Standing at the window on her farm in Waldoboro, Maine, Allison Lakin watches her three Jersey bull calves—Frick, Frack, and Artie—play among a flock of starlings and butterflies on a grassy pasture nearby. It’s a Wednesday afternoon in September, and Lakin, owner of Lakin’s Gorges Cheese, is waiting for her pasteurization machine to reach the right temperature so she can get to work on her award-winning Rockweed and Cascadilla Bleu cheeses. Right now, though, the calves are keeping her entertained. 

“They’re being so funny today,” she laughs, noting how they keep sticking their snouts in the dirt, playing peek-a-boo with the starlings. The scene sounds straight out of a Walt Disney movie, but there’s not much of a happy ending to this story. A few months from now, the trio of boisterous bovines will be sent off for processing and sold at Lakin’s farmstand as rose veal. As a cheesemaker, Lakin says she has always struggled with this part. The sad fact is that male calves are of little use to dairy farmers. They might keep one or two for breeding, but the rest, well, what can you do? Lakin doesn’t have the room nor the budget to raise the calves to adulthood for beef.

The way she sees it, though, this is simply a part of the holistic farming she and her husband, Neal, have embraced since opening their cheese-making business in 2011. Knowing their calves are being raised cruelty-free for rose veal, instead of the pale-white industrial stuff, gives her peace of mind.

If you’ve never heard of rose veal, you’re not alone. While it’s been widely known in Europe for years, it hasn’t made much of an impact here in the United States. Unlike traditional veal, which is often processed when calves are about six months old and weigh around 500 pounds, rose veal calves are processed at anywhere from eight months to a year, and weigh 600 to 1,500 pounds. Additionally, and crucially, rose veal calves are not confined to crates. They live their happy, albeit short, lives with their mothers on pastures eating a diet of milk, grass, and sometimes grain. While rose veal is darker than traditional veal—a product of a nutritious diet and active life—its beef flavor is almost as mild, the meat as tender as can be.

By these standards, rose veal should have great appeal to ethically minded consumers, but a stigma still surrounds it: After the Portland Press Herald wrote a story about Lakin’s rose veal program in 2017, she received pushback from the community, including hate mail and protesters showing up at her farm. This, despite the fact that the veal Lakin sells might be some of the most ethically and sustainably produced meat a conscientious eater could hope to find. Purchasing ethically sourced veal like Lakin’s might also increase demand, helping tip the broader dairy and veal industries toward more ethical practices overall. As a thoughtful consumer of meat and cheese, one might even consider it a responsibility to eat rose veal.

To animal rights activists, veal has long been the dirty little secret of the dairy industry. It can be a sticky point to the average omnivore, too. Images spring to mind of sickly calves torn from their mothers and tethered in crates, force-fed a diet of hormones and antibiotics just to sustain their short, miserable lives. When I mentioned to a friend a veal dish I tried while researching this story, his response wasn’t surprising: “Could you taste the torture?” he asked. 

And yet veal is a necessary fact of our consumption of dairy. Female cows must bear calves in order to produce milk. Female calves can be raised as dairy cows, but most male calves born on dairy farms are regarded as surplus. Many are sold to feedlots just days after birth, where they will be raised for beef or veal. To meet the current demands of the American dairy industry, as problematic as it may be, it would be impossible to raise every single male calf to adulthood; the land and economy could simply not sustain it. And so there is veal. 

Few meat-eaters balk at consuming other young animals like they do at calves—lambs and pigs, for example, are also generally slaughtered before they’re a year old. So how did veal come to earn its awful reputation? According to a 1985 article in the New York Daily News, “originally veal calves were raised in pastures with their mothers and their diet was milk and grass. Chefs looked for a pale color to make sure the veal was from a young calf, instead of the red beef from a more mature animal.” 

But, in the 1950s, veal producers figured out they could get a perfectly pale-colored meat from older animals if, according to  the Daily News, “the mature, heavier animals were made anemic on a diet low in iron. To decrease labor costs, these calves are kept indoors in slat-floored narrow crates, continuous confinement that leads to chronic stress requiring medication.” Preventing the calves from moving atrophied their muscles, ensuring a tender meat. 

The tides shifted slightly in 1985, when word started circulating about something called Rambling Rose veal, a brand of grass-fed, free-range veal developed as a partnership between dairy farmers and a Chicago non-profit organization called the Food Animals Concern Trust (FACT). Formed in 1983 by the late animal rights activist Robert A. Brown, FACT was designed to prevent cruelty to animals used in food production. While a small number of chefs introduced Rambling Rose veal to their customers as a more ethically raised option in the mid-1980s, the program proved little more than a trend, and the Rambling Rose Brand trademark was retired in the early 1990s. 

Traditional veal is still a thorny issue worldwide, though some progress has been made. The United Kingdom banned veal crates in 1990 and the European Union followed around 2006, but many European animal activists remain concerned about living conditions and diet. 

In the U.S., several states have enacted veal crate bans that, according to the USDA, affect about 13 percent of the country’s veal production. The American Veal Association (AVA), which represents about 400 farmers, companies, and processors involved in veal production, has rolled out new ethical commitments over the years to address consumer concerns regarding  mistreatment, including crate bans. Instead, calves reside in “group homes” inside open-air barns. According to the AVA’s website, practices such as castration, dehorning, tail docking, and tethers are not practiced on AVA member farms.

One might ask: Is there still a market for veal at all? I recently posed this question to my local butcher, Len Bleh, who owns Avril-Bleh Meats, a 130-year-old butcher shop in Cincinnati. In recent years, Bleh told me, most of his customers who buy veal are aged 60 or older. That tracks with national trends: According to the USDA’s Economic Research Service, Americans consumed only 0.3 pounds of veal per person annually in 2008, the last year figures were available. In 1944 it was 8.6 pounds per person. The last year Americans ate more than one pound of veal per person was 1988.

But demand for veal—and particularly rose veal—is showing signs of growth. That is thanks almost entirely to Mary Berry, daughter of Wendell Berry, the acclaimed writer, farmer, and conservationist, and one of the most famous proselytizers of ethically raised, sustainable food. In 2017, Mary Berry, with the support of her father, started Our Home Place Meat, a co-operative of small cattle farmers in Henry County, Kentucky, which might just be the current rose veal capital of America. 

Our Home Place is part of the Berry Center, which seeks to put Wendell Berry’s writings to work by advocating for farmers, land-conserving communities, and healthy regional economies. The veal Our Home Place promotes doesn’t come from the dairy industry, but from Kentucky’s beef cattle industry. Selling veal calves directly to Our Home Place has given small cattle farmers a chance to put young calves to market without spending money on the out-of-state feedlots they once relied on to fatten their cows before processing. Instead, the calves are born, raised, and processed in Kentucky. 

The program guarantees farmers receive a set price for their calves, despite market fluctuations, as long as they are raised by standards that take the animal’s welfare into account. It is loosely based on the Burley Tobacco Growers Co-Op, founded in 1941 by Mary Berry’s grandfather, John Berry Sr., which established parity pricing for tobacco so local farmers would no longer be gouged by the American Tobacco Company. 

I drove to New Castle, Kentucky, to meet with Mary Berry, and to learn more about her efforts to promote rose veal as an ethical and sustainable meat. We met at New Castle Tavern, a neighborhood spot where I ordered what I can honestly say was one of the best cheeseburgers I’ve ever eaten. A burger, I later learned, made with ground rose veal. 

In Kentucky, Mary Berry explained, calves typically stay with their mothers for six months until they’re weaned and shipped off to feedlots. “With rose veal,” she said, “you take the calf at weaning and harvest it then. For a farmer, that’s great, because you don’t have to carry those calves through winter. The only thing on your farm year-long are mama cows. You don’t need any more facilities, and you aren’t feeding the [younger cows] anything but grass.” By doing this, Our Home Place aims to cut out the need for industrial feedlots, allowing farmers to sustain their animals on their own land. Participating farmers must allow the calves to be pasture-raised with their mothers on a strict diet of milk and grass (no grain).

According to Bob Perry, who teaches sustainable agriculture and food systems at the University of Kentucky in Lexington, the rose veal produced through this program “is the most sustainably produced red meat possible.” But is sustainability enough to remove the decades-old stain from the American veal industry?

For farmer Clint Woods, it’s also a matter of livelihood. Woods has known the Berry family for most of his life: He went to school with Mary’s daughter and was part of Our Home Place’s pilot program in 2017. Since then, Woods and his wife, Alicia, have put about 80 yearlings through the rose veal program. He said he appreciates the financial certainty, as well as the center’s efforts to familiarize consumers of rose veal with the farmers who raise it. 

“People will spend a couple extra dollars if they can see who [the veal] is coming from,” he said. I asked him how much the program was helping him to make ends meet. “I wouldn’t call it a home run,” he answered, “but it helped, for sure. I don’t know if it will solve everything. Sometimes you look at a big problem and you want to have big solutions, where a million little solutions is what’s needed.”

Recipes

Rose Veal Grillades and Grits

Get the recipe > 

Vitello Tonnato

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Rose Veal Meatballs with Yellow Tomato Butter

Get the recipe >

Rose Veal Paprikash

Get the recipe >

The post Veal’s Reputation Is Complicated—And Worth Reassessing appeared first on Saveur.

It was 2013 when Ohio-based chef Justin Dean sent a congratulatory note, via Facebook, to Cincinnati’s MadTree Brewing. The fledgling operation had just released its first batch of beer, and Dean, always a stickler for sustainability, also had a question: What were they planning to do with their spent grains? The answer, as he expected, was to throw them out.

Dean had a better idea. He’d ferment the stuff, then age it in oak barrels to create a totally unique malt vinegar. He next joined forces with local farmer Richard Stewart, an equally environmentally minded type who’d made the switch from commercial crops to native produce a few years back, and MadHouse Vinegar Co. (starting at $12 for a 12.7-ounce bottle) was born.

The “mad,” of course, comes from that first distillery; “house” is an homage to Stewart’s 165-year-old Carriage House Farm in North Bend, Ohio, about 20 miles north of Cincinnati. It’s here, in an aromatic facility on the property that doubles as both farm stand and laboratory, that Dean and Stewart test the limits of what ingredients make for a good vinegar. In their alchemy, they’ve incorporated byproducts from local coffee roasters, wineries, an Amish syrup producer, and even a Cincinnati candy company with a surplus of peppermint sticks, all with surprising results. Beyond the malt-based elixirs, MadHouse also produces versions made with locally grown sweet corn and peaches, as well as foraged ingredients such as ramps, spicebush, persimmons, and papaws. These small-batch vinegars show up at some of the area’s best restaurants.

My wife and I favor the ramp vinegar, using it in barbecue sauces and salad dressings. Every now and then, though, I’ll take just a hit of the stuff as an afternoon pick-me-up in these troubled times. Sure, it stings some going down, but it’s also a not-so-subtle reminder of the culinary wonders of the Ohio Valley, and of the resourcefulness of its citizens.

The post When Food Waste Turns Sour, MadHouse Vinegar Co. Takes Over appeared first on Saveur.

As we sampled wonderful potato chip flavors from around the world, we realized one of our favorites hails from right here in the USA—barbecue. In fact, we adore barbecue chips’ smoky, tangy flavors so much that we decided to make a batch of our own, using a simple mixture that combines classic barbecue sauce spices, like chili powder, garlic powder and onion powder, with the added kick of cayenne pepper. The beauty of making barbecue chips yourself is that you can alter the amount of heat, spice, or saltiness, depending on your own preferences. Here’s our foolproof recipe: First, peel and uniformly slice 3 russet potatoes lengthwise so they’re about 1/16″ thick; place them in a bowl of ice water for 30 minutes. Drain potatoes; spread out on paper towels to dry. Meanwhile, in a bowl, mix together 1 tbsp. each chili powder and paprika; ½ tbsp. each sugar, ground mustard, garlic power, and onion powder; and ½ tsp. each cayenne, ground cumin, and ground black pepper; set aside. Next, pour canola oil into a 6-qt. saucepan to a depth of 2″ and heat over medium-high heat to 325°. Working in batches, fry potatoes until golden and crisp, 3-5 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer to a paper towel-lined bowl; season with kosher salt to taste and toss with spices.

The post Fresh from the Fryer appeared first on Saveur.

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Esse turducken beef, in in meatloaf filet mignon aliquip dolore ribeye. Quis cupidatat do laborum exercitation tempor cow ex et frankfurter enim dolore id pastrami. Andouille hamburger est sed rump shank. Consectetur ut pork chop dolore id sausage. Dolore doner t-bone shank, fugiat dolor sint.

Villa Mosconi
69 MacDougal St.
New York, NY 10012
212/674-0320

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About a month after I started working at saveur, an e-mail went out to the staff regarding a story on Neapolitan pizza slated for May. A writer had yet to be assigned; we needed one fast. As I searched my memory for suitable candidates, one kept popping up—me. Taking a chance, I typed: “As a person of Neapolitan heritage who’s been dying to return to Naples, I would love to go.” Moments later I got the response I was hoping for from executive editor Betsy Andrews. “You’re on, man.”

I was excited. Very excited. My mom’s family comes from Naples. And the best pizzas I’ve ever tasted were the ones I devoured there while backpacking through Italy in my 20s. Still, just moments after landing the assignment, my excitement gave way to an unexpected feeling of, well, fear.

This, after all, would be my first feature story for a magazine I’d been in awe of for ages. There were giant shoes to fill, most of all those of my coworkers, who had written and edited so many of the beautiful articles I’d read as a subscriber. A lot of questions remained unanswered, too. With my limited grasp of Italian, who would translate? How would I navigate a city that, from what I recalled, could be so chaotic? Who would tell me where to go?

Lucky for me I didn’t embark on this journey alone. Executive food editor Todd Coleman, a man as familiar with traveling abroad as I am with the New York City subway system, came along, providing remarkable photography for the article (“The Gold of Naples,” page 38). Todd, who’s also written some spectacular stories, showed me the ropes of reporting overseas, the key lessons being to overcome jet lag quickly, hit the ground running, and maintain a tight itinerary while allowing for unexpected discoveries. It was hard keeping up with him, but I did my best, fueled on pizza, espresso, and, once the day was done, a Peroni or two.

Of course, both Todd and I would have been lost without Roberto Caporuscio. A native of Campania who trained in Naples’ famous pizzerias and now owns two of his own (Keste and Don Antonio by Starita in Manhattan), Roberto provided excellent translation and introduced us to enough pizzerias to write a book. In the end, thanks to these two guys, everything came together. Sometimes, it seems, chances are worth taking.

The post The Italian Job appeared first on Saveur.

I don’t like cake. I never much have. One bite is fine, sure. But after that, the richness, the cloying frostiness—the sheer cakeiness of it all—just gets to me. At my wedding a few years back, we served pie.

But there’s a caveat here. My animosity toward cake does not in any way apply to the dacquoise, the traditional French dessert that consists of crisp disks of meringue made with baked crushed nuts (usually hazelnuts and/or almonds) that provide the structure for a variety of fillings, from buttercream to fresh fruit. While many consider the dacquoise too cakey, it’s far lighter; the crunch of the meringue giving texture to the sop of the filling. To me, it’s like a cake made of air. Whenever I see one on a menu, I make a point of ordering it. The problem is that I rarely have the opportunity these days.

While dacquoise can be found in French pastry shops all over the country, you don’t see it on restaurant menus too often, even though it’s long been considered the white whale of desserts. Back in 1977, New York Times food columnist Craig Claiborne referred to the dacquoise as “one of the finest and most sought-after desserts in Manhattan,” and shared his elation over its inclusion on the menus of both Coach House on Waverly Place, and Windows on the World.

The best dacquoise I ever tasted wasn’t in Manhattan, though. It was in Louisville, Kentucky. At a quarter-century-old restaurant called Buck’s, which is located on the ground floor of a historic apartment building in the city’s Old Louisville neighborhood. It was around two years ago, and I was on assignment, trying to figure out if the dizzying number of new restaurants opening up around the city qualified Louisville as one of America’s great culinary destination.

My conclusion? Hell yes. While there, I dined on everything from the ingenious tuna old fashioned at Chef Anthony Lama’s Latin-inspired ceviche, to red wine-braised beef shoulder at Proof on Main. From a near-perfect smoked pork chop with a maple bourbon jus at the understated farm-to-table Mecca, Harvest, to a braunschweiger sandwich at neighborhood fave Check’s Cafe. I drank my favorite bourbon (Old Forester) at Doc Crow’s, and had a Seelbach cocktail at the friggin’ Seelbach Hotel.

Despite all of this, three days in, I felt like I was missing out on something. While the restaurants and bars I visited showcased the best and the brightest of Louisville, I was left wondering what people ate here before the likes of Anthony Lamas, not to mention celebrity chef Edward Lee, came to town. Sure, there was the hot brown at the Brown Hotel. Everybody loved that. But what were some of the lesser known places I should try out? Some hidden gems?

“The dacquoise at Buck’s!” Stacey Yates, a friend of mine, who works for the Louisville Convention & Visitors Bureau, cried, before offering to join me there for lunch.

Watch: Making Buck’s Dacquoise

In a day and age where Edison light bulbs and salvaged barn-wood walls are still (almost frustratingly) right on trend, the decor at Buck’s is the polar opposite. The dining room is painted the darkest of blues; providing contrast to the hundreds of white flowers that reside in small vases throughout the dining room and bar area. The tablecloths are white. There are chandeliers. There’s even a piano. Sitting at the restaurant’s bar, festooned with a Royal Wedding’s-worth of flowers, I felt like a little kid at a fancy restaurant my parents had taken me to because they couldn’t find a sitter.

That sense a long-gone adult world hit me even harder when the waiter arrived with our dacquoise, which looked like something straight out of an old Time-Life series come to life. At Buck’s it’s of the mocha variety, with one layer of coffee-infused buttercream, and one layer of rum-infused chantilly, all divvied up by three crisp and crumbly almond disks, drizzled with chocolate shavings and syrup. Digging in, I felt like Buck’s knew my palate perfectly. The rich mixture of coffee, rum, and chocolate was delicious, but not overbearing at all; in fact, it was almost refreshing. With the nuttiness of the meringue, it almost reminded me of the chocolate coating of the best ice-cream truck delicacy ever created—the Nutty Buddy. I don’t think I’ve ever wolfed down a dessert so quickly in my life.

“I guess people love it because it’s such a throwback,” chef Colter Hubsch later told me. While customers here often rave about Hubsch’s offerings of coffee and cocoa-encrusted rack of lamb, and southern-style fried green tomatoes served with beef tips, it’s not unusual for them to come here for the dacquoise, and the dacquoise alone. And while it’s a dessert that predates Hubsch’s time here at Buck’s, he’s not insulted. Like everyone else in Louisville, he knows the dacquoise is something special. Craig Claiborne would agree.

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When writer Ronni Lundy was growing up in Louisville, Kentucky in the 1950s and ‘60s, the culinary map was pretty plain and simple. Young people like herself; well, they hung out at one of three Frisch’s Big Boy establishments, where they flirted with boys while chomping on tartar-sauce-covered hamburgers and rye-bread-bunned Brawny Lads. If Lundy was shopping for school clothes with her parents, she would likely end up at Stewart’s; a long-gone department store with a restaurant that served benedictine sandwiches and made their own mayonnaise. But if she was going into town for something fancy—say to buy nice clothes for a wedding, or to celebrate a family milestone—that’s when she would find herself at the Georgian Revival landmark known as the Brown Hotel. And when she was there, she did exactly what she was supposed to do. She ordered the hot brown.

As far as legendary dishes go, the history of the hot brown is surprisingly straightforward. The open-face sandwich was the bluegrass-born brainchild of chef Fred Schmidt, who helmed the kitchen at the Brown in the 1920s. It’s composed of two slices of Texas toast (crust removed) cut into triangles and placed on the bottom of large baking dish along with hunky slices of tomato, which lend the rich dish some much-needed acidity. The bread is covered with fresh, hand-sliced turkey breast, and slathered in a mornay sauce made with both heavy cream and pecorino romano cheese. It’s then topped with four slices of thick-cut bacon, more pecorino, and baked until bubbly. No, it’s not what one would call a refined dish—especially for a high-falutin’ hotel like the Brown. But that’s exactly why people here in Louisville think it’s so special. As Lundy puts it, “the hot brown always had a sense of attainment about it. If you had a hot brown, you weren’t just eating—you were dining.”

As many a bourbon-loving local will tell you, the hot brown is also among the most perfect hangover foods ever invented—and that’s exactly what chef Schmidt intended. Back in his day, the Brown was known as the gathering place for the elite—everyone from thoroughbred owners and bourbon barons, to celebrities and politicians. In its grand ballroom, hundreds patrons would gather regularly for dancing—lots of dancing: fox trots and Charlestons; tangoes and Lindy Hops. After a long night of revelry, guests would retire to the hotel’s dining room, looking for something to sponge up all the alcohol. While most settled for a helping of ham and eggs, on one particular night in 1926, Schmidt upped his game by tossing together that magical meat and mornay medley of his making. The rest, as they say, was hot brown history. Not that there weren’t some bumps along the way.

Watch: How to Make a Hot Brown

Just like its namesake hotel, which closed in 1971, and spent some time as headquarters to the city’s Board of Education, before reopening in the 1980s, the hot brown has had its ups and downs. As Louisville dining migrated outward toward the chain restaurants of the suburbs, so too did the hot brown, often with mixed results. On one hand, Lundy recalls a tasty variation that used country ham instead of turkey, and replaced the bacon with a grilled peach. But other versions fell flat. “I feel like we reached the pit of despair when one restaurant started dumping a can of creamed mushroom soup on some bread and meat, and topped it off with cheese and bacon,” Lundy recalls.

The resurrection of the hot brown is hard to pinpoint, but Lundy attributes its return to the late Louisville chef Timothy Barnes, who opened a restaurant called J. Timothy’s in the 1980s. “He served a classic hot brown there,” Lundy says. “It was very important to him. And it made people remember, “Oh yeah that is what it was all about. Up until that period, there were only bowdlerized versions of it. And they were so much less than what it had been.” Barnes’ traditional version started what Lundy refers to as a bit of a hot-brown renaissance. And not just in area restaurants. Home cooks rediscovered the pleasures of the hot brown, especially around Thanksgiving, when there’s plenty of leftover turkey to be had.

Thanks in part to America’s continuing obsession with regional cuisines, the hot brown is now more popular than ever (even celebrity chefs such as Bobby Flay, David Chang, and Sean Brock have their own recipes.) Local variations still exist, but they are held to a far higher standard than the ones Lundy recalls from the ’70s and ’80s. Yes, Louisville is now considered something of a top-tier dining destination for everything from stellar pub grub to Korean-American cuisine. But the hot brown is still, well, hot. So hot that restaurants are almost obliged to include one on their menus, says says Austin Wilson, head chef Bristol Bar and Grille on Bardstown Road. “The challenge is to make one that really stands out.”

Wilson makes his hot brown using French bread instead of Texas toast, and sharp cheddar instead of pecorino-romano. Meanwhile, at another popular restaurant called Wild Eggs, it’s topped with, as the restaurant’s name would suggest, a fried egg. Other chefs have “elevated” the dish by incorporating crab meat and fried green tomatoes. Over at Sicilian’s Pizza & Pasta you can even get a hot brown pizza.

Of course, the most popular place to tuck into a Kentucky hot brown is and will forever be its namesake Brown Hotel. And no other chef feel the same pressure to make one right than the hotel’s current chef de cuisine Andrew Welenken. “I always read our online reviews that ask, “Why are you staying at the Brown?” he says. “Half of the people saw it on TV, and came to get the hot brown. It kind of blows my mind.”

Welenken is a seasoned chef, whose menu includes such dishes as eggplant cannelloni and beef wagyu tartare. And while he loves the hot brown as much as anyone else, he does harbor a bit of jealousy toward the classic dish. “We have all this wonderful food that I pour my heart and soul into,” he says. “And then we have hot brown. Everyone wants the hot brown.”

The post Here’s to the Hot Brown, the Hangover Helper Everyone Loves appeared first on Saveur.

Joe Tucker doesn’t want to talk about who started the fire in his restaurant last year because he’s already forgiven him. The guy’s gone now anyway, off to God knows where.

“He had his problems,” Joe told me as I swiped a biscuit through a bowl full of grits. “I guess we all do.” Spoken like a true saint. But if you know this guy, even a little bit, it’s not too surprising.

Joe and his wife, Carla, are the closest thing to saints I’ve ever met. I’m Catholic so I go looking for saints. But my attendance at church is sparse these days, and it’s at Tucker’s where I feel the spirit in me. The restaurant has been feeding Cincinnati’s tired, poor, and huddled masses since Joe’s parents, the late E.G. and the still-kicking Maynie Tucker abandoned the hills of Kentucky for the hills of Cincinnati and opened their first restaurant in 1946. They soon became the go-to mom and pop for Appalachian migrants and black factory workers. In more recent years it’s been a favorite of art students, gangbangers, and punk rockers; P&G execs, politicians, and monks from nearby St. Francis church.

It didn’t matter who you were at Tucker’s—everyone was treated the same. Carla helped the neighborhood kids with their homework; Joe took them to Reds games if their grades were good.

My mom left Cincinnati for Florida back in 2001. A decade before that, my dad passed away. So aside from old friends, the city where I grew up has no roots for me now. But then again, there’s Tucker’s. Joe, with his beat-to-hell Bengals cap and black, flour-stained T-shirt, remembers my name whenever I pop in, no matter how long it’s been. Carla does, too.

Despite all that, Joe and Carla have a restaurant to run. When I arrived, the dining room was filled with people who’d shown up for what was billed as a “friends and family” get-together, a thank-you to all the people who’d helped raise Tucker’s from the ashes. And there were a lot of people to thank: loyal customers and fellow restaurant owners who fronted bills, raised money, volunteered time, and even sold T-shirts to make sure the place reopened.

One of them was Kathleen Norris, the founder of a big-time real estate company, and a devoted regular. After watching the Tuckers struggle to hire the right people to reopen, she took the reins, helping them find a reputable architect and other contractors, many of whom did their work pro bono. One of those contractors was Jim McMahon, the owner of a design company, who restored the stainless-steel stools, counters, and flattop. “Real nice guy,” Joe told me, with an accent that’s retained its sweet Appalachian roots. Joe swears he’s going to pay him back one day, but I doubt Jim is in any rush.

A few booths over sat Chris Heckman—a stay-at-home dad who’d made a weekly ritual of taking his son, Otto, to Tucker’s for French toast. After the fire, Chris launched a GoFundMe campaign that raised $18,000 toward repairs. “With so much gentrification going on in this neighborhood, you can’t afford to lose a place like Tucker’s,” he told me. “The new restaurants opening here are expensive, but Tucker’s is an every week kind of place.”

This isn’t the first time the people of Cincinnati have shown their love of Tucker’s. Years ago, when Joe and Carla’s 7-week-old grandson, Adam, died of SIDS, they held a fund-raiser to give them time off to grieve. They held another after Carla was shot in the shoulder a few years back (a drug dealer entered the restaurant to kill off a rival and hit her instead). When riots in Over-the-Rhine threatened to destroy the business in 2001, neighborhood kids stood guard, making sure no one messed with Tucker’s. They knew that, unlike the factories and the bakeries and the groceries that had abandoned this area decades ago, this white Appalachian-owned business had always been there for the mostly black families who remained—for all families, really.

Sometimes, though, things take their toll. Joe’s quick to mention that he’s a recovering alcoholic. He fell off the wagon after Carla got shot, but he’s been back on three years running. But who doesn’t have their demons? Everyone has struggles and a hunger for something real. The Tuckers are here to assuage that hunger. Someday, they hope their children, and their children’s children, will do it, too. So how could Cincinnati not save Tucker’s? How could a city turn away a family that accepts its people no matter who they are; no matter what they’ve done? How can a city look away from a family that always forgives?

Tucker’s Restaurant
1637 Vine Street
Cincinnati, OH 45202
513 954-8920

A Tucker’s Throwback

Tucker’s Restaurant, a 67-year-old Cincinnati institution, serves up more than comfort food

The post How a Beloved Cincinnati Landmark Restaurant is Rising From the Ashes appeared first on Saveur.

After New Orleans, there is, perhaps, no other American city as passionate in its love of food and drink as Louisville, Kentucky. This is a city that likes to celebrate—from mint julep-fueled Derby parties, to, well, any given Tuesday at a local bar. Yes, there’s bourbon—lots of bourbon. Embarking on a tour of the Bluegrass State’s distilleries should be on every red-blooded American’s bucket-list. And while Louisville is the perfect launching pad for such an expedition, it’s also worth a weekend—better yet, a week-long stay—since it’s home to some of the best restaurants you’ll find both south (and north) of the Mason-Dixon line. It also boasts two of the country’s most historic hotels, one of which inspired what many believe to be the greatest American novel ever written, and a growing craft beer movement, lots of fried fish, and some of the friendliest, funnest people you’ll ever meet.

Where to Eat

Check’s Café
Opened in 1944, Check’s is the quintessential neighborhood joint—the kind of place that makes you feel right at home, even if your home is Minneapolis or Munich. Located southeast of downtown in the city’s shotgun-shack-strewn Germantown—or “Schnitzelburg,” as the locals call it—Check’s serves baked ham sandwiches, bratwurst, and chili-strewn spaghetti topped with shredded cheese. But the best reasons to visit is their braunschweiger, a smoked, spreadable pork liver sausage on rye that’s a rarity these days, as well as the fried bologna sandwich and the fish sandwich: two golden fried strips of halibut barely be contained by the bun. While a recent renovation has toned down some of Check’s gritty neighborhood charm, the old-school Schnitzelburg vibe remains the same.

1101 E. Burnett Avenue
(502) 637-9515

Proof on Main
Opened in 2009 and located in the city’s 21c Museum Hotel, Proof on Main tops just about every Louisville resident’s list of the city’s best restaurants. While acclaimed executive chef Levon Wallace recently left to helm New Orleans’ chef Donald Link’s new Nashville location of Cochon Butcher, Proof is in good hands under his successor Mike Wajda, a veteran of Craigie on Main in Cambridge, Mass. The menu rotates seasonally, but offerings might include such delicacies as smoked Kentucky catfish dip, salt-roasted celeriac, or a locally sourced Woodland Farm hog chop served with sweet corn jus and buttermilk queso. The charred octopus, served with bagna cauda—a garlic-y anchovy dip—is a must, as are the Kentucky bourbon cocktails, including the Bulliet-Vardier (bourbon, aperol, port wine and old fashion bitters) as well as the Bare Minimum made with New Riff Kentucky Wild Gin.

702 W. Main Street
(502) 217-6360

Harvest
In an age when any restaurant that bills itself “farm-to-table” might evoke a drowsy roll of the eyes, Harvest reminds us of just how wonderful a concept it can be. The restaurant, located in the city’s New Louisville, or “NuLu” district, celebrates the relationships owner Igor Chodkowski, himself a farmer, has forged over the years with other Kentucky farmers and producers (as evidenced by the enormous portraits of them in his warmly lit dining room, along with repurposed church pews, mismatched chairs, and weathered tables). Sitting here you’ll be reminded of the simple pleasures of a great cheese plate—here made of black-pepper chevre and blue gouda served with a green tomato jam and chow chow (a pickled relish). You can also get burgoo, a Kentucky meat stew, or buttermilk fried chicken served with a hoecake and smoked peppercorn gravy.

624 E. Market Street
(502) 384-9090

Shirley Mae’s Café
Located in the heart of Louisville’s oldest African American neighborhood, this soul food paradise is housed in a 1880s clay brick house that was once home to a tobacco baron. In later years it served as a grocery, a dry good store, and a famous bar where the likes of Cassius Clay, Quincy Jones, and Redd Foxx once imbibed in their respective poisons. Shirley Mae Beard acquired the place in 1988, renamed it, and turned it into one of the best soul food destinations in the south. Customers flock here to watch her work her magic in the open kitchen, preparing dishes like Southern-fried jumbo chicken wings, first-come-first-serve chitterlings, and a meatloaf dish served with her famous hot-water cornbread (no matter what you order, be sure to get some on the side).

802 S. Clay Street
(502) 589-5295

Jack Fry’s
Jack Fry and his wife, Flossie, attracted quite a crowd when they opened this bistro-style restaurant and bar on Bardstown Road in the 1930s. Then, when Mr. Fry passed in 1987, a new owner reopened it (after having been rented to a Mexican restaurant during the 1970s and 1980s) with its original moniker. The spirit of Jack and Flossie has been dutifully restored with photos of boxers, jockeys, and baseball players dangling from the walls. Under the direction of executive chef McClain Brown, the menu combines upscale French and Italian cuisine with a healthy dose of Southern comfort: bone marrow is served with a grilled baguette, romaine hearts, quail egg, and truffle butter. An elegant heirloom chicken is prepared in a fanciful sweet tea brine and served with ricotta and gnocchi. This is the kind of place where you’ll want to linger for a while, just as Jack and Flossie intended.

1007 Bardstown Road
(502) 452-9244

Seviche
There’s a particular item on Seviche’s menu that can throw first-time patrons for a loop: the Tuna Old Fashioned. Sure, it sounds off-putting, but once you’ve tasted chef Anthony Lamas’ ingenious mash-up of tuna ceviche and pineapple, seasoned with Kentucky bourbon and soy sauce—and served in an old fashioned glass—you’ll wax poetic about it to anyone who’ll listen. Lamas, who is of Puerto Rican and Mexican descent, combines his love of Southern and Latin cuisine in dishes like roasted vegetable chimichangas with local gouda, ambrosia farm squash, and pepita rice. Be sure to try his delectable Kentucky bison empanadas, too.

1538 Bardstown Road
(502) 473-8560

MilkWood
Locals sure are happy chef Edward Lee fell in love with Louisville when he visited one fateful Derby weekend back in 2002. Otherwise, the city would be deprived of his now classic 610 Magnolia restaurant, with its upscale Southern dishes (steak and eggs served with vegetable hash, broccolini, summer squash, chimichurri, and squash bordelaise anyone?). Lee deftly combines the comforts of southern home cooking with the Asian flavors the chef, who is of Korean descent, grew up with in his native Brooklyn. And nowhere does he have more fun with the concept than at MilkWood, his newest Louisville endeavor, which is located in the basement of the city’s famed Actor’s Theatre. Here Lee, along with chef Kevin Ashworth, serve destination-worthy dishes like an organic pork burger topped with cracklins and kimchi; smoked chicken wings with chili lime sauce; smoke-braised octopus “bacon” with smashed potatoes; and fried chicken coated in Japanese ponzu sauce.

316 Main Street
(502) 584-6455

Lilly’s Bistro
If you ever see a list of Louisville’s best restaurants that doesn’t include Lilly’s Bistro, please do us a favor and disregard it. Like the aforementioned Edward Lee, the name Kathy Cary should be known throughout the land. She opened her beloved Lilly’s Bistro in 1988, sourcing all of her produce from local farmers and purveyors (whatever they couldn’t provide, she grew herself). Thanks to starters like a perfectly executed, locally sourced chicken liver pâté served with house-made bread, cornichons, and Dijon mustard, and entrees like a chile-rubbed pan-seared pork chop served with corn pudding, Cary has been nominated for the James Beard Foundation’s Best Chef Southeast multiple times.

1147 Bardstown Road
(502) 451-0447

Decca
While the outside of this NuLu building is a little ramshackle, what you’ll find inside is anything but. Beautiful inlayed flooring, tufted leather banquets, and elegant modern light illuminate this historic 19th century building which is often filled with the music of Patsy Cline and Ernest Tubb, or Count Basie—artists from the Decca record label, which inspired the name. Chef Annie Pettry grew up fishing for trout with her parents, foraging mushrooms, and growing her own vegetables—experiences that, along with a degree from the French Culinary Institute and some time spent cooking in New York and San Francisco, helped inspire her ingredient-driven menu. Dishes include sharable items like wood-grilled broccoli and wilted greens, as well as milled tomato linguine with blistered cherry tomatoes and ricotta salata. After dinner, head down to the basement, where The Cellar Lounge offers cocktails and live music.

812 E. Market Street
(502) 749-8128

The Oakroom
Tucked inside the historic Seelbach Hilton Hotel, this early 1900s oak-paneled hotel was where Al Capone was known to chalk up his cue in the billiards room. While the dining room is distinctly old world, the menu reflects a more modern-day mania with all things seasonal. Chef Patrick Roney serves shrimp and grits—the grits locally sourced from the 19th-century Weisenberger Mill—with wild white prawns, red-eye gravy, and black garlic; oxtail potato gratin; and an unforgettable Kentucky-fried rabbit with flageolet beans, basil pistou, celery root, and rabbit confit. End your evening with a nightcap of Seelbach Select Single Barrel bourbon.

500 S. Fourth Street
(502) 807-3463

Where to Drink

The Silver Dollar
Cheery with its dangling Christmas lights and variety of Southern-style comfort foods, the Silver Dollar is a perfect mixture of low-key casual and top-notch Manhattan cocktail bar all rolled into one. Located in a decommissioned firehouse east of downtown, the Silver Dollar is modeled on the honky-tonk bars and diners of working-class Bakersfield, California, where many southerners fled to find work during the Dust Bowl years. There are about 60 native bourbons; cocktails like the Gold Rush, a mixture of Old Fitzgerald bourbon with honey syrup and lemon; and a damn fine mint julep, to boot. Silver Dollar also offers some of the best bar food this city has to offer, including beer-can hen, fried oysters, and an open-faced meatloaf sandwich served on Texas toast with mashed potatoes and smoked tomato gravy. 1761 Frankfort Avenue
(502) 259-9540

Proof Bar
A lot of people come to Louisville to do one thing and one thing only: drink Kentucky bourbon. And while there are plenty of places in town to do just that, one of the most locally beloved is Proof Bar. With 85 different bourbons—Both Pappy Van Winkle and Woodford Reserve provide special barrels just for them—and a perfect list of 100 wines, this is the place where bourbon-fueled memories are made (and occasionally lost). Cocktails range from the classic Old Fashioned to specialty drinks inspired by current exhibitions at the adjacent 21c Gallery Hotel.

702 W. Main Street
(502) 217-6360

Holy Grale
Nothing will lift your spirits quite like the beer selection at this repurposed 1905 Unitarian Church. Sure, the list features some predictable standbys by way of Victory Prima Pils and Chimay Permiere. But there are plenty of surprising selections to be had, too, like Prairie Eliza5beth, an Oklahoma-brewed farmhouse ale with hints of apricots and clove, and a smoky rauchbier from the HammerHeart brewery in Lino Lakes, Minnesota. Grale’s bar snacks are just as unexpected, and include a Scotch quail egg, spicy beer cheese served with fresh-baked pretzel bread, and escargot with parmesan cheese, chili, and herb butter. And if the stained-glass-lit bar is too crowded with beer worshipers, Holy Grale also has one of the best outdoor patios in town.

1034 Bardstown Rd
(502) 459-9939

The Lobby Bar at the Brown Hotel
To say this place is opulent is an understatement. Aside from the marble floors and glimmering gold chandeliers, its English Renaissance architectural credibility is firmly established by the lofty plaster-relief ceilings patrons often find themselves gazing at from a Victorian-style sofa as they nurse a highball of Buffalo Trace. Aside from bourbon, you can also indulge in this city’s most famous sandwich—the open-faced turkey, bacon, and Mornay sauce wonder known as the Hot Brown. Also recommended: The Kentucky Derby, an elixir of Four Roses sweetened with sorghum and pink grapefruit juice, and the Kentucky Cocktail made with Maker’s Mark and Kentucky’s own Ale-8-One ginger ale.

335 W. Broadway
(877) 926-7757

Haymarket Whiskey Bar
Located on the eastern end of Louisville’s Whiskey Row in what was once a pretty cool coffee shop, Haymarket is a dive bar with a dose of Kentucky class. Yes, there are pinball machines and a lot of neon beer signs on the wall. Some sort of punk rock band is booked here most every night, too. But there’s also a whisky, bourbon, and rye menu that is so wide ranging that it looks like the index at the back of a book on the history of bourbon.

331 E. Market Street
(502) 442-0523

Garage Bar
Located in a repurposed car repair shop outfitted with a wood-burning pizza oven, Garage Bar offers Kentucky bourbon and craft beer alongside some of the best pizzas in town (the fact that those pizzas are topped with locally sourced ingredients such as shaved country ham, sweet corn and milled tomato sauce makes them even better). Despite the grungy name, this dive bar in the gallery-strewn NuLu neighborhood has a decidedly artsy edge—a sculpture of two muscle cars that slowly, almost imperceptibly crash into one another called “The Death of American Muscle” is stationed out front. Garage Bar also hosts cooking competitions, and bourbon pairing dinners. Don’t feel like drinking? Order a triple-decker pimento cheese sandwich and a bottle of Cheerwine, instead.

700 E. Market Street (outdoor seating available)
(502) 749-7100

Doc Crow’s Smokehouse and Raw Bar
If you’re the kind of person who likes a big slab of baby back ribs served alongside a perfect Old Fashioned, Doc Crow’s is the place for you. Like so many other restaurants and bars in Louisville, Doc’s is located in a beautifully restored, historic distillery with all the requisite charms: exposed brick walls; burnished woodwork, and schoolhouse lights. Like most bars in Kentucky, it has a fine selection of bourbon; what you might not expect is an oyster bar of such high quality in the middle of the landlocked Bluegrass State, nor the authentic nature of its shrimp po’ boy, which is served on French bread imported straight from Louisiana.

127 W. Main Street
(502) 587-1626

The Nachbar
A hidden gem in Germantown, Nachbar—the German word for “neighbor”—has been around since the 1930s and pretty much looks that way. Divey but oh-so-merry, it’s the kind of place where you’ll find laid-back 20- and 30-somethings slumped in frumpy, thrift-store sofas, drinking alongside their canine companions at this dog-friendly bar.

969 Charles Street
(502) 637-4377
No website

Bourbon’s Bistro
At this bar, you’ll find a crowd of civilized and certifiable adults drinking from a selection of around 130 bourbons, both rare and de rigueur. And while it might resemble some other bar you’ve visited in, say, Brooklyn or Washington, D.C., “this is the bourbon bar that started bourbon bars,” according to the Louisville Courier-Journal. It was also named one of the top five bourbon bars in the country by The Bourbon Review. The food here is as decadent as the hooch, whether it’s the prime rib served with parmesan grits and wild mushroom ragout, or the Berkshire Pork Chop with bourbon smoked paprika.

2255 Franklin Avenue
(502) 894-8838

Louisville Beer Store
If you’re as into beer as you are to bourbon, this tiny NuLu tasting room and shop has you covered. Here you’ll find a standing bar with eight rotating taps featuring the likes of Indiana’s Three Floyds Gumballhead, a citrusy wheat beer from bordering Indiana, and Alvinne Phi, a Belgium sour—as well as more than 400 bottled beers, including expansive selections from Belgium, Germany, and Italy.

746 E. Market St.
(502) 569-2337

Kentucky-Inspired Cocktails

Kentucky Buck
The Black Derby
Seelbach
The Thousand-Dollar Mint Julep
The Kentucky Devil

Where to Stay

The Seelbach Hilton Louisville
As a rule, any hotel F. Scott Fitzgerald got kicked out of is a place worth checking yourself into. The fact that the Seelbach both inspired and provided some of the backdrop for The Great Gatsby makes a stay here even more imperative. Not just a hotel, but also an architectural gem, the 1903 Beaux Arts Baroque-style institution features imported marble, hardwoods from the West Indies, and the famous Rathskeller, a Bavarian-themed pub with vaulted ceilings clad in tile from Cincinnati’s renowned Rookwood Pottery. Its pool hall was used in the film version of Gatsby, as well as the Paul Newman classic The Hustler. And while the rooms here still evoke the decadence of the jazz age, there’s nothing stuffy about them, old sport.

500 Fourth Street
(502) 585-3200

The Brown Hotel
Two decades after the Seelbach opened its doors, a local entrepreneur named James Graham Brown stirred up some healthy competition by opening the opulent Brown Hotel just a few blocks away. The hotel closed its doors following Brown’s death in the early 1970s—for a time it was owned by the Louisville Public Schools system—but reopened in 1993. Today it’s owned by 1859 Historic Hotels LTD, which recently completed a multi-million-dollar renovation. Georgian Revival opulence remains in The Brown’s ballrooms and lobbies, though the hotel offers all the modern-day amenities you could wish for. Its 293 guest rooms have classic furnishings, vintage wall coverings, and equestrian-themed paintings that exude plenty of Kentucky charm.

335 W. Broadway
(502) 583-1234

21c Hotel and Gallery
Not only does this hotel house a fine collection of contemporary art, it’s also home to both Proof on Main restaurant and Proof Bar, which means you don’t even have to leave the building to experience some of the finest food and bourbons that Louisville has to offer. Owners Laura Lee Brown and Steve Wilson, both artists and preservationists, worked with architect Deborah Berke to transform several 19th century tobacco and bourbon warehouses into what is now one of the city’s premier hotels. Rooms feature huge windows, exposed brick walls, and original artwork.

700 W. Main Street
(502) 217-6300

The Galt House Hotel
At 128,000 square feet and 25 stories high, the Galt House is not what one would call a boutique hotel (in fact, it’s the largest hotel in Kentucky). Still this luxury behemoth has its charms, namely its well appointed rooms that provide dramatic views of the Ohio River. There are also seven in-house restaurants and lounges, including a seriously fine steakhouse, and a revolving restaurant with views of the river. There’s also a top-notch bar with more than 150 bourbons to choose from.

140 N. Fourth Street
(502) 589-5200

DuPont Mansion Bed & Breakfast
Located in a circa-1879 Italianate mansion in the Old Louisville Historic District neighborhood, this popular bed and breakfast offers the feel of a five-star hotel with added intimacy. Enjoy a multi-course breakfast in the dining room then walk it all off with a visit to Louisville’s sprawling 17-acre Central Park, which was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, the same guy who created New York City’s own Central Park.

1317 S. Fourth Street
(502) 638-0045

Louisville Marriott Downtown After a recent $6-million renovation, this downtown hotel is clean, classy, and convenient to pretty much everything Louisville has to offer. Each of the hotel’s 616 rooms is outfitted with plush furnishings, 42-inch HD televisions, and artwork reflecting the city’s heritage.

280 W. Jefferson Street
(502) 627-5045

What to Do

Blaze the Urban Bourbon Trail
If you’re looking for some method to apply to this city’s bourbon-swilling madness, look no further than the Urban Bourbon Trail. Trailblazers receive a passport booklet containing a guide to the city’s best bourbon bars and saloons. All you have to do is make a purchase (bourbon, beer, a hot brown, what have you) and have your book stamped by your friendly bartender. Collect at least six stamps and you’ll receive an Urban Bourbon Trailblazer t-shirt, as well as an official “Citizen of Bourbon Country” certificate. Pick up your passport at the Louisville Visitors Center at 4th and Jefferson Streets downtown. For information on how to obtain a digital passport, visit bourboncountry.com.

Hit Some Sweet Spots
Aside from bourbon and southern comfort food, the Louisville area is home to two of the country’s best old-fashioned candy stores. Start out at Muth’s (630 East Market Street), a century old candy shop in the city’s NuLu district. From cream-filled chocolates, to bourbon balls, to caramels and eight different kinds of brittle, all of their candies are handmade and delicious. We highly recommend the Modjeska, a caramel-covered marshmallow named after a famous Polish actress. Once you’ve stuffed yourself at Muth’s, head across the Ohio River to historic Jefferson, Indiana, and experience the unique pleasures of Schimpff’s Confectionary (347 Spring Street). In operation since 1891, the shop offers candy-making demonstrations, and is especially known for its red hots, as well as its curious hard-candy fish, which were originally made to represent the bounty of aquatic life that swam the Ohio River.

Pay Your Respects to the Colonel at Cave Hill Cemetery
A visit to this beautifully landscaped historic cemetery isn’t complete without a respectful stop at the grave of Kentucky’s own Colonel Harlan Sanders, who was interred here after his death in 1980. Like the hundreds of KFC signs that dot our nation’s highways and commercial strips, the Colonel’s grave cannot be missed with its four-columned pediment and a life-sized bust sculpted by his daughter Margaret.

701 Baxter Avenue
(502) 451-5630

The post Where to Eat, Drink, and Stay in Louisville appeared first on Saveur.

Back Where I’m From is an occasional series in which we explore the best food in the less-heralded parts of America.

Cincinnati is the next big food city. I’m just going to say it because I’m hoping I can will it to happen. I’m going to say it because I am from there—because I know it deserves to be. I am tired of other midsize cities like Nashville and Pittsburgh, Louisville, and Asheville (all deserving in their own ways) being called the next big food city when hardly anyone says that about Cincinnati. I am frustrated that so many talented chefs are working their tails off trying to draw attention to this shining city on the hill (really—it’s built on seven hills). And I am surprised that no one seems to notice.

Yes, Cincinnati’s been celebrated by road-food warriors like Adam Richman and Guy Fieri. They’ve called it out for its homey mom-and-pop diners and, of course, its chili parlors, where locals twirl forkfuls of pasta coated in chocolate-and-cinnamon-spiked chili, not minding if the dish, called a three-way, splatters all over their shirts (for Cincinnatians, chili stains are a badge of honor). Goetta, our scrapple-like breakfast staple made of sausage and steel-cut oats, has been written about by some of the most esteemed food magazines—this one included—and even Oprah herself once said that our beloved Graeter’s has the best ice cream in America.

But what most people don’t know about Cincinnati is its legacy of fine dining. In the 1970s it was home to three Mobil Travel Guide five-star restaurants while New York was home to two. Those restaurants, all French, included Pigall’s, where you could order black cod with a truffle pinot noir sauce, or rabbit confit with grapes and rice galette. The Gourmet Room had a 30-foot mural by the artist Joan Miró (it now hangs in the Cincinnati Art Museum) wrapped around its dining room. And the Maisonette, an ornate chandeliered French restaurant downtown, still holds the record for the most consecutive years with a five-star Mobil guide rating, at 41.

All still existed when my family moved to Cincinnati from Massachusetts in 1979, and I grew up thinking of the city as the pinnacle of fine dining—home to the kind of restaurants that required my finest clip-on tie and well-polished Stride Rites on the few occasions my parents deigned to let me dine out with them on date night.

Even the more casual spots were places to see and be seen. At a former-police-station-turned-steakhouse called The Precinct (still great) you might run into former Reds catcher Johnny Bench digging into a porterhouse alongside former Bengals quarterback Kenny Anderson. Local celebrities like Jerry Springer and Nick Clooney (father of George) could also be found at Rookwood Pottery—now a phenomenal restaurant simply called The Rookwood, it is housed in a former ceramics factory perched atop scenic Mount Adams where you can devour the best burgers in town while sitting inside actual brick kilns.

It was Cincinnati that turned me into a gourmand and a food snob. So proud was I of its culinary swagger that when I found myself living in New Orleans in 1998, I complained to a friend that the food in Cincinnati was better than it was in the Big Easy. This is the mark of a true Ohioan; we think everything we have is better than yours, though I now count gumbo, roast beef po’boys, and Zapp’s potato chips among civilization’s proudest achievements.

Beginning in the early aughts, my conviction in Cincinnati’s culinary stamina began to wane. Logging onto the Cincinnati Enquirer’s website one day in 2005, I read that the Maisonette, a dining destination since 1949, was closing its doors because of dwindling profits and a shift from fine dining to more casual, Brooklyn-esque buttoned-down fare. My confidence was shaken further four years later, when I read that Pigall’s, which was helmed by the magnificent French chef Jean-Robert de Cavel, had also closed. In February of that year, National Public Radio aired a story titled “Ohio’s Only Four-Star Restaurant To Close.” “Maybe it’s the times,” a heartbroken regular told the NPR reporter. “But it’s a shame because it’s something that’s hard to recapture after it’s gone.”

But Cincinnati is recapturing something, and while it’s a little different—a little less formal—than the opulent dining scene of its past, it’s definitely something worth checking out the next time a magazine article lures you to Louisville. Last year, when I returned home as a panelist at the first-annual Cincinnati Food & Wine Classic, I breathed a sigh of relief as I stood inside the rosewood-paneled French Art Deco dining room of The Orchids at Palm Court, a magnificent restaurant located in the historic Hilton Cincinnati Netherland Plaza hotel—the same hotel where my mother used to take me for tea during my Little Lord Fauntleroy youth. At Orchids, I indulged in executive chef Todd Kelly’s pork belly and escargot served in a creamy sunchoke velouté—one of the many dishes that have earned Kelly national acclaim.

Afterward, I roamed the streets of Cincinnati’s recently revamped Over the Rhine neighborhood, gasping at the beauty of its restored Italianate buildings and tucking into a crispy pan-roasted quail served with spring peas and caramelized fennel at Chicago transplant chef Dan Wright’s wondrous Abigail Street. I then pulled a Louis CK–style “bang bang”: eating dinner again, immediately after, at Salazar restaurant a block away, where, along with a locally brewed Rhinegeist beer, I wolfed down a slow-cooked pork shank, creamy polenta, beer-braised collard greens, and a black-eyed pea chicharrón. Jose Salazar, the restaurant’s owner and executive chef, is an alumnus of New York’s Per Se and will open a second, more upscale restaurant in Cincinnati’s central business district later this year. Heading back to the city’s new 21c Museum Hotel, I discovered that former Pigall’s chef Jean-Robert de Cavel was alive and well with his new restaurant Jean-Robert’s Table, which offers a sublimely flaky vol-au-vent filled with sweetbreads and lobster, and an exquisitely hammy croque monsieur.

It seemed appropriate that my final stop in Cincinnati would be a restaurant called Boca. After all, it’s located at 114 E. 6th St.—the same spot where, ten years ago, the Maisonette closed its doors for good. Walking into its storied dining room, I realized that the restaurant, like the Cincinnati dining scene itself, had risen from the dead. Under the direction of chef David Falk, Boca has received the necessary makeover it needed to regain its relevance. Former Cincinnati Magazine restaurant critic Donna Covrett expertly described it as “an interior with one foot in 19th-century Paris and the other in contemporary Milan,” with its massive chandelier, exposed brick, and “blood orange leather.”

Sitting down at a blood orange booth, I went traditional, ordering the oysters Rockefeller, along with pommes soufflés served with a béarnaise sauce, before digging into the restaurant’s Italian side with an exquisite fresh corn agnolotti with brown butter, truffles, and parmesan. All I can say is this: In one meal, Boca proved itself a worthy successor to Cincinnati’s most venerable old restaurant.

At the airport a few days later, I stopped at a Gold Star Chili for one last three-way before heading back to New York. Sitting at a red Formica table, I twirled a forkful of the meat-slathered spaghetti as it splattered onto my white oxford shirt, but I couldn’t have cared less. I was just happy to be reacquainted with the unique tastes of my hometown; relieved to find that they were even better than I remembered them, wondering if the rest of the world would ever take notice—if Cincinnati would ever be the next big thing.

Former SAVEUR senior editor Keith Pandolfi’s work can be found in The Wall Street Journal, Epicurious, Eater, Cooking Light and other publications. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and daughter.

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More than just a bland delivery system for cheese, artisanal crackers have become increasingly interesting, ingredient-packed, and flavorful. The new versions are meant to be matched with appropriately great cheese, charcuterie, pâté, even smoked fish. Whitney Lamy, founder of Whitney’s Castleton Crackers in Castleton, Vermont, points out that artisanal crackers make toppings taste better: She likes to use her maple-glazed ones, for instance, with pungent Roquefort. Here are ten delicious artisanal crackers worth seeking out—and one to make at home.

1. Rip Rap Baking’s Bakery Crackers
Thick and airy; topped with seeds and a dash of paprika; $7

2. Whitney’s Castleton Crackers Middlebury Maple
A maple syrup glaze complements stinky Muenster and Roquefort; $23 for 5 boxes

3. 34° Natural Crisps
Paper-thin crackers with a delicate crunch; $6

4. Lesley Stowe Rosemary Raisin and Pecan Raincoast Crisps
Packed with dried fruits and nuts; serve with antipasto, dips, or sharp cheeses; $10

5. Whitney’s Castleton Crackers Rutland Multi-Seed Rye
Sturdy and sprinkled with seeds; great with brie, smoked fish, and charcuterie; $23 for 5 boxes

6. Roots & Branches Olive Oil Crackers
Airy, savory, and ideal for scooping pimento cheese; $7

7. Z Crackers Sea Salt & Olive Oil
Rustic, sturdy, and hand-cut, they hold up to hummus and beer cheese; $6

8. Effie’s Oatcakes
Top these nutty oat cakes with a sharp cheddar cheese; $10

9. Jan’s Farmhouse Crisps
Studded with pistachios, dried cranberries, and pumpkin seeds; pair with pâté or grassy cheeses; $6

10. Sheridans Cheesemongers Irish Mixed-Seed Crackers
Buttery with linseeds, sesame seeds, and poppy seeds; perfect with sharp cheddar; $9

Get the recipe for Rye Crackers with Figs and Seeds »

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