Thursday, December 29, 2011.
The Homestead, "A Cruise Ship That Doesn't Move."
Trying not to disturb anyone, I went downstairs in Keswick Hall for a continental breakfast. Great coffee. I sat in the lobby to do some writing. As they awakened, the others explored the grounds of this handsome, well-kept property. By the time they returned the chef was setting up a lunch buffet. It looked and smelled pretty good, and Mary Ann--who has a weakness for buffets--got in line. The beef short ribs got her. I told her last night she didn't order enough dinner.
I also told her that I would be driving today. She was taken aback by this, and couldn't think of a reason why I shouldn't. We don't have far to go, and we'll probably be too early for our next hotel even if we take our time.
We didn't have quite enough time for the main attraction in these precincts. Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson, is just a few miles from Keswick Hall. The drive there explains why Jefferson chose the spot. The scenery, hilly and tree-covered, has a cozy magnificence, if those two words can be said together.
But we learned it would be an hour's wait before the next hour-and-a-half-long tour. If we did that, we would be on the winding mountain road to The Homestead in darkness. Last year, they found the route challenging enough in broad daylight. Monticello must go on the wish list.
On our way out, we stopped at Michie Tavern, whose history dates back to Revolutionary days. It's touristy, but in an honest way. We looked over the buffet in "The Ordinary"--Michie's dining room. The fried chicken caught our eyes, but it didn't look good enough to inspire our lunch-sated appetites. I bought a bottle of sepia-colored pen ink and a stick of horehound candy, giving the feeling that I at least touched the past.
The climb into the Appalachian Mountains on I-64 was pleasant and sunny. Before heading into the steep hills we stopped to pick up supplies, a gallon of windshield wiper fluid among them. It will drop into the low teens in a couple of days. I would have bet big bucks that Mary Ann's windshield washer had never been refilled in her car's lifetime. She pays no attention to such things. But somebody recently had not only topped up the reservoir but added antifreeze solvent, too. A full jug of fluid would travel with us and get in our way for the next few days.
The two-lane road to the hotel was winding and slow to travel, but picturesque and in good repair. A half-hour later, as the sun set, we pulled up at The Homestead, where a train of bellhop carts was lined up. A lot of other people were checking in, too. It's the busiest time of year for The Homestead, which was running at capacity.
They also filled the restaurants. The 1766 Room--the resort's gourmet restaurant--was completely booked for the duration of our stay. I figured we could get in one way or another, and we did. But not tonight.
Fortunately, The Homestead has five restaurants. Last year, when the Marys and Jude came here the first time, they discovered that the buffet was to be avoided, but might be the only available option for dinner. Tonight we were able to get a table in the main dining room, a grand, columned space with live (but not very good) music and a substantial menu.
The cooking style was from out of the past. That doesn't bother me. Antoine's is my favorite restaurant, and that's as old-timey as you can get. But Antoine's and New Orleans as a whole had a major gourmet cuisine going on a century and more ago. Not so the hills of western Virginia. Although half the menu here was contemporary American, at its base the taste of the kitchen was established before the American foodie revolution of the 1980s. The ingredients were of little distinction and the presentations hokey.
The service staff here has clearly been at it a long time. They reminded me of the old waiters at the pre-K Mandina's. One of them, when he was having trouble getting around to pick up my empty plate, patted my arm to get me to move out of his way. Never experienced that before.
Most of our table began with salads. I had lobster bisque, served with "chowder garnishes." Then seared salmon for MA and some kind of chicken for Jude. Mary Leigh had a sirloin strip steak, which the menu claimed had been aged for sixty days. I suspected this must mean wet-aged. Even so, it had more distinct an aged flavor than I've encountered in awhile. A bit too much of that for ML to finish the whole big steak. I still had appetite for it after the sea scallops on my plate, which were uninspired.
I was left alone to have dessert. The kids were off to something else--bowling, I think. Mary Ann was tired of eating and wanted to settle into the room.
They all have been telling me that The Homestead is like a cruise ship that doesn't move. Yeah, this is approximately cruise ship food. But on a cruise ship, I'd go to one of the bars and have a Scotch or a Cognac or something and listen to music. No such place here. And nobody I know to do it with. It's just as well. I'm afraid of drinking more than one cocktail a night now anyway.
The Homestead. Hot Springs, VA: 7696 Sam Snead Highway. 540-839-1766.
