The only thing I'll miss more than the scenery is the food (and the people behind it). (Photo by Stephanie Breijo)
I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I didn’t taste sweet tea until I was nearly 19 years old. Years later I would finally feel pimento cheese on my tongue, and it took longer still to meet deviled ham.
I grew up in a house largely without mayonnaise, the byproduct of a mother who taught the occasional step aerobics class through the ’90s in health-obsessed Los Angeles. Imagine, then, after all of this, that your first sip of sweet tea came nearly two decades in, on a balmy summer afternoon in Richmond. From then on, I could have referred to my first year at the University of Mary Washington as “The Freshman 15 Gallons”; the weight I gained was worth every drop. Though I eventually overdid it and swung back around to the unsweet tea of my childhood, the drink proved a revelatory welcome to Virginia. What else had I been missing?
The South gets in your blood, but this state, and Richmond in particular, grafts to your bones. There is nothing a day by the river cannot fix, a drive through rolling farmland in the counties won’t heal. And at the core of this city, housed in worn brick buildings reimagined with paint and subway tile but still such a part of this place that’s stood centuries, are some of the kindest, most determined people I have ever met. They remember your favorite drinks, they host fundraisers, they keep 400-year-old seeds alive, they honor this region’s heritage while constantly pushing to add something new to the story of Southern cooking.
By the time you read this I’ll already be gone. Thanks to the rise of Southern cuisine as a food trend — it’s OK to roll your eyes at that; this is a safe space — a permanent return to my hometown of L.A. means I can now find the occasional pimento cheese, an ample supply of shrimp and grits come brunch, and other Southern staples I know I’ll crave. But what I will not find is the people. Serving as the food editor of Richmond magazine has been the greatest professional honor of my life thus far, and it is due partially to my incredible colleagues, but perhaps even more to the community I’ve been so fortunate to cover and serve. There is magic in this city, and it is spun onto the plate and into your cocktail by those who don’t have to care so deeply but couldn’t exist any other way.
So please, do not take it for granted.
Savor each perfect curl of herb-scented pasta at Heritage, and be sure to add pork belly to the burger. When you visit Lehja, appreciate that your biryani arrives not simply as a pile of seasoned basmati, but baked under a steaming sheath of naan. Admire Metzger’s transformation from “German-inspired” to one of the most nuanced and imaginative restaurants in the region. Please visit The Rogue Gentlemen and enjoy a cocktail while chuckling at the team’s latest irreverent menu. Cozy up to the moody booths and colorful playlists that playfully augment L’Opossum’s culinary brilliance, and if you’re afraid of clown art, avoid the bathrooms. When you brunch at The Black Sheep and order the gambas bravas, please think of me; ditto when you order a side of pork gravy for your fries at GWARbar’s Monday half-price burger night. At The Roosevelt, always hole up at the bar; the same goes for Saison — though don’t forget those negroni slushies sometimes churning at the market next door — and if the patio is open at Sabai, always go that bulb-lit route. If you’re in need of comfort in noodle form, Ed Vasaio’s orecchiette with sausage and ricotta should do the trick, as should Dinamo’s squid-ink fettucine, and the grandmother’s noodles from Peter Chang (but you’ll only find those in Short Pump). For Southern comfort and charm, all signs will forever point to Jason Alley, Comfort and Pasture. Sub Rosa pastries always justify derailing your diet. Longoven is worth the hype, ZZQ is worth the line and yes, Shagbark is worth the drive. If you have a weekend, enroll in Tuffy Stone’s barbecue school; not every city gets a world-renowned pitmaster sharing his secrets. Support your local farmers. Support the city’s pop-up scene, from The Gold Cart to Bubo to Break to The Jackdaw — these are, after all, often the testing grounds for your future favorite restaurants.
I have so much I want to say, with only 800 words to say it. But even with 8,000, I know I would have a hard time summarizing my love for this community. I hope I did it justice these last three years. I hope that when you enjoy some of these dishes, you’ll think of me. Three days from now I know I’ll be grabbing some sweet tea on my way out of town and thinking of you. Thank you for reading.
