Heading north from Charlotte, dairy cows clustered in expansive fields. Feed corn reached high in the late afternoon August heat. I cranked up my Gap Band III cassette as the open road of I-77 invited ease and speed. Slow down. Look for the Hardee’s. Next exit Davidson/Davidson College.

Ease and speed no longer define my forays on Interstate 77. The Hardee’s at exit 28 is long gone, and the Davidson/Davidson College I entered 35 years ago is different. Different, but same. Same with that percolation of possibility, made different by shifting socioeconomics and migration and immigration, from within and without the lines of region, country and nationality.

Michelin stars, mentions in Saveur and James Beard nominations have become common on Davidson’s Restaurant Row. Like many of my friends and neighbors, I wax rhapsodically and geek out on technique, sourcing, presentation et al. I admit to a spice fetish, honestly earned by travels through Southeast Asia.  Growing up these parts, I come by my pork and corn predilections naturally. I trained in Princeton, interpreting Escoffier to a gracious employer.

That’s good and well, but here’s the deal: join me on a journey. I’m no Pete Wells, but I might do reviews. Recipes are nice (especially those found in old Junior League and Church compilations), but go to Main Street Books and buy a big one from Adah. I can recommend a few.

All in all, I reckon I’d rather be a chronicler. I want to tell the stories of the folks (past, present and future) who enjoin art and industry, craft and creativity to make Davidson a dining destination.

Sincerely,

The Culinarian