Highlands, 2024
SMOKY MUSINGS
Meat and Mischief in the Mountains
"This comes with two sides," he said.
I looked at him sheepishly. I was ordering the beef brisket. From the pit, barbecued for hours until the meat gets so tender that it falls apart. Smoky protein, as soft and delicate as a ripe peach, though perhaps not as healthy. Its taste had me drooling for weeks before we arrived in Highlands.
"What about dropping the sides and doing more meat?" I tried.
The waiter was short, stocky, and impatient. His hair was slicked back and receding at the temples. A blank stare without so much as a fleeting smile turned out to be his answer. He probably wondered why he was serving all the beanbrains today instead of fishing at the Cullasaja River, an ice-cold beer waiting in the mesh cup holder of his folding chair on the riverbank.
I'd better ensure that my tip covers at least a six-pack for his next fishing trip. I quickly did the math.
Interior of the Highlander Mountain House Hotel, Highlands, NC
"Coleslaw," I answered without even looking at the menu. There are only three certainties in life here: death, dollars, and coleslaw with barbecue.
I didn't dare to push my luck by ordering two portions.
The menu's other sides baffled me: Brunswick stew, collards, hush puppies. Definitely not mac 'n cheese. That’s a meal on its own. I stuck to what I thought to be a safe bet.
"German potatoes, please. That’s a salad, right?" If Germany and America managed to reconcile after the Second World War, surely Kartoffelsalat and coleslaw could coexist on my plate.
"A warm salad, if you like," he replied.
I knew that I was screwed, but I couldn't care less.
"And two Bud Lights, please." I felt like making a statement.
The small-town beauty of Highlands, NC: elegance and sophistication surrounded by astonishing natural landscapes.
"Lord, have mercy, sweetie, is that a Jack Russell?" The lady at the table next to us shrieked. Her voice pierced the tranquil mountain air, a southern drawl stretching the syllables against the backdrop of the rushing river.
"He's grinnin' like a possum eatin' a sweet tater." She grabbed the attention of every diner on the terrace.
American women adopt a signature screech for dogs: shrill, excited, and invariably loud. I often fantasize about making love to them, although imagining such scenes often requires a vivid imagination and, at times, a prolonged period of outright destitution and despair. But I am merely interested in the soundscapes they'd create.
I have yet to find out.
"Yes, indeed, he is. Mr. Watson is his name." I knew that this would have been her next question.
Her jaw nearly dropped to the floor.
"Oh, my gravy! Watson? Then you must be Sherlock."
I should have thought more carefully before I named him.
Nature is overwhelming in Highlands and the Blue Ridge Mountains that surround the town.
It didn't take a detective to notice that her pants were so tight that you could see her religion. The slit in her spandex top, strategically positioned above her imposing poitrine, revealed a cross-section of her cleavage. The bum of an overweight builder picking up a wrench from his toolkit must have served as the designer's inspiration. It didn't inspire me. Any love making fantasy I had attempted to entertain withered like a leaf at the mere thought of a construction site.
The waiter delivered a full tray of cocktails for her table—one more colorful than the other—in extravagant glasses filled predominantly with ice cubes. Astonishingly, he was all smiles now. I bet that their tip would pay for his bait and tackle. Her attention span for Jack Russells appeared to be shorter than her fascination with the icy Sex on the Beach that was put in front of her.
She had a signature pitch for drinks, too. Imagining the soundscapes that she might be able to produce was both torturous and exotic.
Highlander Mountain House hotel, Highlands, NC
A driver hit the accelerator of his Raptor R at full force on US Highway 64 just as the waiter arrived with our order. Its roaring, supercharged V8 engine was barely louder than the ruckus over the cocktails at the table next to us. The waiter uppity ignored both.
Slabs of succulent beef brisket—piled on a square aluminum plate covered with a sheet of pinkish grease-proof paper—cooked to pink perfection, tasting exactly as smoky and greasy as what I craved for, were put unceremoniously in front of us. The two sides came with it.
"Is there anything else that I can get you?" He asked.
"Cattywampus and tickled pink," I was tempted to reply, but wisely kept my mouth shut.
A single beanbrain remark would do for my first day in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
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