Meat Me in the Mountains!

Have you ever been to one of those “tourist towns” where the economy is dependent on the tourists but the locals seem to hate the tourists? Especially in the South, you get a lot of the, “You ain’t from around here, are ya?” attitude. I expected much of this attitude when DO and I visited North Georgia and never saw it.

Blue Ridge, GA is a small town. The restaurants can’t serve alcohol because they are located in a dry county. You can purchase beer and wine Monday through Saturday but can’t consume it in public. If you want liquor, you have to go to the next county. So, what does that mean? Usually, it means mostly Baptist, cliquish, country folks who like simple country cooking, frown on wine, and wouldn’t know prosciutto if it came off their own pig. That’s okay. I’m not saying there’s anything at all wrong with that. It is what it is.












DO and I were in Blue Ridge to spend the weekend with friends. We’d rented a cabin in the mountains and planned to ride the motorcycles to Helen, GA(a little slice of Germany right there in Georgia, USA) on Sunday.











I’d volunteered to handle the food and do all the cooking. While you may think I’m crazy (and you may be right but not about this), I love cooking and entertaining. It’s relaxing for me. If I have time to cook and entertain, it means I’m not too busy or too stressed with anything else.

I’d brought some food and seasonings with us - certain things I didn’t think I’d find in rural GA. My plan was to hit the local grocery store for the rest of what we’d need. We’d brought DO’s Royal Star over on a trailer* but the rest of the folks would be arriving the next day after being on their bikes for about 5 hours. I’d tentatively planned to have hearty snacks for when they arrived with dinner several hours later. I’d thought that if I could find a couple of nice pork loins, I’d stuff them with blue cheese and dates but if I couldn’t, I’d wing it with something chicken-based.

When we drove into town, I saw the restaurants I expected: the standard fast food joints on the highway, a BBQ place, a family steakhouse, and a few Mexican places. While getting the key to the cabin from the rental agent, I picked up a few brochures. One was for a local Italian deli, Angelina's Italian Market. Without the brochure, we’d have never seen it tucked away in a small strip mall. We hadn’t had lunch and it looked promising and the food met that promise. While waiting for dessert, I decided to check out the wines they offered for sale. The owner came over to talk wine with me. This is always nice and just a little bit intimidating. I like wine. I know a little bit about wine and I know what I like. I am not, however, an oenophile. I suffer from bullshitophobia. I am certain that one day, while standing in a wine shop, I will hear a voice shout:

“Poser! Plebian! Ignorant wannabe!”

Don’t get me wrong. I never misrepresent myself. I admit my wine ignorance. I apologize in advance for my clumsy mispronunciations. I just have that fear. Fortunately, my fears were once again unfounded. Mr. Wineshop and I talked about the wines. I told him what I planned to prepare if I could find the pork loin and said that I was looking for a “lighter” red. See, right there. I’ll bet there’s a proper wine term for what I was looking for but I don’t know it. I explained that I prefer the heavier reds – like Cabernets or Zins but thought a Pinot Noir or Shiraz might be better with the pork. However, I really wanted to go to the grocery store before settling on a wine. This is where Mr. Wineshop further answered his customer service calling. He told me about a specialty meat store in the area. Specialty meat? In rural Georgia? While stomach-turning visions of souse and pickled pig feet and chitterlings cartwheeled through my brain, I kept a neutral expression on my face. He offered to call and see if they had pork loins. Fortunately, dessert arrived and I was able to scour the chitterling thought from my brain with shared carrot cake and a napoleon. As we were finishing, Mr. Wineshop came back by with a hastily drawn map, a phone number, and news that Mr. MeatGuydid, indeed, have pork loins!

I happily purchased the wines. I was carded! DO was vaguely insulted. We headed off to the Enchanted Mountain Trout & Gourmet Meats (no website). While rather scenic in places, the trip didn’t encourage me much. This was rural Georgia and there were disintegrating shacks and junkyards and many other signs of a somewhat depressed economy. That demographic doesn’t really support gourmet grocers. We found the shop, parked in the gravel, and walked to the front door. Once inside, I was amazed. I live near a fairly big city but I found foods I just can’t find back home. Mr. MeatGuy, a retired Marine Master Sergeant, was expecting us. He had the pork loin ready, packaged some turkey sausage, offered a taste of some “low country pickled shrimp” which we promptly added to our purchases, and generally just impressed the hell out of us with his attitude, attentiveness, and excellent service.

We decided to go unload the truck and bike before going to the regular grocery store for the rest of our supplies. Thrilled that I wasn’t limited to “the Pig” and curious about Ingles (I’d never been), we took off in that direction.

Side note: In case it hasn’t become glaringly obvious by now, I like food. I like it a lot. I’m determined about getting good food. I’m a bit picky about it.

Ingles. In rural Georgia. Right there on the highway sandwiched in between various other strip mall tenants. Again, just like with Enchanted Mountain, I was amazed. Seriously amazed. I must have looked like the biggest country rube standing in the middle of Times Square for the first time. I’m sure my mouth was hanging open. The food! Foods I’d only read about! Endless varieties of vegetables, fruits, cheeses, condiments, and more. It was like I’d died and gone to wannabe foodie heaven! We took our time and had much fun.

One of the items on my list was an instant-read thermometer. I’d left mine at home and needed one. I also needed but hadn’t yet found some cotton string. The only meat thermometer I found was a big, honkin’ monster that stayed in the meat in the oven. I don’t like those but it looked like I was going to have to deal with it. While meandering down the aisles oohing and ahhing over all the cool stuff we don’t have at home, one of the employees, Mr. EveningStockerMan, asked us if we were finding everything. I mentioned the thermometer and the string. Normal service would have been for him to politely direct us to the correct aisle. Normal wasn’t good enough for Mr. EveningStockerMan. He not only went and got the items while we continued shopping, he also took the unwanted, big, honkin’ thermometer and put it back. That’s superb service.

It turns out that Blue Ridge is a vacation getaway for retirees who live part of the year in Florida, Atlanta residents escaping the city, and other fans of luxurious, secluded cabins in the mountains. The locals cater to these folks with a welcoming spirit. In fact, from what I saw that weekend, there was no, “You ain’t from around here” attitude at all and more of, “Welcome back home! We missed you!” one.

The only negative service experience we had on our trip was in Helen, GA. The six of us decided that since we were in Helen, we must have a lunch of German food. After a quick walk around the village, we decided that the Old Bavaria Inn was where we should eat.

There’s something that needs to be said. We are not tiny people. No one would ever think that we were runners or athletes or in need of immediate nourishment. However, we’re not freakishly large people, either. We all carry a few extra pounds but we aren’t being recruited for the circus.

When we arrived at the Old Bavaria Inn, it was after one. The lunch crowd had come and gone. We told the hostess we needed a table for six. She directed us to a table in the corner. We stood still and gazed at the table. The people sitting at the tables near that table regarded us warily - looking at us, then the table, then us, then their chairs which were mere inches from the chairs at the table. Six people could have been seated at that table. Six, legless, skeletal people who didn’t want to breathe and eat at the same time. We motioned to the table closest to us and asked if we could sit there, instead. Eight chairs were crammed around the table but eight people would not have fit. It would work just fine for six. The hostess, Frau YouVillObeyZeRules, told us that we could not sit there. We had to sit at the table with six chairs in case a party of eight arrived. We explained that we would not fit at the table for six and would prefer to eat in comfort. She would not hear it. We noted that it was a little late in the day for large lunch groups. That didn’t work, either. The waitress for that table (and we think part-owner), Frau SavedTheDay, told Frau YouVillObeyZeRules that it would be okay for us to sit at that table. Frau YouVillObey sucked in her breath, pushed out her chest and about to 1) blow the house down, 2) test the limits of her bra with her sizable bosom, or 3) argue some more when one of our party stated that we could just go somewhere else. While I think that would have been fine with Frau YouVillObey, Frau SavedTheDay insisted that we stay and sit, comfortably, at the larger table. The service that followed was exemplary, the beer cold, and the food tasty. The waitress completely salvaged our opinion of the Old Bavaria Inn.

So many excellent service experiences completely overshadowed that one bad hostess. Our wonderful weekend in the woods? We Paid For That. Gladly.


* DO believes that when going on an extended bike trip, it's always good to have at least one trailer just in case there's trouble with one of the bikes. This point was proven on the way home.