Leaving Raleigh to Eat, or There Really are More Vegetarians at the other end of I-40, right?

“I really enjoy working there and I like my coworkers.” –Roommate, friend, cook.

“There are a number of things (vegan/vegetarian girlfriend) can eat there.”– R,f,c.

“It’s not cheap, but the prices are reasonable for the quality of the food.” – R,f,c.

“Hey, Lindsay Lohan just did a high-resolution, many-picture photo shoot with Bert Stern reprising Marilyn Monroe’s last sitting photos, and she is extra naked in them and Stern even did that high-contrast black and white thing so you can see all of her freckles really well.” –Fleshbot, sex arm of blogging behemoth Gawker.

One of these statements is unequivocally true. The other three are opinions and therefore subjective, although I think most people would agree that the phrase “a number of things” does not usually imply the number one. Furthermore, an endorsement of price by a close friend and roommate would seem to be likely to take into consideration one’s own financial position. And it is perhaps a bit of a stretch, but having a friend who finds the atmosphere of his workplace to be amicable would seem to imply that one might enjoy that amity when eating there. Like many people from Raleigh (and I mean from Raleigh, as in born in that big old brickpile at the corner of Wade and St. Mary’s) I have a great respect for Durham and Chapel Hill and my own personal little club med, Carrboro. Going out to eat in these cities is a miniature vacation, and there are often truly great meals to be had. This is just the kind of naïve optimism that cost me 120 dollars and any shot at restorative canoodling with a girlfriend too uncomfortable from the high cost and stiff atmosphere, unhappy with her food and therefore not full, and eventually too drunk from the stress-drinking and empty stomach to be a legally consenting sex partner.

So I suppose I should get to the actual restaurant review, and in taking a page from my higher-ups at the NCSU composition mill, I will start out by stroking the ego of this un-Durham, un-Southern, turd-polishing machine. The red velvet cake is fantastic! Go there and try it, it is really awesome. It is the best red velvet cake I have ever had, and I am a bit of an enthusiast. You know Ms. Nadine at the farmer’s market, with the cakes and pies? Not as good. And the duck breast, really nicely cooked with a gorgeous little drizzle on it.

So first, that great insult of the fine-dining world to the vegetarians among us, the vegetable plate. There were five vegetable plates ordered at our table and there were uninspired at best. For 12 dollars, the hungry vegetarian gets half an acorn squash filled with lentils, resembling nothing so much as a starchy sort of mock papaya. What does the vegan get for 12 dollars? The same thing, but the insipid bits of cheese sprinkled on top that did little to help the vegetarian have become an obstacle for the vegan. Did I forget to mention the cheese? So did our waiter. I have heard that the veggie plate at Vin is top-notch and have tasted at very reasonable prices truly fantastic vegetables at a number of southern institutions around Raleigh, the gnomic and little-frequented Larry’s Southern Kitchen among them. Add the cost of gas out to Durham and back and any but the most masochistic vegans and vegetarians are better off not making the trip to Watts Grocery.

I am not a vegetarian, vegan, macrobiot, or even a particularly healthy eater. I eat everything, and if it’s good I will have some more please. So I was particularly excited by the Wilted Frisee Salad with Chicken Livers and Lardons, Caramelized Onions and Sherry Shallot Vinaigrette. Doesn’t that sound good? I bet it is good, but unluckily for us (on a Friday night, towards the end of regular service) they were out. That wouldn’t be worth mentioning except that they were out of other things. Bread for instance. At a restaurant of such supposed quality and such demonstrably high prices, I expect bread (or something creatively replacing it), and I expect it to be good. And there should be more if you eat yours. Maybe I’m a spoiled brat, but who hasn’t sat starving because of their busy day and late meal and seen the waitron bringing bread as a milk and honey laden messiah?

I usually appreciate a restaurant being out of things. It implies a commitment to freshness and seasonality. But if your menu consists of 8 entrees, 6 apps, and 4 sides you cannot afford to be out of more than a couple of things. What you can afford is a waitstaff and bartender who might have a little more amity to smooth over the bumpy table experience. Before you all start howling, we were not a bunch of bitchy yuppies but had among our party at least four current or former food service professionals and we were nice. But the hauteur of the bartender when I asked what was on that one tap down at the end that I couldn’t see, the diffidence of our waiter when he told us of the various things we’d ordered that we couldn’t have, these were for me, worse than hairs or bugs in the food. I don’t mind a hair or a bug, it’s just protein after all, but to get the strip club feeling, you know the one, where everything happening is a conspiracy to fleece you as quickly and with as little effort as possible, this for me is a deal breaker. Our check was astronomical, and surprisingly so. No one had ordered an appetizer, entrée, and dessert. Most had gone for one appetizer or a shared entrée or like me, a few sides. And the check was gigantic, of such a size, in fact, it drove some people who were being treated to dinner by their significant others to drink to the point of utter dissipation. For the money we spent that night in Durham, we could have had a whole night out in Raleigh, with a great meal served (and possibly cooked) by our friends, and strong cheap drinks mixed (and probably served) by our friends. Would our experience have better if were friends with the waitstaff? Do Durham kids get bad service at Vin or Humble Pie? I hope not. Maybe it is just my overriding love of my hometown, but even our most petulant, moue-mouthed hipster waitrons in their all-blacks seem more eager to please than the “I’m pretending to live in a big city cause I’m from somewhere that I blame for my not knowing how to be nice even though it is my own damn fault cause come on, there are plenty of friendly people in New York, Chicago, (other cities not so southern as this one)”

Moral: Support your local (as in Raleigh-located) fine-dining establishments for that special occasion and don’t believe the hype (no matter how close to home it may come from) that would send you careening down I-40 only to come back broke with your tail between your legs. J. Betski’s for example has not once in my experience run out of the best chicken-liver mousse in town, they have a terrifically skilled and fantastically friendly bartender and no one pretends that it is veg-friendly. That said, I bet if you asked nice on a weekend night pretty late the chef would do something for you. And that’s what it is really about, isn’t it: personal interaction between the chef and the diner, the waiter, and the bartender. I want to feel like a hungry person getting fed rather than a sucker with a glowing wallet.