“Middle of Nowhere” Recommends the Flank of Madoff
I’ve just completed running a survey in which I asked people to respond to a recent dining column in The New York Times that reviewed north-central Vermont restaurants. The columnist, Mark Bittman, praised the restaurants. He expressed amazement with their use of local ingredients (apparently, this doesn’t happen so much in Manhattan). His description of north-central Vermont was less flattering:
“It’s one thing to find a group of restaurants that is not only acceptable but compelling … within 20 miles or so of one another in what amounts to the middle of nowhere. It’s another when that middle of nowhere is north-central Vermont, more or less defined by I-89 and the northern ski country.”
This sounded a bit…snotty?...to me. So I polled others for their reactions. Respondents included north-central Vermonters, as well as a few Upper Valley residents.
Most people insisted they lived “somewhere,” even “somewhere special.” “Tim” from Waterbury said that he might live in the middle of nowhere, but “nowhere is where the flatlanders want to be.” He compared his region to a picnic overrun this time of year by “ants,” “a teeming mess of white license plates who have no idea where they came from, where they are going, or how to get there. They swarm about in frantic fashion, passing you, turning around, getting lost, and then passing you again.”
Asked to describe advantages of living in their region – and whether there was, “anything – anything at all - that defines your area other than I-89 and the northern ski country,” people offered long lists. The most common answer was a strong sense of community. Other local distinctions included: Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream, “solvent banks,” the Green Mountain Opera Festival, venison jerky at all gas stations, a river flowing north, few New York reporters and a 27 toed cat who lives at the Mad River Valley Chamber of Commerce.
“Tim” dissented. “If it weren’t for I-89 and skiing I’d have nothing at all to do. Oh #$%&, I don’t ski.”
My survey also uncovered disadvantages to living in north-central Vermont, and northern New England in general. Carla Lawrence, Waterbury’s town clerk, expressed wistfulness that she didn’t have time “to unwind on my way home from work in traffic” or the opportunity to fall asleep to the lullaby of sirens. She noted the stress of having to wave good morning to her neighbors as she walked her dog down her dirt road.
“It’s much harder to buy quinces on the street,” admitted Rowan Jacobsen of East Calais, although, on the plus side, “you can pee pretty much anywhere you are.” Other concerns about living up here included: annoyingly bright stars, birds singing, air so fresh it hurts the lungs and less convenient subway access.
North-central Vermonters were polite but guarded when asked how their “nowhere” status compared to that of the Upper Valley. One person suggested, “we are practically related,” noting the word “valley” in both names. Brian Shupe of Waitsfield warned that the Upper Valley was “way more somewhere,” but might with luck keep its “nowhere qualities.”
When asked to imagine New York City regional cuisine, Robin McDermott, co-founder of the Mad River Valley Localvore Project, proposed, “grilled wall street exec, lightly smoked over taxi cab exhaust fumes.” Others suggested, “rat flambée,” road kill pastiche, an entrée involving the “few deformed fish still left in that nasty lake in Central Park,” a Bear Stearns stock options salad and “Flank of Madoff.” Author Joni Cole, an Upper Valley resident, came up with my favorite dish recommendation, “a Size Zero Grilled Plate with a Reflective Hydro Sauce. This entrée consists of nothing but a moistened, flash-heated Kate Spade dinner plate that allows the beautiful people to gaze into it adoringly as they see their own cheek implants.”
Two people responded to Bittman’s dismissal of Vermont cheeses as not matching European standards. According to Rowan Jacobsen, Vermont cheeses are, “better and more varied than any comparable area in Europe.” Brian Shupe added, “we know the responsible cows, sheep and goats personally.”
Most agreed that “Bittman” was a suspicious name for a dining columnist and might be an alias. Suggestions for his real name included “Bittflatlander” and “Connault Taste.” Susan Klein, Director of the Mad River Valley Chamber of Commerce noted that a bitt, “is a vertical post (two posts usually) mounted on a boat or ship where you wrap ropes.”
Any other comments? A woman calling herself “Snark” shared this observation: “He wouldn’t last one winter here.”