| Pangaea | |
| Juiciness | 10 |
| Size Matters | 9 |
| Sides | 10 |
| Price | 8 |
| Char-ability | 9 |
| Meat Type | 10 |
| Hand-ability | 10 |
| As Ordered | 9 |
| Server Issues | 10 |
| Taste | 10 |
| Ambiance | 10 |
| Parking Lot | 9 |
| 114 |
A city can be schizophrenic, a drunken walk down the middle of a street at night, lamp lights blazing a hazy way home after a tipsy sample here and there. You try to maintain the dignity of a middle route, but try as you might, you clumsily wobble your way this way, leaning to leeward but then overcompensate and careening to windward. What I mean to illustrate, is that a city is one way toward the hill, the encampment of the doers and shakers, the makers and mighty king-makers and another way down the path to the hovels of the lower casts, the poverty stricken and the bean-pickers. The have’s; and the have nots, to say it in fewer words.
Yet a town, a small town--really, only a village--can magnify this schizophrenia, and where the city’s ailment is expected and some even might say enjoyably quaint, the village experience can leave one perplexed, and stunned to the point of stupefaction. And yet, this need not be an unpleasant experience.
Thus was the visit to North Bennington, VT, home of Bennington College, famed for its independent, liberal streak, its writerly and artistically inclined folk--Shirley Jackson comes to mind--but is also as down-home Vermont as one might imagine. The folks there are plain folk, honest as people sometimes are, hard-working and home-spun. The contrast is unmistakeable, palpable.
On a burger quest we had not factored in this schizophrenia; burgers, we thought, were found in the wild, in the bush, so to speak. We had not imagined a gourmet’s delight, a heaven’s fount of burgers, made of angel wings, with halos as buns, soft as clouds, where a waitress is more maitre'd or wine steward (except with ground beef).
Yet. We stood facing Pangaea, which really ended up being twin receptacles of a union of opposing qualities: the right side contained a more embellished--garnished, one might say--restaurant than one usually finds in a small Vermont town; while the left side looked suspiciously like a, well, bar, though it was noted above the door that it was instead a “lounge.”
We slid our business cards under the door and awaited some announcement. None was forthwith. My companion rapped thricely, and anon we made our appearance within the threshold. The lighting was dimmed and a pleasant young woman greeted us with a smile and said something which neither companion nor I could quite manage to decipher. Seeing our perplexed expressions, this young lady repeated herself and then I finally understood that she had spoken to us in French! “Ah, mais oui!” I said, reverting back to my youthful days during the Provence summers--it seems it is just like riding a bike.
We followed her to a table by the windows where we could observe the comings and goings of the quaint townsfolk that might appear--though they didn’t. Still. She expeditiously produced the menus -- we informed her of our quest for burgers and that a menu for our purposes was pointless -- and ‘she introduced herself as Julie. This was pronounced Jool-ee. Companion--as he later informed me--felt Julie’s expression changed noticeably on the mention of a “burger.” I personally did not notice this. Still, she led us to believe that the hamburgers --she nearly choked on the word-- would be better described as “la viande de vache hachée.” OK, we said. That’ll work.
Julie gave us a moment to reconsider our food choice, and suggested we begin with drinks. “Two beers,” we uttered, apparently in a tone fit for farm life and menial labor, for we noticed that our waitress was at the same time exasperated and startled by our taste for common brewskies. “But,” she mewed, “of what vintage, of what…” Here she seemed to struggle with the common tongue, as English seemed not her native language. “Ah,” she continued, “terroir! Of what ees zee necessary terroir?”
“Terwhat?” Companion was perplexed. “Just give us whatever you think best,” he said, finally realizing that this was the road less likely to cause major mishaps along the way to culinary absolution. She seemed quite pleased with the solution, nodding in our general direction as if to complement our good sense.
A moment later she appeared along with two pilsner glasses, one accompanied by a bottle of Altesino Brunello di Montalcino Montosoli di Hoppi, 2007. The other, setting it down before companion, she informed us was a singularly de-hoppified 2015 Budweiser. She mentioned that Companion did not appear to be the type to enjoy a finely crafted brew. And of course, she was correct.
Now, although Julie seemed immensely well-informed on all matters gastronomic, we stuck to our guns and ordered two plates of burgers and fries. “But,” she begged to inform us, “we do not have just burgers. We have... selections. You must...select.”
The menu contained what appeared to be hamburgers but as we did not have a working knowledge of French, we were at a loss. Pointing at random, we made our selection, hoping the hamburger gods rained fortune down upon us. As Julie smiled, we thought ourselves quite the gourmands, and pretended to an expertise and familiarity that, truthfully, was quite beyond us.
After some minutes of scintillating conversation concerning the respective bowel habits of deer and bear (Companion has been known to partake of hunting trips up north), our waitress reappeared, presenting two plates of the most mouth-watering examples of beef--sorry, boeuf-- I have ever sampled. It was shown to us as if to kings sitting on thrones among a parley of nations. The meat, cooked to perfection, glistened dew-like, lightly salted, sitting on a garden bed of onion and lettuce with mushrooms flowing in a sauce of...oh, of some chef’s secret divising.
It tasted as if the French language could be lassoed and penned, then ground to a pulpy deliciousness, and mingled with an ancient vintage of Bordeaux aged in charred oak barrels. The burger--Julie coached us--should be sniffed first, allowing the aroma of the organic grasses which the cow had previously fed upon, to waft its way into our gullets. Then, satisfied with the smells of Provence and the Languedoc lingering upon the palate, we were instructed to bite a small bit of the burger shifting it from one side to the other, thus coating the palate with what Julie noted should be "Un repas de la gastronomique bonné et de la finalité!”
“Sure is!” we said. “Magnifique,” Companion chirped in.
“Now,” she fairly shouted, “spit it out!”
Not accustomed to spitting out our food, especially such delicious burgers such as we currently had within our very grasp, but not wanting to disappoint our waitress/drill sergeant, we did as we were told.
She said that all trained eaters --those in the know, the au courant, those apprized and educated as to what it means to...eat-- knew enough to sample the taste of something well-prepared, as one samples a work of art with the eyes, or a piece of music with the ears. “One does not insert a Picasso into one’s stomach,” she said.
“Certainly not!”I said. “Certainly not,” said Companion.
We took another small bite, moaned a bit, and spit it out onto our plates. Satisfied with her charges, she made a quick exit as other patrons were beginning to file into the restaurant.
As we were left to our own devices, we then made a mad dash to eat, and to our heart’s content. With every new bite, we became ever more enraptured, ever more passionate with our boeuf, our frites--which I must say were as croustillant mais aussi doux que le bas du dos de la femme.
What did that mean? I have no idea. I cannot say but only that Companion and myself became enraptured with French with every new bite of boeuf and frites so that by the end of our repast we were speaking in a language that, if Hugo or Flaubert were seated with us, they would have been perfectly at ease.
“La viande est particulièrement bien choisi, je pense, pas vous? Oh, oui, mais si les frites étaient moins parfait, il aurait tout gâché. Pourtant, nous ne devons pas nous inquiéter. La perfection est notre allocation.”
Ah oui. Notre nuit a duré aussi longtemps que la nuit doit. Mais maintenant, nous devons aller. La lune est pleine, l'estomac tellement. Bonne nuit, et toi, juste bien.
Julie, nous vous remercions. Nos vies notre plein-remplis maintenant!
Ah oui.
Ah oui!
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