"New Albany is Louisville's best borough."

Earlier this week, I was delighted to pass along Robin Garr's fine review of the Exchange pub + kitchen.

Another stellar review of Exchange pub + kitchen, this time in LEO Weekly.

Given the antipathy to independent small business regularly exhibited by certain of the News and 'Bune's largely unsupervised reporters, do you ever wonder where they eat?

Druthers?

Meanwhile, Louisville media has been taking notice of downtown New Albany's expanding restaurant scene. Congratulations to Ian, Rick and everyone at the Exchange, which collectively is helping us all to step up our games.

Typically, Robin posts his reviews and columns on the Louisville Restaurants Forum for discussion. Following is a comment by Shane Campbell that illustrates downtown New Albany's higher profile in metro food-think circles. On the same forum thread, Ryan Rogers of Feast BBQ took this sentiment one justifiable step further:

"New Albany is Louisville's best borough." 

Perhaps as someone who is not "from here," Ryan sees what natives sometimes miss: All New Albany has to fear, whether the topic is food, drink, complete streets or downtown housing, is the city's own heritage of low self-esteem -- the same old "can't do" melancholy, where "can do" spirit might just send a few of the demons running for cover. It isn't about who gets credit. It's about who does something. That's why I'm proud to be a part of New Albany's emerging dining and drinking strata. We're achieving.

Who's next?

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Discussion of Robin Garr's Exchange Pub review, by Shane Campbell 

Ian Hall told me Robin had been in, so I decided to wait to say anything about the new Exchange. I've been twice now and honestly, I'm just blown away by the place. While the space is familiar a la Doc Crows and Manny and Merle's in character; it's somehow a level above in my opinion.

I've had many meals at the previous location off Grantline and I'll readily attest to the quality of the cuisine on this menu. I'm pretty sure I noticed that the Ruben is back now, which definitely made me smile, and I'm a huge fan of the braised short ribs.

Donna especially likes the steak frites and we are looking forward to our next visit which will be on the 19th. We stopped by on Saturday around seven. The place was packed and we were told the wait was over an hour. Surprisingly, I was nothing but happy for Ian and his staff at the obvious popularity of the place.

We put our party of six on the list even though we had no intention of waiting that long. Our next quandry was which of the other excellent options within easy walking distance we would select. Two of us had been to Feast recently for lunch and the chicken salad and pulled pork as well as the beer selection were top notch. We also had a bourbon from what must be the most extensive stock this side of the river.

Even though it was a chilly night we reveled in boisterous company shouting out options as we walked over to Market St. We could indulge in the outstanding wood fired pizza, crab cakes, and wine at the River City Winery or fajitas and margaritas at the re-energized La Rosita. I've been dying to give the Frenchman's another go and maybe partake in some more biere de garde. Of course I'm at Bank Street Brewhouse nearly every week and the cask ale they have on, a stoutly hopped wheat if you can believe it, goes down with the best qualities of an IPA and a Hefe.

We ultimately decided to check out Habana Blues, which several of us had been to before but not recently. We were seated immediately and a pitcher of premium Mojitos and the best Cuba Libre ever soon had us congratulating ourselves on our choice. The interior of this place is like an old house with multiple-connected rooms and soaring ceilings. I spotted Todd Antz at a table nearby and went over to see what he was eating. His newest version of the Keg is just around the corner so I figured he was a regular here.

Todd and his table mates shared their recommendations and wished us a good meal. That is what we had all agreed. The service was prompt and the meal was delisciosa. I had Habana Blue's version of the braised short ribs as I was Jonesing for the same at the Exchange. We didn't linger after dinner but started to head over to the Frenchman's for a drink when the phone rang. Our table at the Exchange was ready! We ducked in out of the cold a few minutes later and were seated in a separate room near the front of the restaurant. The VIP section I'm sure!

As we entered, a young man dressed in flannel with an acoustic guitar was tearing up Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline"! Of course we all joined in the chorus as good Red Sox fans must. We ordered drinks and deserts and marveled that the place was still slammed. I drank Bell's excellent Smitten Ale paired outrageously with a bowl of Comfy Cow's Coconut ice cream. A match made in heaven!

Ian came over and spoke with us for a while and as we were leaving insisted that we see the second floor room. If there is a better space in the Metro area, I'm not aware of it! Ian and his staff have truly exceeded all expectations with the new restaurant. When I said as much, Ian said he was hurt that I would say so. Ian it was not that I didn't expect great things from you, it was just that my imagination was not equal to what you have achieved!

Specifically, a wine dinner. Generally, about local and regional wines.

Over at my Potable Curmudgeon blog, I've posted a review by Shane Campbell of last week's wine dinner at Bank Street Brewhouse, which we staged along with our friends at the Huber Winery.

Shane Campbell reviews the Huber Winery/Bank Street Brewhouse dinner on November 13.

Yes, I'm the beer guy around here, and yet in recent years, I've become re-acquainted with the joys of the fermented grape -- not by means of vineyards in California, Chile or France, but through visiting Starlight, Bloomington, Madison and downtown New Albany, and asking questions, listening and sampling. Our regional wineries are crafting wines for all tastes, and stereotypical sweet fruit wines no longer are the norm (they're still available if that's your gig).

Maybe it's ironic to use the craft brewhouse to make this point, although if so, the conclusion is no less valid. There are a couple dozen wineries or more within an easy drive of New Albany and environs. They're fun places. Visit with open minds and palates, and enjoy. End of sermon.

Shane says: "The River City Winery has really been one of our favorites for some time now."

My pal Shane likes to write about food and drink, and I like to reprint his ruminations here and at my companion blog. This piece about River City Winery appeared at the Louisville Restaurants Forum on September 14. Today it's Sunday ... so, where is Shane today?

I find that the harder I work, the harder I need to play. Wednesday nights have become a much needed and anticipated respite from the stressful week. Two days ago, New Albany provided the best escape from those rigors in recent memory.

We decided to mix things up on Wednesday, so our usual party, minus a regular and plus a special guest, reserved a spacious table for six at the River City Winery. The RCW has really been one of our favorites for some time now; alas, they cannot legally serve beer, but what they do have is a beautifully comfortable restaurant, an amazing menu (including my favorite pizza this side of the river), and lots of their own wine … and on Wednesday nights, they have live music and 20% off the wine.

We visit the RCW most often on Sundays after indulging in a Bank Street Brewhouse brunch. Still, we have sampled quite a lot of RCW’s menu, including all of the appetizers, a bunch of different pizzas, and the best crab cakes I've ever eaten. I know right?

(My daughter says I'm not to use such current terms. I told her she's not allowed to indulge in seventies and eighties rock.)

Anyway, I've spent some months’ time in the Chesapeake Bay area, so when crab cakes were recommended by our server on my very first visit to RCW I was doubtful, to say the least. I'm a doubter no more. We nearly always end up with a “three-cake” serving at our table. This Wednesday night was no different in that respect, but we also had a Capriole cheese plate, cheese bread, and a couple of pizzas. We were most excited to have the Philly Cheese Steak pizza special this night, as it had been provided at our request.

We don't know the RCW owners, and until an hour or so into our meal had neither met nor spoken with the chef. However, we’d previously asked for the special. A couple of us walked over to RCW after our BSB session last Sunday to pick up some bottles of wine. While there, we simply asked when the Philly Cheese Steak would be on special again. Our server said she didn't know, but she'd ask chef. She came out a few minutes later and said, “When do you want it?” We were surprised that she had bothered to ask at all, and even more so that the chef had responded. We suggested Wednesday night, and our server returned a few minutes later and said we were on.

It was after 3:00 p.m. on Wednesday before I remembered to call and get a reservation. No problem; it was quickly confirmed, and we were told we could have one of the large round tables. I then casually asked if the special would be the Philly Cheese Steak. The person replied yes, and then paused for a moment before asking if we were the ones who had requested it. The deep voice told me this was not our server on Sunday, unless she had one hell of a cold, so I was doubly impressed. IK, R?

We had a great time. Mellow music was provided by a large fellow (one fully entitled to listen to legacy rock) in a flowery shirt, and while unremarkable it was pleasantly non-intrusive. The food was marvelous as always. The ingredients used by RCW are of the highest quality. I'm told the beef on the cheesesteak is tenderloin. Excellent service was provided by Jessica, and Executive Chef Nick Davis came out and visited with us for several minutes. The Traminette was so tasty we polished off four bottles. Yet, somehow we were still thirsty and not at all ready to call it a night so we strolled a short block west in the pleasantly fall-like evening to Bank Street Brewhouse, where we gathered around a sidewalk table. A glass of light cellar man's beer was enjoyed with more conversation before we at last agreed that as the next day was a work day, the play must end.

Downtown New Albany is becoming the foodie destination this side of the river. It's like Bardstown Road, albeit with a twentieth the venues -- but ten times the parking. In time, it may be that we cease wondering which new and exotic spot has most recently opened in that strange foodie Mecca in the Highlands.

Shane's bonus link: Indy Champion Vignoles Isn't River City's Only Gem.

Previously at NAC: First time ever for a Hoosier winery: River City Winery wins "Wine of the Year" at The Indy Int'l Competition.

A Grand Pairing, Part Two.

A Grand Pairing, Part Two.

By guest columnist Shane Campbell

Part One appeared yesterday. 

Shane is an Indiana native (from Pekin) who returned to the area a few years back after a career in the Air Force. We came to each other’s attention via the Louisville Restaurants Forum, and I’m happy to provide a venue for Shane's account of the Louis Le Français beer dinner on Thursday, March 1. 

---

We now had bread and water and it was time for the first course.

“Real men don't eat quiche,” they say. Right; more for me, then. I can't be sure I've actually eaten quiche before. I can be sure that this was the best quiche I've ever eaten. It was warm and not surprisingly tasted like a rich fluffy omelet, but with a pleasing casserole-like texture. The beer paired with it was golden, bubbly, and mildly sweet. It reminded me of a Shandy, which is a lager with lemonade (soda). It was 7% abv but tasted much tamer. It complemented the Quiche Lorraine like orange juice does ham and eggs at breakfast. I would happily drink this beer all afternoon while sitting in the sunroom gazing lazily out at the garden.

Oy, I forgot. Sometime between my Hestian vision and the quiche, the party arrived to fill in the empty places at the table behind. I resent those people who always come in late. They do this at movies, plays, sporting events, and obviously scheduled dinners. These people missed all of Roger's and Tim's talk, but I doubt they minded. To such people, the world isn't really happening unless they are there to witness it. Therefore, they missed nothing. I shifted my seat to allow a couple of them to pass. I forgot them as soon as Tim came by to tell us about the Erwann Blonde (the beer, not the girl – she was noir). Tim moved off and Steve remarked that he recognized the nearest couple. He called out to the man who was sitting at my back, addressing him by name. The man looked surprised and seemed only to pretend to recognize Steve, but his wife did remember even asking about Steve's daughter. I leaned to the side as they caught up across the table. They quickly left off when the seafood course arrived.

An overlarge bowl of smooth white porcelain was set before me and I began to visually survey the contents of the mixed seafood stew in beer sauce (Tafel reduction). The seafood consisted of maybe a dozen denuded shellfish scattered about the bowl, including pinkish veined shrimp, glistening pearl scallops, and plumpish red mussels peaking out from a thin layer of yellowish viscous sauce. The table behind us suddenly launched into a loud discussion about -- pap smears. I don't know about you, but I never engage in gynecological anecdotes while eating shellfish! Poor form, I say.

“Do they have to speak about health issues while we're eating?” I complained a bit too loudly. The guy at the end of the table looked up sharply. “Well, most of them are doctors,” Steve shrugged and tucked in with gusto.

The seafood course was served with NABC's Tafel Bier. I've had Tafel a few times and found it to be a session strength beer with a malt forward character. I do prefer weak beers, I just prefer them to be bitter. When taken with this seafood, however the taste of this beer seemed enhanced. It now had more taste than I remembered and that taste went with the stew like sweet tea goes with cornmeal battered catfish. This pairing thing really works! Now I'm not saying for a minute that I wouldn't like this stew with a nice pint of bitter ale; I know I would. But it seemed I liked the Tafel with the right kind of food a lot more than I otherwise would!

This was borne out again with the main course. The previous Sunday I had watched the basketball game while sitting at the Bank Street bar. My favorite bitter was unavailable so I had a couple of pints of Runkel Dunkel dark lager. It was fine but it was not my preferred beer and I would only choose it when my preferred beer was not available. The Dunkel too seemed amped up and was the perfect accompaniment to the charcuterie course. This was the largest of the five courses and with it we were given an additional Biere de Garde by Tim. I found the Page 24 Biere de Printemps to be one of the most balanced beers in recent memory. It was sweet and bitter at the same time. It was my favorite beer of the evening. I don't really trust that opinion though as I had so little of it and that taken with food. This beer warrants further investigation.

The main course consisted of four pieces of pork arrayed on a plate of braised sauerkraut. Poking up from the middle of the kraut at a jaunty angle was half of a thumb-thick sausage link in a bright red casing. Scattered around the edges of the kraut was a slice of pale smoked ham, a large pork shank, and a thick slab of bacon.

The sausage filling was of a fine consistency (think knockwurst) and had a mild flavor. Its natural casing provided a satisfying snap when bitten. The ham was as good as any smoked ham I've had and was thankfully not as salty as most. It went wonderfully with the bright yellow mustard from the saucer on our table. While tender, the pork shank was not fall-off-the-bone and, well, tasted much like the ham to me. The bacon was something I had not previously experienced.

Steve and I had carried on a constant conversation of an entirely appropriate nature throughout the meal. Mostly, hmmmm … this is good … have you tried that yet? ... put some of that mustard on it … oh yes! … etc.

Then Steve said something quite discordant with the previous commentary. He said, “Is this rancid?”

What? I was sure I misunderstood. “I think it's rancid,” he said again and I saw he was pointing at the thick slab of bacon. I knew it was the bacon not because it looked like bacon; on the contrary, it did not look like bacon. Everything else however, looked like something on the menu. Therefore, this two inch thick slab, pale gray in color and looking like it had been left out in the rain to be chewed on by the dog for a couple of days must be the bacon.

“Smell it,” Steve said. Yeah, that smelled bad alright. It tasted off as well. I liken the smell to that of pork scraps in the garbage bin after a few days in the hot garage. Whew! Fortunately the smell was weak and only noticeable as you tasted it. The taste was not as offensive but had I not been in a fancy French restaurant with an economics professor for a dining companion I would have spat it back out. As it was, I chewed up a couple of tiny pieces and chased it down with expensive French beer. “I'm not eating that,” I said. “I'm not eating it either,” said Steve.

Just then Roger came up to our table.

He leaned back against the wall and smiled down at us. “So what did you think of the pork belly?” he asked.

“You mean the bacon,” I responded, pointing with my fork.

“Yes,” he said. “Louis purchased the pork belly and dry aged it himself. I really enjoyed it.”

We both looked up at him to see if he was kidding us. He appeared to be serious. I shook my head and said, “Yes, well I'm not eating it.” I believe Steve used the rancid word again.

Roger chortled with pleasure enjoying our discomfiture. After a minute, he went off to visit some other tables. I was sure he'd begin each conversation with “So, what did you think of the pork belly?”

We had two more courses. A green salad paired with a Jolly Pumpkin Witbier, which we surmised was to act as a palate cleanser. We were no sooner cleansed when dessert came.

It was a glazed apple tart. I didn't get much tart from this pastry but instead lots of custard in a delicate flaky crust . As I very much like custard, this was quite alright. The L'Hermitiere sparkling cider provided some tartness, and I was quite satisfied with this finale.

Our parting beer was a very nice espresso stout. Quite a strong one as stouts go at 7.5% abv, and very tasty. It turned out that this was not our last chance to imbibe the great miracle that is beer. Tim came around and refilled our glasses with what was left over from the service. I had as much of the Page 24 as he would give me. Then Creedence began to sing “Who'll stop the rain,” indicating that my phone was ringing and Donna had arrived to collect me.

Steve and I professed our enjoyment of one another's company and promised to see each other again (they always say they'll call, don't they?) Then I made for the door. Even with all of the courses and extra beer that Tim had given me, I felt no effects from the alcohol. It was nearly ten but the evening seemed young and while I was not overfull, I was sated for sure. Standing in the doorway waiting to bid me adieu was the fair skinned, dark-haired beauty -- La belle femme, half of our striking service combo for the evening. She asked me if I enjoyed my meal and I can't remember how I answered her. I felt a strong urge to hug her. As this would be most inappropriate, I think I must have been a little drunk after all. Sensing my hesitation, she held out her delicate hand. I shook it gently and then I was opening the car door with no recollection of exiting the restaurant or traversing the sidewalk to the car. “What was it like?” Donna asked.

To say that the Frenchman's Beer Dinner was simply like any one thing would be to describe Hamlet, Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No 2, and March Madness as an interesting story, a catchy tune, and a good game. Certainly true, but wholly inadequate.

Was this the best food I'd ever eaten? No. Was this the best beer I'd ever quaffed? Please!

What was it like then? A simple question it seems, but I've too much respect for the questioner and the experience to diminish either with such a simple answer. Some simple pairings however, might do.

To start with, it was like salted nuts and warm caramel, sizzling bacon and fresh brewed coffee, melting butter on sweet corn bread. Mix in a little beauty and beast, and add some savage-meets-savant. Wrap it up with husband and wife of 30 years giggling at each other all the way home in the car that night.

Yeah, it was like that.

A Grand Pairing, Part One.

A Grand Pairing, Part One.

By guest columnist Shane Campbell

Shane is an Indiana native (from Pekin) who returned to the area a few years back after a career in the Air Force. We came to each other’s attention via the Louisville Restaurants Forum, and I’m happy to provide a venue for Shane's account of the Louis Le Français beer dinner on Thursday, March 1. Part Two will appear tomorrow.

---

The flyer said:

Door opens at 5:00 PM … Dinner at 7:00 PM

What does that mean, I wondered?

Will there be a two-hour social period where we will drink and talk excitedly about what we are about to experience? Never having been to Louis Le Francais or any other French restaurant for that matter, I was unsure of what to expect. My only certainty was that I would be going alone. Try as I might, I had been unable to find anyone willing to accompany me on this food and beer adventure.

I wouldn't be sitting alone though. When I'd called the day before the dinner (half hoping they would be booked) I admitted that I would be by myself. The woman asked if I would mind being seated with someone else who had also made a single reservation. Of course - I would save the poor wretch (me) from the ignominy of eating alone. Be glad to do it!

At six I drove slowly past the restaurant, my wife in the passenger seat. Sure enough, the door was open but I could not see inside from the road. “Do you want to pull up and just wait in the car?” Donna asked. Donna had half heartedly offered to go with me to the dinner. Donna doesn't like beer or unfamiliar foods of any kind. I declined. She would pick me up later, though.

As I turned left from Market onto Bank, I peered far down the street trying to spot that red circle emblem painted on the side of my favorite brew pub. I had to go another block and cross over Spring Street before I saw the familiar facade of the Bank Street Brewhouse with its sidewalk seating area in front. Inside the main dining area of the BSB, I find a comfortable mix of muted orange and green walls, gray concrete, and sturdy wood furniture. The ceilings are higher than you'd think and the mechanicals are exposed. I like this neo-industrial meets post-modern speakeasy.

No sooner had I walked up to the bar and asked the bartender for a pint of bitter when I see a tallish fellow with a clean scalp, dressed in a sport coat, marching purposefully past the garage doors and enter the pub. He too walked straight up to the bar. The bartender recognized him and asked if he was eating tonight: “No I'm going to the beer thing down the street.”

Ah, my date.

My dinner companion was Steve. We introduce ourselves and establish our particulars. Steve said he was an economics professor at U of L. I said that I had driven past U of L many times to restaurants, working to bolster the economy. Steve revealed that he had recently traveled to Belgium to attend an international econ conference and while there visited several abbeys famous for brewing beer to research the paper he was writing on the economics of beer production.

I countered that I had seen the movie “In Brugge” multiple times and correctly identified that Brugge is, in fact, in Belgium. Steve's wife, also an economics professor, could not attend the evening’s festivities, as she too was researching a paper. My wife also could not attend as she had that “thing” that she had to do. It was apparent Steve and I had much in common; down right eerie really!

A short time later as we strolled companionably down the sidewalk towards a date at the Frenchman's our commonalities continued to manifest. We both liked to drink beer. What are the odds? Comrades with a purpose, we passed over the threshold into the Frenchman's and took it all in. Painted in soft pastels and much larger than I first thought, the Frenchman's restaurant seemed just right. It had old hardwood floors polished so much the grain appeared worn and soft. Along the wall on the left side was a long bar, and sitting in the middle surrounded by a crowd was Roger and his vivacious, red headed wife, Diana. They greeted us with verve and I sort of wished I had come straight in. Then I reminded myself that I might never have discovered my new twin's similarities had our company been diluted by this boisterous crowd. I gave Steve a wink and saw by the strange look on his face that he too was thinking the same. Hell, we'd probably be finishing each other’s sentences by the time the evening was over. The group made room for us and said we still had time for a glass of wine.

We had a glass of red or white wine - I think. I really can't remember which. I was disconcerted by the appearance of our bartender. I tried not to stare at this movie extra from central casting with his hair, mustache, and beard, carefully coiffured in contrasting black with gray streaks. His formal mien radiated dapper and diabolical, simultaneously. Medium tall he wore his dark suit with impeccable grace, yet imposing in an Eastern European mafia sort of way. French? I doubt it. Those dark stormy brows over raptor's beak said Andre or Dimitri or maybe even Vlad to me. When he asked me for my drink order, I stammered “Whatever Steve is having,” while pointing to my companion. Yes, I had white or red wine, I'm sure of it! It was time to take our seats.

At last, Steve and I moved away from the bar to our four top wedged into a small alcove just to the left of the front door. The restaurant, split nearly in two by a wall down the middle was three quarters full. We were on the bar side and there was a long table set up for eight directly behind us. This table was now occupied by a single couple only and I wondered if there would be some no-shows. Later I would wish there had been. Then, Roger Baylor stood up near the back of the restaurant by the kitchen and began to tell us about his involvement and the beer we would be sampling.

I had heard Roger speak before and now, as then, he spoke confidently, without notes in a smoothly timbered orator's voice that plainly hid an edge of steel. Roger told us that the beer we would be drinking would be French or otherwise inspired by beers from the French Alsace region. While France is nearly synonymous with wine, this region on the Rhine is bordered by Germany and is known for beers informed by both German and Belgium influences. The French beer was being sourced from Starlight Distribution, owned by Tim and Stacy Eads. Tim was also on hand and spoke briefly after Roger. He later provided information at table-side as he came around and poured some of the beers himself. Two of the beers came from the nearby NABC brewery and were of the style. As Roger and Tim finished their opening comments a vision came to me at my table and I took no further notice.

“Would you like bread?” she asked. Her halting English made heartbreakingly beautiful by her accent and musical tone. Such a creature with her pure sweet voice, either angel or siren, could inspire strong men to do terrible things, defy fearsome gods, and abandon all reason without question or regret. In the presence of such feminine perfection, men such as I, melt in abject hopelessness and wish we were better men. Yes please! I would gladly eat bread and only bread if it meant I could linger in the gentle warmth of her presence all evening.

Both she and the Slav bartender provided service at our table several times throughout the evening. There may be blank spots in my recollection which no doubt coincide with her visits. I'm sure my own responses to her gentle queries were given in no less broken English than hers, yet she only smiled sweetly each time. It never occurred to me to ask her name but the dulcet tones of her voice conveyed rhythm to the evening, which I now recall more as a feeling than memory. Merci.