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A Well Deserved Best Chef in the Southwest Nod to Steve McHugh

In May 2014, my sister and I walked into a new restaurant in San Antonio called Cured and were blown away by dish after dish. Everything presented that meal was masterful from the selection of innovative charcuterie to the symphony of favors found in that ridiculously good pig’s head dish. “Crawfish Love Letter” was a tribute to the decade Cured’s chef Steve McHugh spent in New Orleans as chef de cuisine to John Besh. Even the mundane burger, a patty made with bacon and topped with smoked onion and homemade American cheese was one of the best burgers I’ve ever had. All delivered in a classic 1904 space in the burgeoning Pearl District (see my story on this emerging foodie neighborhood in The Washington Post). So I was delighted to read last week that McHugh is getting the acclaim he deserves, chosen as one of the semi-finalists by the James Beard Foundation as one of the Best Chefs in the Southwest. He’s the only nominee from San Antonio, which I find hard to believe, because it’s one of my favorite places to dine in America. Do yourself a favor this spring and book a room in the new Hotel Emma, housed in a former 19th-century brewery, and simply walk to dinner every night in the Pearl District to one of the 15 restaurants. You’ll thank me. 

 

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Climb Mount Monadnock

Climbing the broad-shouldered peak Henry David Thoreau called a “sublime mass,” Mt. Monadnock, is a rite of passage for many New England children. Just over the border of Massachusetts in southern New Hampshire, Monadnock is less than a two-hour drive from Boston. Its accessibility and locale, smack dab in the center of New England, has made it one of the two most popular mountain ascents in the world going toe-to-toe with Japan’s Mount Fuji. 

 
Early May, when the black flies have yet to arrive, is the ideal time to bag this 3,165-foot peak. Head up the White Dot trail, one of the steepest ascents, but also one that rewards with you with incredible vistas in a very short time. Above treeline, the forest recedes to form open ledges covered with low-lying shrubs like mountain cranberry bushes. This gives you ample opportunity to rest and peer down at the soft blanket of treetops, small towns with their requisite white steeples, a smattering of lakes and ponds, and farms that fan out to anonymous ridges. Soon you’ll reach the summit, where Thoreau watched in dismay as his fellow mid-19th century trampers inscribed their names in rock. You can still spot names like “T.S. Spaulding, 1853” clearly etched in the stone. 
 
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Don’t Miss the Women Modernists Show at Norton Museum of Art

On our last day in Florida, we made the wise move to drive the convertible to the Norton Museum of Art in Palm Beach. As luck would have it, a new exhibition had just opened, “Women Modernists in New York,” showcasing the works of four friends from the 1920s and 30s, Marguerite Zorach, Helen Torr, Florine Stettheimer, and the best known of the quartet, Georgia O’Keeffe. I’ve never been a big fan of Zorach’s work, a little too primitive and naïve for me. But the exhibition became intriguing in the next gallery focusing on the works of Helen Torr. Torr was Arthur Dove’s wife, and while the art world was reaping accolades on her adoring husband, they were ridiculing the work of Torr (and, for that matter, most work by women artists at the time). Her charcoals of still lifes are wonderful, but most striking were Torr’s two self-portraits where you can see in those sorrowful eyes the world beating down on her. The next room was a delight, a sampling of works by Florence Stettheimer. On one wall she painted herself and her two sisters wearing garb straight out of a Charleston dance, reclining as if they were sitting on chaise lounge chairs. It’s no wonder one of her works recently sold at auction for $4.5 million. Her joie de vivre and sheer ebullience radiates throughout the room. Thankfully her sister dismissed her request to destroy all her works of art upon her death. 
 
O’Keeffe, of course, is the star of the show. One glance at her vibrant palette in “Red Maple at Lake George” (1926) and I was immediately transported back to my boyhood stomping grounds. But the Norton Museum scored a real coup by getting the National Gallery of Art to part with their series of six Jack-in-the-Pulpit canvases, where O’Keeffe reduces the hyper-sensualized flower down to its abstract parts. I could have stared at this wall for hours, but had to catch a flight back to Boston. If you’re in South Florida at any point until May 15th, do yourself a favor and see this show. If you want to read a manuscript of the story I originally wrote for Art & Antiques Magazine on O’Keeffe’s years in Lake George with her husband, Alfred Stieglitz, please email me at Steve@ActiveTravels.com. 
 
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Row, Row, Row Your Boat

Pat yourself on the back for the walk you took around the neighborhood today, as you should. Then go to the web and cheer on Leo Rosette, 59, who’s currently in a 24-by-6-foot boat desperately trying to become the oldest American to cross an ocean in a rowboat. He started January 4th off the coast of the Canary Islands and has already battled 25-foot waves, a freighter that was about to crush him if Rosette didn’t radio the ship and tell them there’s a boat the size of Whoville directly in front of him, and numerous whales and dolphins. This is Rosette’s second attempt to cross the Atlantic, having quit after three days because of stomach pains in December 2008. But now the former deputy marshal is almost halfway to his goal of rowing 2,038 nautical miles to the shores of Antigua.
 

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Carve That Perfect Turn and Then Watch It on YouTube

“What’s on that guy’s helmet?” my daughter Melanie asked as we made our way outdoors this past weekend at Jay Peak. It was a video camera or helmet cam, the latest fad to hit the ski slopes. GoPro’s new model, the HD HERO2, has been selling like hot cakes since it made its debut last year. Retailing for $300, you can mount the video camera on your helmet, poles, or jacket and start filming those runs, easily uploaded to your YouTube page later in the day. The HERO2 also has models that work well with surfers and mountain bikers, so expect to see more action on the water and singletrack trails this summer. You think you’re worthy of being watched by millions? Prove it!

 
I’m off to San Diego, Cabo San Lucas, and Puerto Vallarta, back on February 28th. Have a great two weeks and keep active!
 
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Luang Prabang: City of the Royal Buddha

The host of Tha Heua Me Guesthouse greets me with a smile on the porch and points to the simple meal prepared on the teak table beside her: sticky rice in a woven bamboo basket. I nod to her in ‘thanks’ – neither of us speaking the others’ language – take the rice, slip on my shoes, and begin my walk towards Sakkaline Road. The first rays of sunlight seep through the thick morning fog as I pass stately brick buildings adorned with plaited bamboo panels and balconies, the architectural vestiges of France’s colonial rule over Laos. Upon arriving at Luang Prabang’s main avenue, I am met by a long procession of barefoot monks in plain orange garb making their way through throngs of locals and tourists, all gathered at the crack of dawn to partake in a tradition that stretches back centuries. I kneel at the curbside with rice in hand waiting for an empty-handed monk to accept my offering. A few moments later, I am locking eyes with a young bareheaded man; his expression is at once one of gratitude and of poise. This will be the only meal he eats all day.
 
Later in the day, my college buddy and I, en route to one of Luang Prabang’s French bistros, stop by Wat Xieng Thong, a glittering monument honoring the twin pillars of ancient Lao society: the King and the Buddha. Upon wresting power from the French in 1945, the victorious communist party moved Laos’ political capitol to Vientiane. Nonetheless, Luang Prabang remains the spiritual beating heart of the nation. Though the princes of Laos languish in exile, the royal family may be consoled that the memory of their ancestors endures in the gilded funeral urns of the stupa inside this splendid monument. It is not just Wat Xieng Thong that dazzles. On each cobblestone corner of town, another enigmatic Wat awaits discovery. No sign of the communist regime. It’s as if this Buddhist kingdom never left its royal capital. 
 
Guest Post by Ted Shabecoff 
 
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Cruising California’s Redwood Coast

Five hours north of San Francisco on Hwy 101, you reach Humboldt County, otherwise known as California’s Redwood Coast. While more than 4 million people visit Yosemite National Park each year, only 600,000 make it to Redwood National Park annually to see the world’s tallest tree, a 379-foot coastal redwood. Indeed, this is the undiscovered Californian coast, where you can drive through the largest intact old-growth redwood forest, Avenue of the Giants, with relatively little traffic, hike almost 80 miles of wilderness shoreline on the Lost Coast, stroll the perfectly preserved Victorian village of Ferndale, and walk through the luxuriant moss-covered walls of Fern Canyon. Once known only for its cash crop, marijuana, Humboldt County is now known for its vineyards and claims to have the greatest number of artists per capita in all of California, the reason why author John Villani picked Eureka number one in his book, “The 100 Best Art Towns in America.” This region of the country has been on my wish list for quite some time, so I’m excited to be reporting live this week from Humboldt County. Please follow my every move on this blog and from my tweets @ActiveTravels.

 

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