do without; and “over toasted” rolls, which manage to get burnt every single year, he says.
But the defining dish is his mom’s mushroom and chestnuts – “It’s so us,” he says.

Serves 8

“Start the recipe with the croutons first,” McGann says.  “Croutons, then sausage, then vegetables, then oysters and herbs.”

 Ingredients

Fresh Toasted Croutons

8 cups french bread, cubed (¾ inch)

and toasted

1 tablespoon olive or vegetable oil

½  teaspoon poultry seasoning

½ teaspoon kosher salt

Preparation

Preheat oven to 350 F.

In a large bowl, toss the bread cubes with olive oil, seasoning and salt, coating evenly. Toast the bread on a sheet pan for 12-14 minutes or until golden brown.  Set aside.

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive or vegetable oil

1 tablespoon minced garlic

1 cup onions, small dice

1½ cups celery, washed, peeled and medium-diced

½ cup fennel, medium dice

½ cup carrots, small dice

1 teaspoon kosher salt

Fresh ground pepper

1 pint oysters in their liquor (whole, shucked and chilled). McGann suggests Shooting Point Oyster Company from the Eastern Shore.

½ cup chicken stock, white wine, or some combination of both

½ cup chopped fresh herbs – use parsley, sage, thyme and rosemary

6 ounces Southern breakfast sausage, rendered (optional)

Fresh Toasted Croutons (recipe above)

½ stick salted butter, cubed

Preparation

Render the sausage in a skillet and set aside.

Preheat oven to 400 F .

Grease 9-by-13-inch glass or ceramic casserole dish at least 2 inches deep.

Heat the olive oil in a medium-wide sauce pan over medium-high heat.

Sauté the vegetables, stirring frequently, for 6-7 minutes until they are just soft. Season with salt and several turns of fresh-ground pepper.

Add oysters and liquor, plus chicken stock, wine or mixture. Simmer oysters on medium-high heat in stock until just cooked through – about 8-10 minutes.

Fold in herbs and let the mixture cool to room temperature.

In a mixing bowl large enough to hold all the ingredients, fold the wet mixture quickly in with Fresh Toasted Croutons, adding rendered sausage if desired.

Place in casserole dish and dot top with butter.

Bake for 35-40 minutes until golden brown. Keep warm until ready to serve.

Sam McGann
Executive chef & co-owner
of Blue Point Grill
Duck

For Sam McGann, holiday gatherings in the Norfolk home his grandfather built inspired a passion for Southern hospitality.
“I’ve always felt the most honest food you cook is the food you cook yourself at home – that either has memories from when you were growing up or something that you just do for your friends when you’re at home.”
His stuffing recipe originated as a whim-sical garnish for The Blue Point’s oyster stew, but it reminded him of those holiday gatherings in Norfolk. Its origins are traditional, but “the vegetables, the wine-poached oysters, the butter dolloped on top, the splash of stock of some sort adds a personal touch to it.” The fresh, just-toasted homemade
croutons make this stuffing special, he says. The delicate seasonings and the fresh herbs give a flavor profile that makes the difference in a personal sense, that this is “my stuffing,” and not a prepared one.

This recipe is written as a traditional baking recipe. Make sure you have an accurate kitchen scale.
Start sponge a day before making the kugelhopf.

Ingredients
SPONGE Grams Ounces
Bread flour 145 5.13
Water 87 3.08
Instant dry yeast pinch pinch
Total 233 8.21
Mix ingredients until incorporated. Let sit covered overnight at room temperature, preferably in a glass bowl.

Final Dough                                                          Grams                           Ounces
Bread flour                                                            400                                14.11
Cold milk                                                                61                                    2.15
Cold eggs                                                                102                                 3.60 = 2 large eggs
Granulated sugar                                                22                                   0.77
Salt                                                                          12                                    0.42
Instant dry yeast                                                 3                                      0.10
Sponge                                                                     233                                 8.21
Butter at room temperature                            117                                  4.12
Ham/prosciutto – diced                                     146                                 5.15
Shallots – small dice                                           146                                 5.15
Fresh minced parsley                                         9                                      0.32
Swiss/Gruyere cheese – shredded                  146                                  0.52
Total                                                                        1,397                             49.2

Preparation
Put sponge, milk and eggs into the bowl of a mixer with a dough hook. Add flour, sugar, salt, yeast and butter. Mix on low speed until ingredients are well incorporated, about 1-2 minutes. Stop the mixer and scrape down the sides of the bowl if necessary. Mix on medium until the dough comes together in a smooth mass, about 10-12 minutes. If the dough does not come together around hook within 3 minutes, slowly sprinkle with flour until it does. Return the mixer to low speed and add in ham/prosciutto, shallots, parsley and cheese. Mix until incorporated. Remove dough from the bowl and turn out onto a lightly floured surface and form into a ball. Place into an oiled bowl and cover with a towel or plastic wrap and let rest for 20-30 minutes.
Press the dough lightly to de-gas and form into a ball again. Use your fingers to open a hole in the middle of the ball large enough to fit over the cone/center of the kugelhopf/bundt pan.

Place the dough into a sprayed kugelhopf/bundt pan and let rise covered in a cool place for 1-1½ hours.

Preheat convection oven to 335 F, a standard oven to 375. Bake for 30 minutes (convection), 40 (standard). Remove from oven, invert onto a cooling rack and remove the pan. Brush with melted clarified butter or sprinkle with shredded cheese and place under broiler until cheese melts, being careful not to burn the kugelhopf.

Alternate recipe, for 11 individual “muffins”
Preheat oven to 335 F (convection) or 375 F (standard). Divide the dough into 11 equal pieces of 4.5 ounces (125 grams) and lightly ball. Place balls on a floured surface and cover with a towel to rest (20-30 minutes). De-gas balls; shape into balls again and place into greased muffin tins. Let rise for
1-1½ hours. Top with shredded cheese and bake 25 minutes. Once cooled, remove from pan and serve.

Georg Seyrlehner
Baker & c0-owner
of Artisans Bakery & Cafe
Olde Towne Portsmouth

Born to German and Austrian parents, baker Georg Seyrlehner (pronounced “Sire-liner”) fondly recalls large, Europe-infused holiday gatherings that reflected New and Old World traditions.
“As a typical German family, we would celebrate Christmas on the 24th. It was always a big dinner,” he says, and his grandmother was often at the helm.
Alongside ham and turkey, there was koteletten (pork cutlet with fried onions); varenyky (dumplings stuffed with meat, cheese or sauerkraut); rouladen (a meat roll with filling); and a fish dish of orange roughy.
“It was always about people coming together around the table,” he says – slowing down, catching up, just visiting.
Seyrlehner’s savory kugelhopf recipe is inspired by a sweet kugelhopf made by an Austrian relative for special occasions. His version is more breadlike than its marble cake cousin, and can be served with a holiday meal, he says – if it makes it to the table.
“It is too darn easy to snack on.”

Yields a dozen 3-inch cake pans with removable bottoms or one casserole dish lined with Meers’ Simple Sugar Dough (recipe follows).

Ingredients
3 large or 4 medium sweet potatoes, Beauregard orange
1 tablespoon sea salt
2 teaspoons ground black pepper
4 ounces butter, unsalted
3 ounces white sugar
3 ounces light brown sugar
3 extra-large eggs
1 ounce sweet bourbon
(like Ancient Age, 12 year)
4 ounces tart dried cherries

Pecan Topping
6 ounces chopped pecans
3 ounces light brown sugar
4 ounces unsalted butter, softened

Preparation
Preheat oven: Convection to 300 F or still oven to 350 F. Line the pan. You can use butter and sprinkle some crushed pecan or granulated sugar and dust like when dressing a cake pan with flour, or use his Simple Sugar Dough.
Peel and cut sweet potatoes into 1-inch pieces, toss with salt and pepper, and place in a sauté pan or stock pot. Barely cover with water. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and cover.
Soak cherries in bourbon that’s been warmed in the microwave for 40 seconds (or brought to a boil on stove top).
When the sweet potatoes are fork tender, drain the pot. Add butter, white sugar and brown sugar to potatoes while they’re hot. Using a hand masher or food processor, blend to smooth.
Beat eggs until light and pulled together, then stir into sweet potato mixture until blended well.
Stir/fold the bourbon cherry mixture into the sweet potato mixture and place in preferred cooking pan.
Mix pecans, brown sugar and butter and spread on top of casserole.

Bake 20 minutes in a convection oven or 35 in a still oven. Let rest for 20 minutes. Eat now or let cool completely. Don’t refrigerate.

Syd’s Simple Sugar Dough
This recipe is written for a mixer but can also be done by hand.
1 pound unsalted butter
1 cup white sugar
6 cups pastry or all-purpose flour

Preparation
Cream butter and sugar together on high speed until soft and sugar begins to dissolve a bit. Stop mixer and scrape down sides.
Add flour all at once. Mix at the lowest speed until it just pulls together – don’t over-mix. Dough is now ready to use and will have to be patted out; it’s too rich in butter and doesn’t have the structure to be a roll-out dough. When patting out, the dough should follow the shape of the pan and only be 1/4 inch thick. If thinner it won’t hold together; any thicker and you’re eating a brick.

Sydney Meers
Chef & owner of Stove
Portsmouth

For Sydney Meers, holidays in his rural Mississippi home were made from scratch.
As Thanksgiving approached, he says, his mother and grandmother would go and shoot down mistletoe out of trees. “They would get pine cones and pine needles and they would decorate  fireplace mantels and all around the house so we knew it was holiday time,” he says.
They’d shoot their own turkey, too, and right before Christmas, his grandmother would get busy baking pies.
“Where we were, sweet potato pie you didn’t make,” says Meers. “That was always a casserole.” His grandmother’s recipe included cherries soaked in mystery liqueur from her “private stock under the sink,” he says. Meers uses whiskey that, if time allows, he boils on the stove. When the heat is turned off, what’s left behind is a syrup that’s oaky, sweet, slightly alcoholic – and divine.

Serves 6
Ingredients
6 egg yolks
1 whole egg
6 ounces sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ quart heavy cream
1 cup pumpkin pack
5 ounces white chocolate

Preparation
Preheat oven to 325 F.
Whisk eggs and sugar into a bowl until the sugar dissolves and the mixture starts to lighten in color.
Add vanilla and heavy cream, and whisk together.
Add pumpkin and whisk until smooth.
Melt white chocolate in a metal bowl over a pan of simmering water. When chocolate has melted, pour brûlée mixture into it and whisk thoroughly.

Pour into desired ramekin molds and bake in a water bath until the custard sets – usually about 45 minutes, depending on the depth of the ramekin. The water bath is very important; “otherwise you’re going to end up with sweet scrambled eggs,” Williams says. Water in the bath should come three-fourths of the way up the mold.
After cooling, the brûlée should be left in the fridge for 1 to 2 hours before bringing out to sugar and torch. A bonus: It can be made in the morning and refrigerated until ready to serve after dinner.

When ready to serve, cover the custard evenly with a generous amount of granulated (white) sugar. Shake off excess and carefully torch until the sugar darkens and forms a glaze. You can also freestyle a bit, he says – in the past he has added cranberries or strawberries as a garnish.

Alvin Williams
Executive chef & co-owner
of Cobalt Grille
Virginia Beach

Alvin Williams remembers his parents cooking every day during his childhood in Leeds, England.
At Christmastime, Williams’ favorite was a plum pudding and white sauce, plus a morning meal of Caribbean flavors honoring their Jamaican heritage. “They’d always have a big breakfast with ackee and salt fish,” he says, as well as “callaloo, which is somewhat similar to spinach, and fried dumplings.”
Though roast turkey and roasted potatoes are commonalities between Williams’ upbringing and his adopted American home, pumpkin pie was not, he says. He created his creme brûlée recipe at Cobalt a few years ago, bringing European flair to a classic dish.
“It’s light and creamy, full of pumpkin and holiday flavor,” he says. “You get a little extra sweetness because of the white chocolate.”
“It’s ‘more-ish,’” he adds. “You always want a little bit more.”

 

Zushi

by Janine Latus
photography by Keith Lanpher
Kevin Chang’s yanagi slide-slices through the fish’s flesh, its blade gliding through geological layers of fat and muscle so alive they’re still swimming. The knife shepherds the sashimi to the side; then Chang lifts it with metal chopsticks to array it on the tray. If he touches it with his hands the warmth from his fingers might change the temperature of the fish and thus its texture and flavor.

Sashimi is raw fish, unadorned, the tuna deep pink and buttery; the flounder white, thin-cut and chewy; the salmon orange and marbled with fat; the yellowtail a delicate pink and mild; the octopus white and ridged with the stubs of suckers, resistant to the teeth. Between are mountains of grated dalkon radish topped with parsley; the rectangular glass plate has ruby edges.

Chang’s eyes crinkle as his customers admire. Then his hands are back in motion, sliding open the cooler case, pulling out a slab of pink flesh or white, marbled or suckered or smooth. He closes the case, hand always stopping the door and bringing it to a gentle rest. Each movement is efficient, each recognizes the delicacy of the flesh in front of him. The knife slides, heel to tip; it does not jiggle or jerk or saw. Chang builds his tray of mountain, valley and stream, something peaked, something low, the plate itself the stream, so that the patron’s eye travels a landscape.

“You eat with your eyes first,” he says.

The meal here at his restaurant is slow, orchestrated for color and taste. First the sashimi, then the nigiri, then the rolls. Mild first, spicier later.

Chang slices a piece from a flounder belly fillet, turns it three times with the tips of his fingers, looking for the line of the muscle just as you might with a cut of beef. His knife slides, then he sets it down gently and claps once with cupped palms, knocking off any moisture that might make the rice disintegrate.

“We tell customers we are applauding ourselves,” he says.

With one hand he scoops from the steamer of rice, 12 cups for every shift, and forms a ball that holds together just enough to stay intact from tray to mouth and then to collapse, releasing flavor onto the tongue. In the beginning he practiced as he drove, as he watched TV, squeezing rice into mouthfuls, training his muscles to make each one just so. Now, after 20 years, he can customize, a tighter one for the client who clenches with his chopsticks, a looser one for the woman who holds hers as if each bite were glass.

Sushi rice is not sticky rice but short-grain, seasoned here at Zushi with a touch of sugar and salt. It will never be fluffy like the long-grain that Americans tend to eat at home. In Korea and Japan it is eaten with every meal. “It is our bread,” Chang says.

With his right hand he squeezes another rice ball, his eyes roving over his customers. With his left he drapes the piece of white fish over the rice, then with his metal chopsticks he crosses it with the thinnest line of scallion before lowering it to the getta in front of the customer.

This piece of nigiri is topped, so the educated customer knows not to dip it in sauce. The chef has made this bite specifically for her, knowing what she ate last time, what she lingered over, what made her savor.

He gives his smallest version of a smile as she chews, her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk’s and her eyes closed in pleasure. Next for her he chooses a rectangular tray and lays out four perfect pieces of tuna. With a blowtorch he sears them until the tops are barely browned. To that he adds olive oil, a touch of the citrus soy sauce called ponzu, a teaspoon of capers, and slivers of red onion and oba shiso, a minty herb.

He rings a bell and a waiter moves the tray from Chang to the customer. This is ceremony, ritual, performance art. Chang, chef-owner of Zushi – in Virginia Beach’s Town Center – trained under the master chef Sota, head chef of Nakimoto’s in Texas, a perfectionist in the oldest traditions of the art. As with the biblical story that to truly serve you must first wash feet, so to be a sushi master you must first wash dishes.

“You must know how to care for that plate,” Chang says. “My teacher would tell us ‘The plate is your canvas’ and in the traditional way the canvas must be clean. You can’t just scrub it. You soak it and you wipe it gently.
Everything is gently.”

Sota was watching. He saw how quickly Chang moved. He saw him jump
to help his co-workers. He saw his small, quick hands and he chose him to handle the fish.

“My teacher used to say ‘Big hands are for hammering,’” Chang says. “You must have small hands for sushi.”

Sota’s restaurant was in Plano, right outside Dallas. No water, no fish anywhere. So every day Chang or a co-worker would drive to the Dallas-Fort Worth airport to wait.

“Just like waiting for a person to come in from Tokyo, you get delays,” he says, “but also you get to meet other sushi chefs.”

They would talk about the fish, they would talk about their customers. When he’d get back to the restaurant and open the box everyone would crowd in, excited. He still gets that feeling today.

“I can be in a very bad mood and then see a nice fish and it is like Jekyll and Hyde,” he says. “I am instantly happy.”

He learned to store the fish as it swims – upright for the ones that swim upright, on their back for fish like flounder so that the belly fillets don’t bruise.

He learned to use tweezers to pick out bones, to scale gently and to use his debba to skin the delicate flounder. He learned to make sure the sushi graders had slit behind the gill and above the tail to drain the blood that would make the fish unfit for sushi, and to reject fish with the bruises some get when they’re dragged in a net or allowed to flop around in the bottom of a boat. He learned to gauge freshness by pressing on the flesh with a finger.

“If it’s alive it bounces back,” he says. “If it’s dead it indents, and then it has to go back to the kitchen and be cooked.”

Finally he learned to slide his knife, its blade flat on one side and beveled on the other, smoothly, heel-to-tip through the meat, each slice just thin or thick enough.

“The Japanese make it very easy,” he says. The knife is single-edged. Used properly it is like a slicer at the deli counter, the angle of the chef’s hand determining the thickness of the cut. Do it right and the fish believes it’s still alive. Saw at it and the fish you leave behind flakes apart and too soon is relegated to the kitchen. But even Chang’s cooked fish is sushi-quality.

It took two years of long, painstaking days before Sota said, “It is time for you to make tamago,” the custardlike egg roll that is a test of a sushi chef’s touch and patience. It is made in a square pan over a burner; make a layer, push it back, add a layer, push it back. Layer after layer after layer.

“When they teach you this they’re saying you’re ready to go now,” Chang says.

And he did.

To New York and New Jersey, Massachusetts and Puerto Rico and Florida, and finally to Virginia Beach, where he was opening chef for Sumo Japanese Steak House and Sushi Bar. In 1999 he bought the Nara Sushi Restaurant and in 2005 he sold his share in that and opened Zushi.

Hello!” he says, as a customer walks through the door. “Welcome.” In front of him are six chairs for six patrons for whom he will create an arc of flavors and textures, the plates spotless and carefully selected, a higher edge for nigiri with sauce, a broader one for fish that needs a frame. Dots of ponzu or teriyaki or soy sauce and morsels of pickled onion or minty basil are chosen for each cut, each palate. He memorizes what people eat, where they linger, whether they’re kosher or gluten intolerant, what makes them moan or exclaim.

He wipes, wipes, wipes a plate.

He is a sushi bartender, constantly watching his clients to see if they need more wasabi, more ginger.  He speaks in Japanese, and in moments the waiter brings fresh tea or a cool glass of wine. He speaks again – “Oh-ah-ee-so” – and the bill appears.

“He’s got a real passion for the culinary arts,” says Todd Jurich, chef-owner of a bistro in Norfolk and the man Chang calls his local hero. “It’s like a Cheers mentality, where you cultivate a clientele and you know who likes the uni, so you know to have that on hand on Wednesdays, when that customer usually comes in.”

In the mornings, Chang opens his cooler case and says, “Morning, ladies.” His eyes sweep over each fish.

“Sometimes there is someone who has had a bad night, someone who isn’t feeling well. Or sometimes everybody’s doing fine.”

He presses one to see if it is still alive.

“If the fish is taken care of properly it cooperates with you when you’re serving customer,” he says. “It sticks nicely to rice, lays nicely. It feels so nice to serve to customer.”

Chang gets the thrill of new shipments every three days, most from the Japanese distributor True World Seafood, which has been selecting fish for him for 20 years, but now some of his best whitefish comes from George Georgiades at George’s Seafood in Norfolk.

“He calls me and says, ‘Kevin, I have you a fish here,’ and I’ll go down and look,” Chang says. “He sells it to me and then he comes to my restaurant to eat it.” He laughs. “He knows the quality of the fish and he knows I will prepare it the way he likes it.”

As with all art or craft, the tools matter, and they’re expensive. Knives run from $200 to $15,000. The yanagi Chang uses was a gift from his wife, made for him by a knifemaker in Japan and inscribed with both Chang’s name and that of the artisan.

In the kitchen he has an 800-grit stone for shaping, a 1,200- for sharpening, and a 2,000-grit, almost as smooth as leather, for making the knife shine. It’s the 2,000 he uses each morning, honing his knife, examining his fish.

At the bar, his eyes sweep over his six customers. A  woman in front of him is slowing down, clearly nearly done, and his hands move once again, cutting a piece of smoked freshwater eel – boneless as Americans prefer – and draping it over the rice. He gives it the thinnest brush of teriyaki  – vegetarian because he doesn’t mix flesh from land and sea – and places it on the getta. The bite is warm and sweet and buttery, a blend of fish and rice and sauce. It melts and explodes in the mouth. He knows this. He gives his customer a moment of silence as she savors, eyes closed, eyebrows high, head sweeping side to side. When she is still he gives the slightest of nods and his hands move again, slicing off just a bite of his signature tamago and placing it on the getta, its sweet, eggy taste the gentle finale to Chang’s symphony of tastes.

A sushi glossary

Foods
Aburi – slightly seared fish
Nigiri – fish over rice, what most think of as sushi.
Sashimi – raw fish of any kind.
Oba shiso – a member of the mint family perilla
Kappa maki – traditional Japanese cucumber roll
Tekka maki – traditional Japanese tuna roll
Futo maki – big, picnic food roll with fish and vegetables and sometimes tamago.
Tamago – custardlike egg roll.
Omagaze – Japanese prix fixe dinner; here you tell the chef, “You know what I like; please, feed me what you wish.”

Tools
Getta – the wooden tray that looks like a samurai’s sandal. The sushi chef places it in front of you and then places pieces of nigiri on it, one at a time, pacing the arc of your meal.
Yanagi – long-bladed sushi knife
Debba – fillet knife
Usuba – square-ended vegetable knife

Etiquette: Sushi dos and don’ts

The etiquette of sushi dining is delicate, even ceremonial, a dance between the authority and expertise of the sushi chef and the tastes of his diners.

Don’t dunk the rice side of a piece of nigiri into soy sauce. The rice acts like a sponge, soaking up so much sauce that you lose the flavor of the fish.

Do turn it over and touch the fish into the sauce.

Don’t dunk any nigiri that has a topping; the chef has created that blend of flavors and textures for you.

Don’t take the getta (tray) off the counter and thus out of the chef’s reach; take only the sushi. The chef is watching what you need and providing the next taste. Consider him a sushi bartender.

Do pick up nigiri with your fingers, rather than with chopsticks.

Do eat ginger between courses to clear your palate.

Don’t bite nigiri or rolls. It doesn’t matter if you look like a chipmunk as you chew; the chef has crafted the perfect mouthful for you, right down to the size of the bite.

Do slow down. Savor the texture of the rice, the saltiness of the fish, the tang of the toppings.

Do sit at the bar. Come back. Sit with the same chef. Let him learn and lead your palate.

Don’t order roll after roll. “The main purpose of eating sushi is well-being, and it’s deplorable to see some clients just eating fried rolls,” Kevin Chang says. “It defeats the purpose.”

The Picket Fence at Six

The Sweet Taste of Spring

by Kim O’Brien Root
photography by Keith Lanpher

The name itself invokes feelings of springtime.

Picket Fence – a cocktail offered by tapas restaurant Six in the Hampton community of Phoebus – is a light, crisp concoction that brings to mind green grass, picnics and wide-brimmed hats.

The name came in a dream to bartender Stephanie Rolla, who spent a few weeks perfecting her creation. Muddled apples and basil combine with Hendrick’s gin, and elderflower and French ginger liqueurs, while a splash of ginger ale adds a bit of fizz.

Colored the lightest of greens, Picket Fence lingers on the tongue – sweet and tart at the same time. The Hendrick’s adds hints of juniper, citrus, coriander, even cucumber.

The drink is one of the latest in the lineup at the restaurant, a sister to Crackers and Empire in Norfolk, and named for its address on East Mellen Street. It also takes some time to prepare. But as Rolla puts it: “Don’t you want something to your drink?”

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