VIRGINIA'S ARTFUL SHRINE MONT

From Arlington, Virginia, it is a two-hour drive to Orkney Springs and Shrine Mont Retreat Center. Shrine Mont, a 950-acre parcel of land in the Allegheny Mountains, has, for about 80 years, served the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia as “a place apart for rest, devotion and fellowship.”

The invitation also extends to any number of organized corporate or cultural groups that care to use this rather wonderful, if austere, complex of tranquil gardens, toe paths, cottages and balconied dorms to accommodate up to 600 hundred visitors. And, many do—Shrine Mont is host every year to the Shenandoah Valley Music Festival and the annual Bishop’s Fourth of July Bluegrass Festival, among others.

Shrine Mont was established in the mid-1920s as a property of the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia after it was deeded to the church by its owner-founder Dr. Edmund Lee Woodward. Woodward and his successor Wilmer Moomaw, served, respectively, as the facility’s director through much of the last century to see through a vision they shared that the complex be a natural setting for worship and reflection.

For their purposes, they eventually purchased the historic Orkney Springs Hotel. Built in the mid-1800s, the hotel was something of an early-American resort for people seeking the medicinal benefits of the area’s mineral-rich springs. Today, the old hotel is known as Virginia House, a towering four-story, 96,000-square-foot structure, wrapped on every level by unfailing balconies. The tallest structure at Shrine Mont, Virginia House stands in the middle of the plat of 40 similarly-styled crisp wooden buildings—white paint, black window trim, arched roofs-- which descend outward to form a generous complex of smaller houses and dorms. Just about all the housing—bare bones accommodations that have the endearing charm of a tired yet dependable Inn--are wrapped in the all-important balcony and furnished with Adirondack seating for Shrine Mont’s most important pastime: socializing, sipping drinks, laughter, observation, and reflection, not to mention that they make terrific treadmills for children.

Within the stunning setting that is part of the Appalachian chain, Shrine Mont, which lies at the foot of the Great North Mountain, feels sunken, as if in the heart center of the Alleghenies. As one looks to the sky, it is readily understood that the grounds are surrounded by a measureless, verdant wall. It is as if you are swimming in a dense swirl of Virginia’s native trees--majestic white oaks trees, cherry poplars, maples and pines.

As one approaches the Cathedral Shrine of the Transfiguration, the outdoor shrine that is Shrine Mont’s centerpiece, there is a tranquil little stone monument to the Orkney Spring, from which, naturally, a gentle flow of water pours eternal. It is dressed with a plaque that is tied to the ecclesiastic roots of the place: “The Orkney Spring, 1783, Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow,” and then commemorates the life of one Georgia Moore, 1861—1931.

Shrine Mont makes first time visitors feel somewhat like the new arrivals at the professor’s sprawling country estate in C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch and The Wardrobe: unattended, a visitor can, with every twist and turn, find something mysterious, if not enchanting. And so at dusk, in a stealthy pilgrimage from our little room in Maryland House, while my daughter went to a children’s movie at Lexington House, I set out to see the outdoor Cathedral Shrine of the Transfiguration.

It was on this tour that I stumbled upon a rather significant collection of oils on canvas in a house called Art Hall, no less. To my eye, it was a monument within a monument—a little museum of landscape paintings housed in a rustic Shrine Mont lecture room—a musty parlor of sorts, with an old stone fireplace and characteristically dull lighting, which I unhesitatingly flipped on so I could see the walls of art.

There were more than 70 paintings, and all were the work of John Douglas Woodward (1846-1924), the uncle of Shrine Mont’s founder Edmund Woodward. Thankfully, there was a printed guide to his paintings. One side of the room featured American landscapes, and the other, a glorious array of landscapes from his travels around the world. There was a painting, in particular, worth coveting, a scene on a lake with an exciting pink sky—like a Hudson River School sky, which was likely given Thomas Cole and his peers pre-date Woodward by about half a century.

It was amusing to guess ever so briefly where and what the image was before looking at the guide, and getting an answer. This favorite of mine was #67, “Varenna, Italy on Lake Como.” Moving on, the small and medium size canvases were a joy and the guessing game continued for a while with other beauties including #23, “Wind Swept Road, East Hampton,” and #68, “Villa Carlotta” also on Lake Como.

But, at last, it was time to get a glimpse of the outdoor shrine before the blue twilight turned to total black. The small hike to the shrine was a dreamy little flight over stone bridges and paths that put visitors into simple wooden pews facing the alter, a primitive handmade edifice of stone that is haunting and magnificent.

“Each of its stones,” says Shrine Mont literature, “was pulled by horse or rolled by local people from the mountain that embraces it. The baptismal font was originally a dugout stone used by Indians to grind corn.” In the dark, it was a scene to behold--the first religious setting that felt to me quite profound, or extreme, what with its dark, sturdy authority, its Gothic spirit, the multitude of crosses, and every podium and surface made of stone, with a grand, softly curving bell at the top. As it was time to leave, I stepped into the aisle over the discarded mums from a service earlier that day, their orange and yellow color still vivid amid rocks.

The handmade architecture is breathtaking for nothing more than the fact that it exists with casual fortitude. For those descending the hill, leaving the sacred grounds that encircle the Shrine, there is an archway—a simple affair of five thick branches mounted in stone foundations on each side-- with a rectangular sign that reads “Depart in Peace.” Depart in peace: a wonderful mantra for contemplation in any faith and frame of mind—and, to which I rejoined in a whisper, “I’ll be back.”

BLINDING LIGHT: PAUL THEROUX’ NARCISSISTIC YET LOVABLE WRITER

Blinding Light by Paul Theroux very definitely shifts my opinion about the writer’s being a kindred spirit of Graham Greene, to his being Graham Green’s descendant hippie cousin who is having a hell of a lot more fun. Theroux’ absorbing 2006 novel touches on a number of engaging and amusing themes that are aired mainly by the story’s principal character: Slade Steadman, the oversexed, spoiled, lovable pain-in-the-ass central character, and also, to a degree, his lover, Ava Katsina, a similarly narcissistic, sexual being, but, appropriately, so very much smarter and purely selfish than our protagonist Steadman.

The story is laced with contemporary, tell-all glimpses into the rarefied world of accomplishment and power with Slade Steadman at its center. Steadman, a celebrity A-lister inside the heady East Coast best and brightest set—i.e. he is tight with the President, the Walter Cronkites, the Bill Styrons, the Mike Nichols, all of whom make cameos in the book-- is an author who earlier on penned a seminal travel book called Trespassing, based on a two-year world adventure he made in his late twenties without passport, credit cards, luggage—nothing.

We don’t need too much information about Steadman’s book to understand that he struck gold with his simple idea of boldly traveling the world, defying authority and legal barriers while making grisly, exciting discoveries in the world’s darkest corners along the way. His book spawned an image and a brand—as his handlers frequently and forcefully remind him—that led to an industry known as “TOG”, “Trespassing Overland Gear,” a retail empire that sells high-end travel accoutrements—knives, watches, compasses, clothing. In short, Steadman’s Trespassing became a lifestyle and a look—a la Ralph Lauren, or Eddie Bauer-- with huge mass appeal, not to mention a feature film, a television series and so much product development that Steadman is a fabulously wealthy fifty-year old one-hit-wonder living in his native Martha’s Vineyard. When we meet him, he is a self-loathing gentleman farmer living in his walled estate, who thinks only about his failure to write another book, and about sex.

“Virility, he thought, was not just an important trait in an imaginative person but was a powerful determiner of creativity.”

We are introduced to Steadman and Ava together as they make a journey to Ecuador in search of a possible story idea—a drug tour—that might help trigger a new book for Steadman. At this point, Ava and Steadman’s affair is winding down, though they had committed to the trip, and so begins the first section of the book. Theroux’ use, to my way of understanding, of a limited third person perspective is unwavering from start to finish, which is perhaps why I have come away from the story with bemused frustration, and affection, for Steadman—the paradox. We see so much through his eyes, yet not his voice. So, as he travels to Ecuador, somehow we are in on a conversation in which we really understand his disgust with his company of new-rich travelers in search of the next best jaunt, and, naturally, ensconced in the most expensive TOG clothing and accessories.

“…Trespassing had spawned so many imitators, it created a genre, inspiring a sort of travel of which this Ecuador trip was typical: a leap in the dark.”

Of this trip, we get Steadman’s cynicism, and sadness that adventure and risk are somehow disingenuous if all it takes is money:

“Trophies, all of them. And this – the trip to the Oriente, the visit to a shaman in a jungle village, the search for a true ayahuasquero and the trance-drink itself was another trophy for these romantic voyeurists.”

Adding insult to injury, one of the travelers is packing Steadman’s Trespassing, carrying it with her as if it is a survival manual. When asked about the book, and unaware of Steadman’s identity, she describes the author as a “notorious has-been.” Readers can hear his grumbling self-pity, and the journey has only just begun.

Theroux’ mastery is hard to describe, but without feeling preached to or hearing loud messages, I could still feel Steadman’s heart race and pulse rise with every mishap, and moment of pleasure. In Ecuador, Steadman finds what he needs, a drug with a pretty name, Datura, that essentially blinds the user temporarily. However, in lieu of seeing black and morphing into a sightless, frightened invalid, Steadman’s blindness gives him the subconscious visions that drive the story line for his second novel. His Datura, a flowering plant whose root he dissolves into liquid and drinks each morning so as to achieve his visions and heightened perception, transforms our spoiled hero into something of a confident, sexy, sardonic Mr. Hyde. Upon returning from Ecuador, he and Ava remain together at his Martha’s Vineyard estate for the year, their physical relationship having taken on new meaning by their erotic pact in the name of finishing the book. She will take dictation and role play according to his every memory, unfinished boyhood fantasy and fetish. He, for example, cherishes not the flesh, but what exists between him and a woman’s flesh, as is evident in some of his prose that will go into his second book:

“Certain items of women’s clothing unfailingly raised his lust…the soft hand of silk, the open weave of lace, the tug of elastic, the neat cut of pleats in a short skirt, the way the satin smoothly bulked over the skin –and particular loose combinations, warmed by a warm body. Much more than a woman’s nakedness, the clothes were the powerful aphrodisiacs. They were veils of enticement.”

Such is presumably the tone of Steadman’s entire novel, brazenly named by the author The Book of Revelation. No doubt a knock at today’s publishing industry, Steadman’s comically bold title isn’t even questioned by his book agents, surely because of the presumed formula for success that Steadman represents to these reckless publishers, regardless of whether the novel is good or not. In fact, it is made clear several times over that reviews are poor but sales are great.

Naturally, in the course of writing his book, in which Ava is both formidable, indulgent lover and cautious, sober doctor, Steadman gets carried away and embarks on a grand deceit that will ultimately, scarily crumble around him. In public, he feigns his intelligent, psychic blindness, coming off as a brilliant Seer, the upbeat, resilient role model of a cripple. Even the President wants the alluring Steadman to sit by him at a Martha’s Vineyard Clambake, so that Steadman, the stoned, psychic showoff, can recite every geographical twist and turn of the villages across Nantucket Sound, blind and at night, while jaws drop around him and he, in effect, upstages the Commander in Chief. At the dinner, Steadman keeps coming back for more, such as when the President gets word that Princess Diana has been in a car crash in Paris, and Steadman enthralls the glittering guests by advising them, as if a prophet: “Don’t die today. No one will remember.”

As Steadman’s mid-life drama plays out, his disastrous, self-adoring character is carefully juxtaposed to the President himself, who also happens to be a shameless narcissist with a secret. In what makes for a good read probably because of our media saturated culture, Steadman is exposed for having written his book with the aid of a mystery drug—and then, because of his damaged karma, actually goes “bag over his head” blind in the process. Concurrently, the President is brought down, too, by his own stench of a scandal concerning a White House intern. These sad, sorry days enshroud the story—and, we long for things to improve.

Steadman’s rise and fall are to be expected. Ava’s growing disgust with Steadman’s abuse of the Datura provides enough foreshadowing for us to be prepared for Steadman’s rather nightmarish discovery that real blindness is about to eclipse his psychedelic blindness. For any of us who have felt despair for whatever reason on the streets of New York, the egoistic Steadman suffers his initial spiral into a handicapped hell, appropriately, on these mean streets.

It is normal for Steadman to fail to see his good fortune—his pleasant status quo—and so every mishap is a metaphor for his lack of gratitude. The poor sod, for example, is groping his way from the Carlyle, no less, across the east side, where he gets hijacked, robbed and yelled at in the process, just so he can lob any evidence of Datura into the East River. Finally, Ava comes to New York and rescues Steadman from his book tour that has officially gone to hell along with his eyesight, and Steadman is returned to his Vineyard house, this time an infantile, paranoid victim. At this point, the course of his and Ava’s relationship has changed:

“She was in charge; she made him feel lost and helpless. She too seemed like someone else, bigger than ever. The way she touched him had seemed rough and abrupt…She seemed less like a lover than a caregiver—one of her hospital words.”

And while Steadman consistently fails to see that he is a lucky man, his much-deserved treacherous odyssey notwithstanding, he will be just fine. And this is why we like him, for in spite of his being a petulant, self-absorbed, sexually obsessed man (with his own sexual history more than anything else), Steadman is a nice guy with a very good sense of humor. Even when he is smug, he isn’t cruel, such as in a fight with Ava about his self-induced blindness at the clambake.

“Yes, he had liked being noticed at the party. It had reminded him of the great days when he had been a celebrated prodigy.
‘So, I’m as vulgar and susceptible as everyone else—so what? Hey, what about the president?’
‘You liked upstaging him.’
‘Probably,’ Steadman said. ‘Then Diana died and upstaged us both. What a night.’”

Steadman’s more run of the mill passions also reassure us about him and why we like the guy. His respect for the natives of Martha’s Vineyard, drawn in part because his family is among the island’s landed gentry, is a kind little homage to the locals as compared to the elite newcomers who occupy the island three months a year.

“Still it was home for him, and for that reason, prettier than anywhere else. Old money built discreetly and dressed down and didn’t show off and was famously frugal. Old money fraternized with the locals, formed alliances, got things done—or, more often, managed to be quietly obstructive, meddling for the good of the island. What new money there was remained intimidated by the locals, gently browbeaten, never understanding that the gentry prided themselves on and gained self-esteem by knowing the workers, for the boat builders and the fishermen and the ferrymen and the police and the raggedest Wamponoags were the island’s true aristocrats.”

Certainly the most vexing part of Blinding Light is its central subject: sexual desire, and the peripheral treatment of love. Steadman’s second book is, to his way of thinking, the height of personal drama, and, thus, a complete effort, a tour de force—a sexual bildungsroman that will define his canon of work.

“But if you used your own blood for ink, and what you wrote was the truth, and your life was the subject, one novel was enough; there was nothing else to know, no more to see, a heart laid bare. So he believed.”

Surely the fellow has to be brought down a few pegs.

Still, with Ava and the sexual passion they have in the beginning of their relationship as well as during the writing of his book, some heavy ideas come the surface, especially on the subject of love. Toward the end of his affair with Ava, Steadman reflects on how he and Ava never used the word love, disdainfully referring to “the moth-eaten expression I love you, which had become diminished and become so meaningless it had been reduced to a casual salutation.”

The two of them vow, as their sexual bond is on the ascent, never to get married, and she says:

“’I want to be your friend. It’s purer. It’ s much better. Friendship asks nothing, it gives everything, and friendship with desire is paradise.’”

And, Steadman, rejoins: “I agree. Love doesn’t make you better. It excludes the whole world. For a brief period you have an adoring partner, and later an enemy. Love is like some horrible twisted religion the way it changes you. An afterwards, when love ends, you’re lost.’”

Ultimately, I’d say I’ve bought into Blinding Light the way the fictional public of Theroux’ story bought in to Slade Steadman’s book Trespassing. With the arrival of Slade, you have a big character so funny, so tortured, and so attractive—you’re drawn to him, and he holds his own. In the end, Steadman is sick, alone and put to shame, yet somehow, as abject as his plight may be, he keeps his wits about him. For at his core, he’s a boot-strapper, a gritty New Englander, an island local who will just have to keep learning life’s lessons the hard way. Nonetheless, we want to believe that he’ll be back on his feet--smiling, in fact-- ever the sacrificial hero.

MAE WEST IS VENICE

SHIRLINGTON, Va.--Probably the most poignant moments in Signature Theater’s Dirty Blonde, an astute, dark little tribute to Mae West, involve the two central characters, who, as modern-day fans of their beloved Mae West, meet by chance at the star’s Cypress Hill Abbey grave in Brooklyn to celebrate her birthday on August 17, (I shall not provide her birth year—as Ms. West would have preferred).

They are both city-dwelling lonely hearts, society outcasts—obscure people who accept Gotham’s mean streets, their drab apartments, their small jobs and go on, even with shameful secrets and never-to-be-resolved family problems. Yet, they are grounded almost singularly by their connection to the early film star, whereby they regale each other (or reflect to themselves) with stories of her wit, her rise to fame, her good heart. For heaven’s sake, they compare her to Venice, “How else can you describe Venice, there is nothing like it?”

With Mae as topic of conversation, they are at once calm and confident thanks to their Brooklyn-born “tough girl,” and she helps them laugh thanks to her great, irreverent insights: “I don’t care if it’s a bad name as long as it’s my name.” All of this is fleshed out in dialogues between Jo (Emily Skinner) and Charlie Conner (Hugh Nees), who along with J.Fred Shiffman cover key characters in West’s life (Shiffman plays West’s only husband, FrankWallace, and her companion Joe Frisco, among others). Skinner commands the two central roles, moving beautifully between silly contemporary Jo and the downright beautiful and crushingly funny-- I am a fan like Charlie and Jo—Mae West.

Dirty Blonde, written by Claudia Shear, is running in Signature’s ARK Theater from August 11 through October 4, 2009 in Arlington, Va. The hour and 45 minute play runs straight through and takes us back and forth between bleak commuter New York of 2009, where Jo and Charlie are getting to know each other through their mutual love of West, and 1911, in which a young Mae is exploring how far she can push the limits on stage without getting fired or arrested, while Shiffman and Nees serve up many colorful show biz types and lovers in the star’s life as she rises to fame.

Charlie, a film library archivist, tells Jo that he went to Los Angeles as a teenager to meet West—and we see the awkward encounter. Skinner treats the audience to West at many points in her life, including the young, bawdy and brunette Mae, to the established star as platinum blonde, to aging platinum blonde, and, when she can barely walk, a glittering, sweet caricature of herself, albeit eerie, shortly before she finally dies. We are reminded that only two people attended her New York burial.

Most recall West as being an older “star”, because she reached the pinnacles of success at that time. Her eyes, as Skinner achieves so magnificently, begin to close with age, so that you get only her penciled eyelids that set off the angles of her face and the famous porcelain skin. With the long tangled blonde tresses topped by a crazy hat, the rest of her is covered to the floor in sequins and jewels—this, perhaps, being the image we remember best, when she was around 50.

Dirty Blonde is a Hollywood history lesson, and a Los Angeles blast from the past—two things dear to me as a native Angelino. When young Charlie is unexpectedly taken to dinner with the aging West and her companion, they are headed to Man Fook Low, a Chinese restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, near the meat packing and produce district—and a restaurant my father always frequented, as a young stock broker working downtown. As a child, we would make our Sunday pilgrimage from West Los Angeles downtown just for the foil wrapped beef.

Hilariously, the story also touches on one of West’s great, albeit weird, hygienic rituals--her use of colonics. I would hear this from my parents now and then (they are well-versed in Hollywood lore), and puzzle over what on earth they were talking about, and alas, it was meaningful enough for Shears to verify here. And, the fun Hollywood nuggets, such as her meticulousness about her beautiful costumes, made by Edith Head, among others. We learn she chose Cary Grant to be in her first film, She Done Him Wrong, a move that helped catapult Grant to fame. We see West in court after being arrested during the Broadway run of her play Sex. For its suggestiveness, she went to jail for ten days and paid a fine of $500. Later, she tired to open another play called The Drag, dealing with homosexuality, but, hard as she tried, the play never opened, having been blocked by such groups as the Society for the Prevention of Vice . She hated W.C. “Bill” Fields for his drinking and lack of professionalism. And, she probably resented that she rose to fame at a ripe age, rather than in her youth. Consequently, she was adamant about concealing her real age. At one point, West gets a phone call from Billy Wilder asking her if she would consider the lead for the film Sunset Boulevard “about a washed up movie star,” and she refuses on the spot. Hanging up the phone, she asks her housekeeper to draw the drapes to protect her skin from the light. It feels too close to home for all us.

But what is best is Skinner’s work, her mastery of Mae’s voice, so that the brilliant, burlesque one-liners ring with perfect pitch—

“You don’t appeal to my finer instincts.”
“What are they?”
“I dunno, but I must have them.”

--and, they way Skinner’s character manages to pull her big pretty lips back over her teeth in such a way that she achieves West’s sincere, sexy and, to my eye, infectious smile. At West’s peak, when her trusted friend, Mr. Edwards, played by Shiffman, is dolling her up and introducing her to a platinum wig—and so too is Charlie, dressing Jo up for a Halloween party—the double-play scene culminates in Jo/Mae turning around before us, her first go with the now-famous hair topped with a huge marabou hat, and she, wrapped in a boa and covered in fuscia sequins. The audience takes her in, gasps and claps.

“A boa,” says West. “A boa covers a multitude of sins.”

By the end, when Jo and Charlie discover they can overcome each others’ oddities, we understand the play is also a tribute to why we like to love glamour, things that sparkle and things that make us laugh—and that is why we love those who have the guts to facilitate these images for us. West, who we learn “was not a piker” and “always took care of everyone” and who made a fortune on wise real estate investments, kept going until the end—even through horrid decisions like the 1978 movie Sextette, and to her Vegas stage performances where muscle men gently volleyed her back and forth like an antique doll.

In 2000, Shear’s Dirty Blonde was nominated for five Tony Awards, and Signature’s artistic director, Eric Schaeffer felt it was a good way to kick off the Arlington theater’s 20th anniversary celebration. www. Signature-theatre.org.

NEWS: CAR COLLECTORS INDULGE

CENTENNIAL OF THE 1909 OCEAN TO OCEAN ENDURANCE CONTEST UNDERWAY FROM NEW YORK TO SEATTLE
55 Model –Ts Ambling Their Way from White Plains to Seattle

As this moment, a group of car enthusiasts are making their way --at the wheel of one of their beloved antique vehicles--from Olathe, Kansas to Abilene in what is the 10th leg of a month-long cross-country car race. The racers, mostly well-heeled middle agers who care about things historic, geographic, natural, and on four wheels, are traveling from White Plains, NY to Seattle, Wash., in celebration of the Centennial of Robert Guggenheim's original 1909 race that helped promote the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific (AYP) Exposition in Seattle that year.
The original race started in New York City on June 1, 1909, when President William Taft pressed a golden telegraph key from Washington, D.C., setting off two events at once: the opening of the AYP Exposition in Seattle, and giving the signal to New York city Mayor George Brinton McClellan, jr. to fire a golden revolver, thus, launching one of history’s greatest, if not most colorful, cross-country car races.
Today, hearing the story warms your heart: what with all that American ingenuity and energy and innovation at the dawn of the invention of the automobile. It conjures an appealing and inspiring image of men in their peculiar machines enduring a 22-day trip and overcoming miserable driving conditions. The summer rains were relentless, and the mud, quicksand, desert and badlands consumed the drivers and their cars in one way or another throughout the formidable journey.
Henry Ford entered two automobiles, convinced correctly so that a “cheap, tough, lightweight, flexible car” was what was needed for the impassable roads along the 4,106 mile trek. And it was Ford, consummate industry force that he was, who in fact claimed first place at the finish line of the race, though, in truth, the victory did not belong to his 1909 Model-T, in spite of the vehicles’ heroics: one for catching fire and the other for sinking four feet in the snow. It was the Shawmut, in fact, that was the victor, though it arrived 17 hours after the Ford.
Indeed, the Ford 1909 Model T was declared winner at the finish line, on the spot today where the Drumheller Fountain sits in the center of the University of Washington campus. Henry ford was on hand—his photo captured that day—and thrilled to no end. He would go on to leverage the victory so effectively in the ensuing six months that the world became convinced through his brilliant media blitz that the Ford Model T was the car to buy, and for the next eight years, more than 15 million Model Ts were manufactured.
Quietly, in November 1909, the Shawmut, a heavier car as compared to the Model-T, more akin to its fellow entrants the Stearns, Acme and Itala, was acknowledged winner of the race by the Automobile Club of America. Of course, the victory was too little too late. That the Ford team had broken one of the race rules by illegally substituting the engine for part of the distance bore no repercussions—and today, the 2009 centennial race has in its line up more than 55 Model-Ts that are following the original route, stopping in towns in which racers stopped a century ago.
How quintessentially American is that? We forgive, we forget and we move on, unwavering in our love affair with cars.
Forthcoming post: The 2009 Centennial Race Participants' Profiles and Reporting.

NEWS: SUMMER MEAT

The (Rib) Eyes Have It

Northern Virginia’s boutique butchers are unanimous: hands down, the best thing for this year’s summer grilling are the ribeye and hanger steaks.

“The hanger steak is unattractive and people don’t give it a shot,” says Cheryl Furlow of The Organic Butcher of McLean. Furlow, and store owner Don Roder, recommend buying their hanger steak in the store’s homemade ginger soy marinade, as “the hanger absorbs marinades so well-- or just season either the rib eye or hanger steak with salt and pepper before you grill,” they say. Roder, a Virginia native, opened the Organic Butcher of McLean about three and half years ago, while his brother-in-law runs a sister store, The Organic Butcher of Charlottesville. The Organic Butcher sells a rather exquisite selection of meat and fish, like Berkshire Porkchops, prepared meatloaf and crab cakes, and its sought-after ground sirloin or chuck. The meat is delivered daily from a variety of different sources, mostly local farms that raise animals on diets that are antibiotic and hormone-free, while the fish, such as the Wild King Salmon, may come in from points as far as Sitka, Alaska.

Located in the heart of McLean, the boutique-size shop, with its black and white parquet floor, recalls a typical French boucherie, where in addition to its premium priced meat, a small selection of carefully chosen marinades, sauces, meat rubs, rice, wine, some fresh greens, locally-made, custard-infused ice cream, and other eclectic ingredients (i.e. fresh crushed ginger) are available so that you can come away with a complete meal. Says Furlow, “Our most popular meat is everything we sell.”

The Organic Butcher of McLean, 6712 Old Dominion Drive, McLean, VA 22101, 703-790-8300, info@theorganicbutcher.com

Australia native Steve Gatward opened Let’s Meat On the Avenue in Alexandria’s Del Ray neighborhood about one year ago. He too is a big fan of the ribeye and hanger. “I also like the flank steak and New York strip, seasoned just with salt and pepper,” he says. The store seems spartan at first glance on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, its glass meat case looking a wee bit bare with only some sausage and pork chops on view, but Let’s Meat has a solid following, particularly on weekends, where some of the store’s regular patrons make a pilgrimage from parts of Metropolitan Washington and Maryland to buy the Andouille, Spicy Italian, German Stadtwurst or homemade Gypsy beef sausages and specialty meats like Kobi beef top sirloin, burgers and hotdogs from golf pro Greg Norman’s ranch in Australia. Gatward explains he keeps most of the meat in a large locker right there in the middle of the store. “On Saturdays, the glass case is full and empties out pretty quickly,” but for slower days, he prefers to keep it fresh in cooler temperatures.

In the notoriously dog-friendly village of Del Ray, where just about every vendor along its ten-block main drag puts out a water dish or a biscuit jar, Let’s Meat rises to the occasion with a premium treat featured in huge bowls in the store’s front window: smoked beef marrow bones, $3 for the Parsons terrier size-pup, and $8 bones for your Great Pyrenees or Rottweiler. “Once the dogs eat the marrow, I tell customers to reuse the bones by putting peanut butter inside and freezing them for a bit.” And what good is an Australian butcher if he’s not peddling kangaroo meat? Gatward, who has a customer coming in later that day for a fairly large portion to take on a camping trip, shows a visitor a few of the slick brownish slabs of the meat while describing it as “cross between venison and buffalo.” He warns that kangaroo meat has absolutely no fat and must be cooked quickly, adding that once customers try it “they always come back for more.”

Let’s Meat on the Avenue, 2403 Mount Vernon Avenue, Del Ray, VA 22301, 703-836-6328, www.letsmeatontheavenue.com

To the Northern Virginia layman and the at-home cook alike, it is a terrific stroke of luck that tucked under Interstate 395 at South Glebe Road is M. Slavin & Sons Fish, a retail store whose inventory also happens to get delivered now and again to the White House. M. Slavin & Sons in South Arlington is one of only two retail stores that carry the Slavin name (the other one is in Brooklyn) in what is otherwise a hugely successful family-owned fish wholesale outfit—a wholesale distribution and processing plant is adjacent to the Arlington store-- that serves much of the East Coast, with six locations from Point Judith, Rhode Island to Puerto Rico. “It’s a nice store, it’s clean and we have beautiful fish,” says John Leary of the Arlington shop, which also sells Florida-made Key Lime pie, spices, some fresh greenery and an ample frozen fish section. Leary was recently hired by the company to help manage their wholesale operation in the Washington region, and was interviewed upon returning one recent Spring day from a delivery—they were short a driver so he took a few runs to points west in Virginia-- to The Inn at Little Washington, where he had left fresh Maryland crabmeat, halibut and softshell crab. Leary is a fish industry expert and has been in the business all his life, getting his start out on the east end of Long Island and later moving into Manhattan, where he ran his own wholesale and export operation for years and is an expert buyer of premium fish. As for a summer grilling recommendation: “Halibut is going to be great all summer,” Leary said. “And Red snapper and rockfish—I understand they call it rock fish down here, but it’s wild striped bass.”

For good measure, Leary weighed in on the red meat side of the equation on what he felt was the best for grilling this summer. “My business was in the middle of the meat market on New York’s west side—I knew all the meat guys and we used to trade back and forth fish and meat,” said Leary. “I’m big on a good ribeye or a nice Porter House, a nice big porter house. Always keep it on the bone.”

M. Slavin & Sons Fish, 2710 South Glebe Road, Arlington, VA 22206, 703-486-0400, www.mslavin.com