Europe

July 27, 2006
0609_25best_europe
Courtesy Slovenian Tourist Board
The "next great places"? We asked the people who explore for a living--for companies such as Starbucks, W Hotels, Trader Joe's, and Lonely Planet. Get ready for a serious case of wanderlust (not to mention job envy).

France: Calvi

Kermit Lynch, a wine merchant, travels France's back roads looking to add to the more than 100 producers sold at his Berkeley, Calif., shop. "I follow my nose," he says matter-of-factly.

One wine hunt 25 years ago brought him to Calvi, on Corsica's northwestern coast. "There are many empty beaches," he says. "Because the coastline is so mountainous and rocky, cars can't reach them. I love renting a boat with a crew from Calvi and boating along the coast between St. Florent and Calvi." They drop anchor at one of the beaches and swim. "Only the occasional boater passes by," he says.

Lynch returns to Corsica once or twice a year. He splurges for the views at Hotel La Villa, and dines at Auberge du Coucou. "It's a family-run restaurant about four miles outside Calvi--very relaxed, casual, and spacious," he says. "Fifteen different tapas arrive after you're seated, and then you choose from about four main courses. And they have a really great wine list with tons of Corsican producers." Hotel La Villa: 011-33/4-95-65-10-10, hotel-lavilla.com, from $253. Auberge du Coucou: Route de Calenzana, 011-33/4-95-62-77-00, prix fixe dinner $33.

France: Lohéac

Michael and Andrika Brown are on the road at least half the year for their company, Streetwise Maps. True gearheads, the Browns are fans of the French village of Lohéac, southwest of Rennes. "It's a mecca of motor madness," raves Andrika. "Michael and I are avid kart racers and car enthusiasts, and there are racing schools, Rally Cross, 4x4 racing, and a kart track where they hold major regional and national championship races each year." This year's championship is September 2 and 3.

"The highlight for us is Le Manoir de l'Automobile," says Andrika. The museum houses the collection of Michel Hommell, a media mogul. "There are more than 400 cars on display. Exploring it can be a religious experience." Indeed, the museum even has a chapel devoted to motors.

The Browns stay at Chateau de Talhouët, a 16th-century manor house on nearly 50 acres near Rochefort-en-Terre, 45 minutes away by car. But they hang out in Lohéac, sitting in the cafés and joining the automotive discussions. "La Manivelle is the best crêperie in town," says Andrika. "The owners know several major racers, as you can tell from the photos on the stone walls." Le Manoir de l'Automobile: La Cour Neuve, 011-33/2-99-34-02-32, manoir-automobile.fr, $11. Chateau de Talhouët: 011-33/2-97-43-34-72, chateaudetalhouet.com, from $160. La Manivelle: 6 rue de la Poste, 011-33/2-99-34-06-15.

Italy: Erice

Waves of conquerors--from Phoenicians to Normans, and everyone in between--have left their marks on Erice, a fortified hilltop town overlooking Sicily's Trapani valley. "In some places, you can see the corner of a Roman wall, and then the modern city on top of it," says Andrew Appleyard, international sales manager of Exodus, a U.K.-based tour company. Appleyard, who started out as an archaeologist with Harvard's Semitic Museum and Earthwatch, found his background came in handy. "People are reusing Greek pillars as part of their own houses," he says.

On Sicily's northwest tip, just over an hour from Palermo, Erice has spectacular views of the coastline, the Egadi Islands, and, on a clear day, Tunisia. Donkeys wander on medieval streets that wind down to the 14th-century Chiesa Matrice and the Balio Gardens. Vineyards dot the landscape. "You can cycle right up and do tastings," says Appleyard (he was in Erice scouting locations for biking trips).

Enormous mounds of salt, covered by terra-cotta tiles, and Dutch-style windmills, once used to grind salt and pump water out of the salt pans, line the main road about 30 minutes southwest of town. The salt finds its way into local favorites like couscous with fish sauce, available at the cozy Hotel Moderno, which has 40 rooms, a rooftop terrace, and 19th-century touches. Appleyard raves about the food in Erice as "some of the best I've eaten anywhere in the Mediterranean." Hotel Moderno: 011-39/092-386-9300, hotelmodernoerice.it, from $121.

Slovenia: Triglav National Park

Cris Miller has worked in adventure travel for more than 25 years. For 12 years she ran her own tour company, then she spent a year traveling, co-managed a travel bookstore in Seattle (where she went so far as to lead patrons on trips), and eventually came aboard at REI Adventures, working as an Adventure Travel Program Supervisor. She creates itineraries and hires local tour operators for about 30 trips, most of which are international.

A recent discovery is the Julian Alps in Slovenia: "Hiking there is a much more lonesome experience than hiking the Alps in other countries," says Miller. Triglav National Park encompasses nearly the entire Julian Alp range, preserving the 324-square-mile landscape of jagged peaks, sparkling lakes, traditional huts, and views of the Gulf of Trieste. The huts come with a full dinner, as well as beer and bedding. Bohinj Tourist Association: 011-386/4-572-3370, bohinj.si, huts from $16.

Spain: Algamitas

There's not a whole lot to do in the Spanish town of Algamitas. The slow pace and overall sense of timelessness have earned it and nearby Villanueva de San Juan the moniker "the forgotten villages." "You see maybe three cars in a day," says Francesco Guerrieri, a marketing executive at Exodus who visited in May.

The draw is Cortijo Rosario, a farmhouse owned by Anne and Bill Brett, a British couple. It has two studio apartments (each with a small terrace and kitchen) and eight rooms. Fruit trees, cacti, and bougainvilleas bloom around the pool. "You really feel at home," says Guerrieri. The food helps: The cook makes traditional Andalucian food entirely with local produce.

Guerrieri reminisces about dining on the terrace, walking through fields of wheat and sunflowers, and exploring the Moorish-influenced cities of Seville, Córdoba, and Cádiz, each two hours away. Dramatic peaks, gorges, and caves fill Sierra de Grazalema Natural Park, just beyond the town of Grazalema, one of the area's pueblos blancos, known for quaint whitewashed houses. Cortijo Rosario: 011-34/955-957-351, cortijo-rosario.com; apartments start at $44 (three-night minimum). Rooms must be booked through Exodus, whose all-inclusive packages start at $850 (plus a local payment of $250). The Málaga airport is just over an hour away.

Turkey: Kas

Unlike its neighbors on the southwest Turquoise Coast, Kas has no beach, and Daniel Jackson, sales manager for Exodus, believes this has staved off the "mainstream holiday makers" that gang up on nearby resorts.

Pronounced cash, Kas makes a terrific base for exploring the entire region, whether you're scuba diving, rafting the Dalaman River, tandem paragliding, canyoning, swimming, or mountain biking through pine forests. "We go sea kayaking over the sunken city of Kekova," says Jackson, who returned in July for his third visit in three years. "The water is clear and clean, and you can see the walls of the city beneath you." A handful of adventure operators cluster on the main street leading to the docks, where there's a lively outdoor bar and restaurant scene. The harbor is a 10-minute walk from the hilltop Oreo Hotel. Oreo Hotel: 011-90/242-836-2220, from $55.

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New Haven White Clam Pizza

Excerpt from "Two for the Road: Our Love Affair with American Food" by Jane and Michael Stern. Copyright © 2005 by Jane and Michael Stern. Reprinted with permission by Houghton Mifflin Company. Buy the book from amazon.com Frank Pepe's Pizzeria Napoletana in New Haven makes white clam pizza only when tiny fresh littleneck clams from Rhode Island are available. When the supply runs out for the day, that's the end of it. Shortly after discovering this pizza, we went back to Pepe's, waited in the inevitable line for an hour, and got our booth--only to be informed that the kitchen had just run out of clams. That shortage caused us to learn to cook. Over the course of a weekend, we bought a pizza peel and stone, figured out how to stretch a bomb of dough, and made the first of what seem like several thousand white clam pizzas. If you plan on baking more than the occasional pizza, it makes sense to do as we did and invest in a pizza stone and a baker's peel to slide the pizzas in and out. This recipe calls for both, although it is possible to use a cookie sheet (if you can tolerate less than brittlecrisp crust). THE DOUGH 1 package dry yeast 1 teaspoon sugar 1 cup warm water 2--2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons salt Cornmeal THE TOPPING 3 large garlic cloves 3 tablespoons olive oil 1 dozen just-shucked littleneck clams 1 teaspoon dried oregano 2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese MAKE THE DOUGH: Dissolve the yeast and sugar in 1/4 cup of the warm water in a small bowl. Stir the remaining 3/4 cup water into 2 cups of the flour in a large bowl. Add the salt, and when the yeast is bubbly, add it, too. Stir it all together and turn the dough out onto a floured board. Let the dough rest while you clean and oil a large ceramic bowl. Knead the dough vigorously for a full 15 minutes, adding flour if necessary to create a silky dough. Return it to the bowl and cover it with two tight layers of plastic wrap. Let it rise in a warm place until doubled in size, 2 to 3 hours. Place a pizza stone on the bottom rack of the oven and preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Punch down the dough and flatten it on a lightly floured board. Pounding with the heel of your hand, carefully and methodically work the dough into a circle no more than 1/4 inch thick in the center, rising to a 1/2- inch ring around the circumference. Sprinkle a baker's peel generously with cornmeal and put the circle of dough on it. Cover it lightly with a sheet of plastic wrap (so it doesn't dry out) and let it rest while you open the clams. MAKE THE TOPPING: While the dough is resting, mince the garlic and let it steep in the olive oil. After the dough has rested for 10 to 12 minutes, brush on the oil and garlic, leaving the half-inch circumference untouched. Spread the clams around the pie with a dash of their own juice. Sprinkle on the oregano and cheese. TO BAKE: Use the baker's peel to transfer the pizza to the preheated stone in the oven. (The cornmeal will act as miniature ball bearings to help it slide neatly onto the stone.) Bake for 15 minutes, or until the crust is light brown. Remove the pizza, slice, and serve with beer or soda and plenty of napkins. MAKES ONE 12-INCH PIZZA, 2 SERVINGS

Two for the Road: Our Love Affair with American Food

Excerpt from "Two for the Road: Our Love Affair with American Food" by Jane and Michael Stern. Copyright © 2005 by Jane and Michael Stern. Reprinted with permission by Houghton Mifflin Company. Buy the book from amazon.com Our first date was over a white clam pizza at Pepe's Pizzeria on Wooster Square in New Haven, Connecticut, and it was instantly apparent as we gazed into each other's eyes across the thin-crusted Neapolitan pie, speckled with tiny, tender clams and frosted with olive oil, that we shared a passion for garlic. Our initial lust for each other was fueled by an orgy of lobster rolls, split hot dogs, Yankee Doodle Double Dandy Doodle Burger cheeseburgers, calzones, and cannolis. Michael had won a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship at Yale, where we had both gone to study art, so we had plenty of money to spend exploring restaurants up and down the Yankee shore. Compared to the average grad student, he was a high roller with a monthly stipend to squander. He also possessed what was, to Jane's New York City sensibility, an amazing status symbol: a car. At twenty-one, Jane had not yet learned how to drive. The car was our ticket to romance and to eating adventures. The fellowship money was diverted from expensive textbooks and art museum field trips to fund a comparative study of the differences among pizzas as made by Pepe's, Sally's, and the Spot in the old Italian neighborhood, as well as the Greek-style pizzas at Pizza House, which was less than fifty yards from our apartment. If pizza was our major interest,we minored in fried dough at summertime fairs, clams and chowder and lobsters all along the coast, and Yorkshire pudding at Mory's, the Yalie dining club, where it was still possible to have a completely gelatinized meal, from aspic to Jell-O. Nearly every day, Michael had a choice to face: a seminar in medieval imagery in a dank basement lecture room in New Haven or a trip to the Rhode Island beaches with Jane for a shore dinner and a hot fudge sundae on ginger ice cream? Our passion for each other, and for finding things to eat, won out every time. We were married in 1970, and a year later we got our degrees, which meant that the fellowship-subsidized grad school eating bonanza was coming to an end. It was the worst of times and the best of times. We moved to a little shack in the woods of Guilford, Connecticut, where we didn't even have a telephone. We were hiding out from life. Jane's mother and father died of cancer within a year of each other. Her stepfather disinherited her. Her two favorite cousins died, and her aunt was institutionalized. In despair, Jane made the fifteen mile drive into New Haven three times a week to stare at the index cards in the Yale Employment Center. Michael spent his time cultivating and smoking cannabis. After tens of thousands of dollars were spent on our highfalutin educations, we realized we had little interest in pursuing what we had studied. And so we did what generations of writers have done before us. We hit the road. The difference is that when we did so, we had no idea that we were to become writers. We just wanted to get away from everything. We proposed a book about truck-stop dining to a young editor, who thought it was a cute idea and gave us the princely advance of $2,500.We thought we had won the lottery. But after signing the contract to write the book, we froze. Who were we to write about food, even truck-stop food? Where did we come off, telling people what was good to eat? Our shared mental image of a restaurant critic was gleaned from old movies: a patrician fellow with a silk ascot, his pinkie in the air and a sneer on his face. Somebody like Vincent Price but soured with indigestion. Restaurant critics were gourmets, and gourmets ate such grotesque things as creamed snails, sick-looking liver pâtés, cheeses that smelled like feet, and odd organs from inside unusual animals. In our mind's eye, gourmet food was joke food, like what you might be forced to ingest during a fraternity hazing. We preferred hamburgers, mashed potatoes, and apple cobbler. The notion that we had promised our publisher to write a coast-to- coast guidebook was overwhelming. We had pretty much not gone anywhere at all. We had no knowledge of exactly where these marvelous truck stops were, scant experience writing, and no money beyond the first half of our advance. We sat together at the kitchen table of our $99-per-month cabin trying to figure out what to do. The one-room shack where we lived might seem romantic if you saw it in the movies, but in real life it was hideously uncomfortable. After living there for nearly a year, we discovered a case of decomposing dynamite in the crawlspace above the ceiling, left behind by a 1960s radical who was a former tenant. The gas stove was so old and decrepit that it once combusted and singed Jane's eyebrows off as she checked on a roasting chicken. This home of ours was a good incentive for getting on the road. We agreed on a plan: we would review every restaurant in America. This seemed not the slightest bit of a stretch to us. Not having traveled much, we looked at the Rand McNally map spread out on the kitchen table and could plainly see that America was a manageable place, no more than a foot and a half in length, composed of pretty pastel-colored states balanced on one another like building blocks. Strategy well in place, we launched into part two of the plan: buying a suitable car for the journey. Just as buying a new handbag has always been Jane's favorite antidote for whatever ails her, buying a car is Michael's solution to just about any problem. Even Sigmund Freud would blush at the patent sexual symbolism of both objects, but we were too young and dumb to notice or care. At a nearby car dealership, we met a salesman whose necktie we remember to this day, more than a quarter century later. Somehow this guy had managed to knot it absolutely flat, so that its front apron cascaded directly from his collar with no lump whatsoever, sort of like a sheet of molten polyester. As we told the salesman our needs and he touted the glories of the new '75 Chevy line, we paid far more attention to his neckwear than to vehicular statistics. When we finally stopped marveling at it and told him our budget, he became significantly less chummy, got up from his desk, and led us around to the back lot, where the less alluring and less expensive used vehicles were kept, out of sight of new-car shoppers. He pointed to a pre- owned Chevrolet Suburban. It was vomit green--the barf of someone who lived on frozen peas. Several body panels had been painted in a shop that didn't worry too much about matching the factory-original metallic color, so it had become a kind of rolling ode to all possible avocado hues, including even black (the hood). It was huge and it was ugly, something like a cross between a World War II tank and an over-the- hill Brady Bunch station wagon. Jane grimaced at the sight of it. Michael tried to convince her that it had a rugged look, befitting the intrepid travelers we wanted to be. He lifted the hood and looked at the engine, pretending to know what he was inspecting. And just to show the salesman that we were no patsies when it came to purchasing a roadworthy vehicle, we both walked around and kicked all four tires. They didn't pop on impact, but neither did any of them appear to have a lot of tread. One thing the car had in its favor was vast amounts of room inside. To save money in our travels, we planned to camp out in it, forgoing motel rooms. "I'll sew curtains and we can hang them on the back windows for privacy," Jane said optimistically, never having sewn anything in her life. "And it does have two air conditioners," Michael noted. "We won't be hot!" By the time we wrote the check, we were convinced that this heap would be a rather deluxe residence on wheels for the next two years. The following morning, on the way to the grocery store, the left rear tire blew. And that summer gas prices doubled. We faced the first big gas crisis in a vehicle that got approximately eight miles to the gallon. Jane had plenty of time to sew curtains for the back windows, because five months into the research for Roadfood, we had not yet left Connecticut. In fact, we hadn't even left New Haven County. Yale had trained us to be meticulous in our research, and, ever the diligent academics, we commenced work on the guidebook by picking up the local Yellow Pages and opening to "Restaurant." We began with those starting with the letter A. We ate at the Acropolis Diner and made notes about the good souvlaki. We went to Addie's Café, where we didn't much care for the hash browns, then on to Angela's Pizzeria, where we thought the pepperoni pie was better then the sausage, and Archie Moore's tavern, where the beer inevitably distracted us from our mission of sampling the menu. At the end of five months we had gotten to Donat's, an overreaching French restaurant where rich professors ate, and had yet to travel more than twelve miles from home. We envisioned the millennia that stretched out before we began reviewing restaurants in, say, Kansas. Something was wrong with our plan. "People will not take us seriously if we haven't eaten everywhere," moaned Jane, who, like so many writers, lives in constant fear that someone will discover she doesn't know everything--or anything at all. "Tough shit," Michael responded. Jane thought he had a point. We sat down at the kitchen table again, scrutinized the map, and came up with a new plan. With a Magic Marker we drew a squiggly continuous line through forty-eight states. It would take a full two years and countless tanks of gas to travel this route, but at least we would finally get on the road. We would see all the pretty pastel states and eat in every one of them. The new plan in place, we went shopping for supplies. We loaded the cavernous green Suburban with inflatable mattresses, sleeping bags, mosquito netting, snakebite kits, and everything else two urban Jews who had never slept anywhere but in a bed figured they would need to camp out. "No!" Michael railed as Jane insisted on buying tin plates, a small Coleman stove, and a stack of collapsible cutlery. "We are going to be eating in a dozen restaurants every day," he said. "The last thing we're going to want to do when we make camp is cook another meal." Jane added a portable oxygen tank to the stash of material, because she was convinced that she would not be able to breathe in mountainous states like Colorado. We were good to go. We spent a whole day packing the Suburban with supplies to take us across the country and through all seasons. The lumpy calico curtains Jane had sewn for the back-seat area made the car even uglier, if that was possible. We turned the skeleton key in the lock of our cabin door and drove away. We sped west out of Connecticut over the Hudson River and into New Jersey. First stop: early lunch in a diner. Ahh yes, a New Jersey diner! What could be a more excellent start to our adventure? Sadly, the food was mediocre; the mashed potatoes were made from a powdered mix. When we asked the waitress what kind of pie there was, she answered, "Red." Sure enough, the slice we got was sweet translucent red mucilage without even a hint of fruit. We got off the Jersey Turnpike a few exits farther south and found a place called Nature's Cupboard. It was a vegetarian restaurant run by Woodstock alumni, and it smelled more like Nature's Locker Room. We didn't bother to order, just turned around and headed south again. After three more unproductive stops at highway exit ramps, where we found rubbery chicken croquettes, a desiccated Philly cheese steak, and cardboard- crusted pizza, our enthusiasm was waning. By the time we got to Maryland, it was suppertime. We decided to spend our first night on the road at a place called Jellystone Park, one of a national chain of campgrounds that feature a goofy image of Yogi Bear to welcome visitors. For a few bucks paid to a lady at the gatehouse, we were directed to a small plot of turf where we were told to park and set up. The gatekeeper knew of no restaurants anywhere near the park, but she did direct us to a convenience store, where we bought readymade ham sandwiches on white bread, bags of potato chips, and cans of soda, which we ate sitting in the front seat of our car in the store parking lot. We drove to our spot at Jellystone Park to bed down for the night. The place was filled with families in oversized motor homes with small cars attached to the back. Their immense recreational vehicles sprouted TV antennas and had golf carts and lawn chairs lashed to the roof. Many of them were plastered with decals proclaiming their owners'membership in the Good Sam club, meaning they were certifiably nice people--good Samaritans--who would pull alongside a wounded or disabled fellow traveler to offer help. On the backs of some of the big rolling homes, the owners had their names painted in florid script, generally using the errant apostrophe so common on mailboxes everywhere: "The Smith's: Bill and Edna." The RV community took one look at our overgrown station wagon and turned their backs on us. They may have been Good Sams to one another, but we were clearly not in their league. We didn't have a real motor home with a television and kitchen and wall-to-wall carpeting, and besides, the curtains Jane had stitched were flagrantly homemade. They hated us. We hated them. "Don't you just know those stupid Winnebagos are going to be clogging every superhighway from here to California," Michael groused, imagining us at the end of a long line of motor homes traveling at thirty miles an hour from coast to coast, staring for weeks at the ass end of "The Smith's: Bill and Edna." It was at that moment that we vowed to travel only on back roads--a spur-of-the-moment decision that determined the path for our eating career. The RV camp-out was the longest night of our lives. We tossed and turned on the clammy rubber air mattresses. The Suburban, which had seemed so big when it was empty, came to feel as claustrophobic as a mummy's sarcophagus. Despite the mosquito netting, which had a habit of getting tangled around our legs, we were soon swatting at bugs the size of velociraptors, and when we had to pee in the middle of the night, we were too afraid to make the trek to the Jellystone restrooms, lest a bear eat us. Despite all our snakebite kits and collapsible silverware, we had forgotten to take along a flashlight. We left at dawn in despair and sold all the camping junk at the first pawnshop we saw. Back in our newly roomy car, we drove away from that first unpleasant night on the road with our culinary dreams dashed. We meandered south along back roads, finding nothing notable to eat. At twilight we were so tired that we pulled into the first roadside motel that didn't look as if Norman Bates was the proprietor. Entering our unit, as the motel-keeper referred to the room, we blinked in awe at the modernity of a television set and a tiled shower stall, feeling a little like Ishi, the Stone Age tribesman wandering out of the woods into civilization for the first time. We slept wonderfully, and when the sun rose in the morning, we were so happy not to be surrounded by huge, hostile motor homes, we even thought our Suburban looked rather sleek and handsome. We pushed an eight-track Merle Haggard tape into the slot, and as Merle serenaded us with songs of workin' men, we cruised in the direction of the nearest little town on the map, at least ten miles away from the interstate. It was a pretty south Virginia hamlet of clapboard houses with broad front porches. The rising sun cast the long shadows of ancient oak trees across tidy front lawns. An old man wearing overalls sat on a wooden chair and waved at us as we drove by his porch. We passed children riding their bikes in what we assumed was the direction of the schoolyard. We were traveling at bicycle speed ourselves, just taking in the sights. "I smell biscuits," Michael said, leaning his head out the open window and driving where his nose led him, toward a storefront café on the main street. Outside, the pickup trucks of customers were lined up on a diagonal, along with two local police cruisers. Pansies spilled forth from the bright blue flowerboxes under the café windows. There was not a single out-of-state license plate on the vehicles in the street except for ours. Despite the ache of hunger, we hesitated as we stepped from our car into the street. This was the mid-1970s, and according to Easy Rider and Deliverance, it was them against us, and everyone who wasn't us was a redneck with a shotgun aimed in our direction. At this point, no one would have mistaken Michael for a local farmer. His hair grazed his shoulders and he wore wire-rimmed glasses like John Lennon's. Jane's outfit included an embroidered peasant blouse with jangling earrings. We would have gone unnoticed at any eastern college campus coffeehouse, but suddenly we were nervous about going inside. Our growling stomachs got the better of us. On the back wall, coffee cups hung on a pegboard, each one marked with the name of the customer to whom it belonged. A dozen men in work clothes sat at a big round table right at the front of the café, drinking from their personalized mugs, looking out the window, commenting on who was driving past, and trading news. Seated at other tables, men and women chatted back and forth to each other as in a home kitchen. As the door swung closed behind us, all conversation stopped. Every person in the café looked at us. We froze as they looked us up and down. In that long, long moment, we couldn't help but notice the thick oval plates of ham and eggs and hot biscuits in front of nearly everybody in the place. The smell of peppery cream gravy, salt-cured country ham, and fresh- brewed coffee made us dizzy with hunger. Still, we didn't dare make a move. "There's two seats over there," a waitress called to us from behind the counter. We sat down fast on a pair of chrome-banded upholstered stools at a marble counter so old that it seemed to have an even row of indentations where decades of elbows had rested. Two nonpersonalized coffee cups were placed in front of us, already filled and with a spoon plunked in each, ready to stir. Slowly the hum in the room began to increase as the breakfasters reanimated. The waitress stood before us, order pad in hand. "We don't get too many strangers passing through here since the interstate was built," she said, apparently aware of our discomfort. "We just ain't never seen y'all before." Minutes after we ordered, the empty counter space in front of us filled with thick partitioned plates made of unbreakable blue plastic, the big partition holding ham and eggs, the two smaller ones containing grits and stewed apples. Four hot biscuits loosely wrapped in wax paper were nestled in a plastic basket. Little dishes held pats of butter, and glass ramekins were filled with wine-dark cherry preserves. Sold in Mason jars by the cash register, they were made a few miles away. As we ate, we picked up the eight-page local newspaper that a previous counter-sitter had left behind and read all about the potluck dinner that the Baptist church was having and about the damage done to Elroy Schmidt's mailbox when the school bus accidentally backed into it. We read the frantic letter asking anyone who had seen Buck Thompson's bluetick hound to please call the sheriff. We ate until blissfully satisfied, and as we rose to pay at the cash register, a man also walking up to pay his bill stood aside, tipped his cap, and politely allowed Jane to proceed ahead of him. His harshly lined farmer's face and sweat-darkened mesh work cap had seemed ominous when we entered, but this courtly gesture and his soft "Morning, ma'am" made us realize how off-base our fears had been. Out in the street, three other men were staring at our license plates. "Connect-tee-cut," one of them said out loud, impressed by the jawbreaking complexity of our home state's name. "That is some fine vehicle," another said to Michael, who repressed the urge to sell him the Suburban on the spot. "Thanks," Michael said. "And that's one nice café you have here. Good breakfast." "You come back soon," they said as we got in and turned the key in the ignition. We looked at each other and smiled. The biscuits and country ham had left a glow on our taste buds, and our spirits had been warmed by the community of people we had stumbled into. We gazed at the map of the U.S.A. with the squiggly route we had drawn all over it. The long line no longer seemed like a daunting task. Now it was a wide-open door. Hungry for more, we drove on.

10 New York Fashion Favorites

Fashion Walk of FameIn 2000, some 75 industry leaders voted to honor eight great designers--Geoffrey Beene, Bill Blass, Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Rudy Gernreich, Halston, Claire McCardell, and Norman Norell, with a sidewalk plaque in the Garment District. Today, there are 24 plaques, each featuring a sketch by a designer anda note on his or her contribution to fashion. Walk on the east side of Seventh Avenue (a.k.a. Fashion Avenue) between 35th to 41st Streets. Look down and you'll see a series of white bronze plaques honoring fashion's greatest stars. 212/398-7943, fashioncenter.com. Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume InstituteThe Met has an extraordinary collection of more than 80,000 costumes and accessories from five continents and as many centuriesthe largest collection of its kind in the world. Items range from an intricate early 1620s French doublet to a 1927 House of Chanel coat to Miguel Adrover's dress I Love New York (2000). Pieces from the permanent collection are incorporated into several exhibitions each year. While the Institute was founded in 1937, it was legendary fashion maven Diana Vreeland who brought vision to its exhibitions, creating such important shows as "Hollywood Design" (1974) during her tenure as a special consultant (1972-1989). 1000 Fifth Ave., 212/570-3908, metmuseum.org, $20 recommended admission, closed Monday. Prada Flagship StoreThe store is a high-tech pricey, 25,000-square-foot fashion temple that's been likened to a museum. Opened in 2001 in the same SoHo building that housed the Guggenheim Museum's downtown annex, the Rem Koolhaas-designed space is anchored by a round elevator, a giant zebrawood wave, and a rotating stage. Even if you can't afford a $400 Prada belt, take a gander at the magical, sliding glass changing-room doors, which act as one-way glass mirrors, frosting over from the outside while remaining clear from the inside. 575 Broadway, 212/334-8888, prada.com. The PointAt this West Village yarn boutique, you can learn how to make your own gorgeous creations, such as scarves. More advanced classes will teach you about cable stitches and more. No time for a class? Then peruse the beautiful nubbly skeins of hand-dyed yarn and enjoy tea and cupcakes at The Point Knitting Café. A one-week class starts at $50, which includes yarn and needles. 37a Bedford St., 212/929-0800, thepointnyc.com. Girls Love ShoesHeaven in heels. Zia Ziprin's vintage shoe store is stocked with more than 2,000 pairs, half of which are for sale. The other 1,000 she rents to designers and photographers. Her shoe archive, featuring features fabulous footwear from 1800 to the 1990s, will make any shoe lover swoon. An appreciation of classics runs in the family--Ziprin's hippie mom had a vintage store in the same neighborhood in the 1960s. 85 Hester St., 917/250-3268, glsnewyork.com, closed Monday to Wednesday. Garment Center Walking TourSince the 1930s, the bustling Garment Center (between West 35th and West 41th Streets, between Fifth and Ninth Avenues) has been the center of the women's clothing industry in the U.S. It's full of factories, designer showrooms, and wholesale fabric and trimming stores. Shop Gotham's friendly, informative tour takes you behind the scenes at wholesale showrooms, sample sales, hidden fragrance importers, and handbag designers; savings can reach as high as 80 percent off retail prices. The shopping-heavy tours, which top out at 12 people, last about three hours. 212-209-3370, 866/795-4200, shopgotham.com, $65, Wednesday and Friday. Juvenex SpaWhen you feel fantastic you look fantastic, and this hidden Koreatown oasis is just the spot for some affordable pampering. Rejuvenating remedies from around the globe are administered 24/7. Even world-weary spa vets get slack-jawed over its Jade Igloo sauna. Just $65 buys four-hour access to the sauna and tubs, a diamond-shaped glass steam room with Chinese herbal infusions, a detox sauna made of yellow clay, and a soaking saturated with ginseng, seaweed, or tea. Massages from $75 for 30 minutes. 25 W. 32nd St., 5th Fl., 646/733-1330, juvenexspa.com. New and Almost NewMaggie Chan handpicks every accessory and piece of "slightly used" clothing she sells in her Nolita designer consignment and resale boutique. She refuses to stock trendy items and focuses solely on well-made classic formal and casual wear that's affordable (there's virtually nothing over $300) and that never goes out of style. The shop's popularity ensures a constantly changing inventory. Look for monthly sales, when Chan reduces her already low prices by 20-50 percent. 166 Elizabeth St., 212/226-6677. FemmegemsIt's fun to flash fabulous baubles, but it's even more satisfying if you've made the jewelry yourself. In late 2002, Lindsay Cain, who used to make her own versions of designer jewelry, opened a cute store where other DIY types could unleash their own mix-and-match styles. Cain supplies everything you need, including unique beads and semiprecious stones, and sells designer creations, too. Necklaces from $50, earrings from $20, individual stones from $4. 280 Mulberry St., 212/625-1611, femmegems.com. Bar 89Still cool after all these years. A longtime model hangout that's worked hard to earn its reputation as one of SoHo's best bars and bistros. The black-and-white minimalist decor is accented with eclectic art, fruity cocktails, and heaping plates of yummy nachos (proof that models do eat!). The kitchen stays open daily to 1 a.m. The see-through unisex bathroom doors are a must-see. 89 Mercer St., 212/274-0989, bar89.com.