Like a lot of old Baltimore institutions, Alonso’s bar on Cold Spring Lane still has the same old name it has carried for decades, but it is not the same old place. The Alonso family sold out years ago and that’s when it ceased being a dingy, seedy pickup joint for divorcees (and, sometimes, the still-married) and instead became a well-lit “sports bar,” a faux version of its former self.
But back when it was still the real thing, there was a small display window in the front, surrounded by glass block that had the feel of an airtight museum chamber, the kind that protects a society’s treasured and vulnerable artifacts. Entombed in this window, like a factory-town Shroud of Turin, was a fat splinter with a small, engraved brass marker that read: Goal Post 1958 Championship Game.
This December marks the half-century anniversary of that contest, the so-called “Greatest Game Ever Played.” Whether or not that celebrated tangle in New York between literal Giants and the even-larger Baltimore Colts deserves the title is the subject of ongoing speculation. To this day many of the surviving Colts would say it wasn’t even their best game of 1958. (They give that distinction to an epic comeback against the San Francisco 49ers a few weeks earlier.)
But in Baltimore, where the vowels are as narrow as the rowhouses and the Colts once reigned as the civic religion, there is no doubt. The ’58 championship game endures as one of only two seminal moments in city history, the other being the whipping dished out to foreign invaders o’er the ramparts at Fort McHenry.
Francis Scott Key immortalized that victory in verse and the town fathers constructed an elegant monument to it that adorns the city flag. But for the old Baltimore guys who yank canned brews out of Frigidaires and warsh their greezy hands in a zinc, it’s the title game that really matters.
No Baltimorean even knows the state anthem, but when the chorus of the old Colts swells, leather-faced steelworkers and forsaken machinists still get goose pimply and sing along through teary eyes and tight throats. It’s a lot like the Marseillaise scene in “Casablanca.” I wasn’t even born in 1958, but I was reared in the “post-title” society, acutely aware of The Game and its echoes. As a child, every man I knew admired the Colts, perhaps as an act of self-affirmation.
In Baltimore, we didn’t realize we were worse than all the cities around us; we thought we were superior. And in a way, we were. In ’58 we did something that few other cities have ever done. We stuck it to New Yorkers, and in Yankee Stadium.
Though the ’58 game has taken on a fine patina, it was far from flawless. Despite the presence of 17 future Hall of Famers on the field and sidelines that day, the game was characterized by fumbles, interceptions and poor decisions. In fact, two of the greatest of the Hall of Famers stood beside each other, and beside themselves, on the Baltimore sideline late in the second half disbelieving their eyes as the clock ticked and an ignominious Colts defeat seemed inevitable.
One of them, a 275-pound Irish kid from the Bronx, loud and loquacious, was a born barroom orator. The other was Italian and laconic. As the game slipped away, the Irishman, Arthur Donovan, was moved to ramshackle soliloquy. “Can you believe it?” he demanded to know. After all that the Colts had been through, the years of loss and frustration and struggle… to be on the brink of a championship only to see it wasted— squandered!— to an inferior team. His teammate, Gino Marchetti, sadly shook his head and said: “You’re right, Fatso.”
But the magic was still to come. With a little more than two minutes left to play, the Giants had a three-point lead and the ball, and they were aiming to drive until the end of time. And then something curious happened. On third-and-four from their own 40-yard line, the Giants put it all on the back of their star halfback, Frank Gifford.
That was unremarkable, enough, except for two facts. Giants offensive coordinator Vince Lombardi, the canniest mind football would ever know, made the call. And he chose to run Gifford directly at (not from) Marchetti, maybe the best defensive player in history.
Lombardi’s career would end about 10 years later with five championships under his belt as head coach of the Green Bay Packers. His name would become a synonym for victory, so much so that it was permanently etched into the Super Bowl trophy itself. But this decision, in the biggest of games, was a catastrophe.
In college, Marchetti led the University of San Francisco to an undefeated season then encouraged his team to stay home rather than accept a bowl invitation that excluded their black teammates. When Marchetti’s moral force met Gifford with only everything on the line, Gino’s femur got busted and Gifford’s gain, marked after Gino was carried off, came up a half-yard short.
Gifford howled, but the play was not reviewable by 40 years. So the ball was punted and put in the hands of some guy named Unitas.
At the time, Johnny U was only three years removed from being a complete failure. Coming out of high school he was ignored by every decent college program in the country, so he went to Louisville and played for a laughingstock. After that, the Pittsburgh Steelers drafted him only to dump him in training camp, unused. When the Colts caught up with him, he was slinging a hard hat and a lunch pail.
In Baltimore, Unitas met a kindred spirit in another long shot named Raymond Berry. The quarterback and receiver were often described as cerebral, and they were, especially compared to the skull crackers with whom they kept company. They pioneered new techniques like watching film and viewed their jobs as a serious profession.
After long days of practice, they refused to yield and would continue to hone their timing on the grass, all by themselves. After that, they’d go to Unitas’ for dinner and, like little kids, would play catch in his backyard until dark.
But Johnny U wasn’t a genius; he was a sadist. He made his meat and potatoes by toying with defensive men. He’d patiently look for their fissures, set them up and then undress them. He took pleasure in exposing their professional fraudulence in front of thousands.
Lombardi was a blunt instrument who pounded men and broke their wills. Unitas broke their hearts. “No matter how good they are,” Johnny U once said, “they can all be had.”
Unitas was handed the ball at his own 14-yard line with the NFL’s No. 1 defense in front of him. So all he did was invent the two-minute drill in front of the entire country. He marched the Colts forward and gave the Giants a taste of what he and Berry had been cooking up in his backyard. They seemed to read each other’s thoughts as they connected again and again, Unitas spinning arcing passes over the heads of the proud Giants.
New York’s superb defense, led by defensive coordinator Tom Landry, the eventual founder of the Dallas dynasty, had no answer for them.
The Colts tied the game on a Steve Myhra field goal in the nick of time, of course, forcing the first “sudden death” overtime in NFL championship history. By now, you know they won it. When Colts fullback Alan Ameche plunged across the goal line, he plunged the city of Baltimore into a state of euphoria that has never totally abated.
Unitas came to town the same year H.L. Mencken died. The rowhouses were rotting and the B&O was failing. To the outside world it was a city in decay with very little going for it. But the ’58 Colts changed, or at least delayed, all that. They limped into Yankee Stadium roughnecks in the shadow of hallowed monuments— the game wasn’t even a sellout. But when they departed into the cool December night they were the flag bearers of something much bigger, financially and culturally, than even Ruth, Gehrig and DiMaggio. And Baltimore, not New York, would be the epicenter.
Even among the great teams, the Colts hold a special mystique. They could run inside, or outside. They could pass, harass the passer and stuff the run. They intercepted the opposition with incredible frequency. They simultaneously possessed history’s greatest offensive and defensive players in Unitas and Marchetti.
Their endearing coach, Weeb Ewbank, won three championships including the two most significant games in league history— ’58 and 10 seasons later leading Namath and the Jets over the Colts. In sharp contrast to today’s control freaks, who blast plays into their quarterback’s ears through a two-way radio, Weeb was serene.
Once, when Unitas uncharacteristically came off the field in a critical situation and asked his coach for a play, Ewbank responded vaguely but with the right idea. “Geez, I don’t know, John,” he said. “Go get us a touchdown.”
Most of the players back then never left town. They came from all over America to enjoy their short, violent careers in Baltimore then stayed long enough to see themselves become old men right in front of the eyes of the people who adored them.
Today, much is made of how the players in those days didn’t do it for the money, but, of course, they did. They just didn’t play to become obscenely wealthy. Thanks to football they didn’t have to toil anonymously for a Depression wage; they had status and a post-war boom paycheck.
Their benefits package meant everything to them, though it mostly consisted of things they didn’t get, like black lung disease in a mine, or a scalding at a blast furnace, or an arm chewed in a combine.
The men of my father’s generation had a similar reverence for the Colts that they had for World War II vets. They were regular guys whose jobs gave them the opportunity to do extraordinary things. There was the illusion of duty in their work. World War II, unlike the complicated adventures that followed, was the good fight for freedom, democracy and America. The Colts laid it all on the line for Baltimore.
Thanks to them, the little town between Washington and New York wasn’t dilapidated, it was indomitable; it wasn’t crumbling, it was a crusher. And everybody in America had to take notice. Because for one cold day in December of 1958, Baltimore was a city of Giant slayers.
Jack Gilden is still a Baltimore Colts fan.
The tiny waterfront part of Ann Street just off Thames in the heart of Fells Point has always had a certain European air about it. The onetime home to the old Captain Steve’s China Seas Marine Trading Co., and currently to the decidedly European Bonaparte Breads, has now added a new storefront to the collection. V-NO is a petite wine shop/wine bar/cafe owned by friendly husband-and-wife team Mark and Kristina Bachman. The stylish shop offers a well-edited selection of wines, mostly under $30, and grouped according to style. A smaller “cellar room” holds pricier bottles. For those who pull up to the small bar, 15 to 16 wines are poured by the glass daily, and a concise menu of cheeses, breads, salads, savory tarts and chocolates is offered. Open Tuesday-Wednesday at 4:30 p.m.; open Thursday-Sunday at 11:30 a.m. 905 S. Ann St., 410-342-8466
While the holiday season is a time of joy, unfortunately, it can also be a time of stress. Searching for the perfect gift for a long list of family, friends and co-workers is enough to send even the most seasoned of shoppers into a retail spin.
This year the Alter Communications editors at STYLE, PaperDoll and Chesapeake Life have embarked on our first collaborative effort, the sole purpose being the alleviation of pre-holiday shopping angst. Pooling our fashion and design savvy, we’ve compiled a holiday gift wish list of all the objects that make our hearts go aflutter. Wish List is sure to give you loads of fantastic gift ideas and inspirations for your holiday shopping and, you might even find something to put on your own holiday wish list!
Click images for larger view. Or, download the entire section (13MB).
Last year, the news that a foot-high plastic Jesus doll that quotes Bible verses was being marketed to take on Barbie in America’s toy aisles during the Christmas season naturally got my attention. As religion editor of this magazine, I was fascinated with the argument that Barbie (and all secular toys, for that matter) was a bad role model for impressionable children. Barbie is a tart, an agent of Satan. Bratz, a kind of trailer trash Barbie, is even worse. G.I. Joe is a psycho. And My Little Pony is gay. But Jesus— or Action Jesus, as I prefer to think of Him— will lead kids not into temptation and deliver them from evil.
As you might imagine, the first retailer to get religion was Wal-Mart, which placed the “faith-enriching toys,” made by a California company called One2believe, on sale mainly in stores in the Midwest and South. Christian products had sales of more than $4.5 billion last year and business was apparently good for plastic Jesus last season. As The Virginian-Pilot noted in a headline, “Good Luck Finding Jesus: He’s Sold Out.” Nearly three weeks before Christmas, every one of those Talking Jesus Messenger of Faith dolls had been snapped up.
Well, I don’t care if it rains or freezes… Jesus vs. Barbie? No contest. Not if He uses his superpowers! Jesus can raise the dead. Turn water into wine. Feed the multitudes. Cure lepers and dropsy (whatever that is). Cast out devils. Plus He can return from the dead.
What can Barbie do? Shop.
Barbie can water-ski. Jesus can walk on water.
No wonder plastic Jesus was a hit.
Now, some may argue that Barbie has nicer clothes. Barbie has nicer hair. Barbie is hot. Barbie has action figure friends.
But Jesus could have nicer clothes if designers would give the Nazarene a whole new wardrobe! Plastic Jesus cannot seriously take on Barbie wearing that old bathrobe that He usually goes out in. No way. I expect we will soon see “Project Runway” meets “The 700 Club.”
As for hair, Jesus has always had great hair— even atheists recognize that. When have you ever seen any representation of Jesus in which His hair did not look good? He obviously uses a lot of product. Jesus is also pretty buff. He works out. We know for a fact that He walked everywhere except for a couple of donkey rides. The plastic Jesus doll looks a little like Chuck Norris, only smarter. Of course He’s smarter, He’s the Son O’ God!
As for Barbie and her so-called friends, who are her friends? Little plastic people. Ken, Skipper, Midge. These aren’t real friends.
Jesus has John the Baptist, Peter and Paul and his “entourage,” the 12 apostles. (OK, maybe Judas was a bad egg, but there’s one in every group.) Plus, there’s the whole gang from the Old Testament— Daniel, Sampson, Moses, Noah. Everyone wants to be Jesus’ friend. Ever hear the song, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus?” I rest my case.
My biggest concern now is that the manufacturers of Action Jesus have not considered how complex things could get when they drag religion into the toy aisle. There’s always the chance that bad kids will try to get Action Jesus to turn chocolate milk into wine or perform unauthorized miracles. Day off from school? Test results disappear? School furnace breaks down? That’s blasphemy, kids. But I am pretty sure it’s going to happen.
What about the obvious question? I leave this to the metaphysicians and the devout, but some kid is definitely going to ask if action figures go to heaven. Better be ready for that.
I suppose in the end, the mission of Christian toy makers is pretty obvious at this special time of the year. They are spreading the gospel of Jesus and trying to make a buck. And when you put those two together in this great country, you can’t go wrong.
Can I get an amen?
Ever since my mother died almost 15 years ago (has it really been that long?), and my dad immediately after, and all the family I’ve ever had has either grown up and moved away or flown off into the great beyond, I’ve been trying to figure out what to do at Christmas. It’s a little bit hard to have a huge family Christmas when “huge” and “mother” have been taken out of the equation.
And even though I was the one child out of four who just had to have the precious Polonaise glass Santa ornament (that one of us had chipped, leaving Mom with a broken heart), and the hand-blown teardrop ornaments and glass Christmas trees with the frosted boughs, and the plastic, three-dimensional Sputnik stars, I find that I have no clue what to do with them now that they are mine and mine alone. I have boxes of miscellaneous holiday memorabilia, like the Nativity scene that is missing baby Jesus and two of the wise men, the tall frosted glass candle with the illustration of Mother Mary that we were never allowed to burn because it was so beautiful, the oddball ornaments my mother’s art students made for her and my sister’s strange friends gave to her, but somehow it doesn’t feel right to pull them out each Christmas.
I’ve been looking at my cousins whose parents are still alive— watching them show up for their family rituals, feeling so darn lonely for mine. And even though my aunts have generously tried to fit me in, I’ve been left feeling like more of an outsider than ever.
Their rituals underscore that mine are no longer alive. Having Christmas morning around a tree with chic, twinkling white lights, instead of bold, colorful globe lights, just doesn’t feel the same. The orderly opening of a few choice presents that were carefully selected by one member of the family for another member can never replace the glorious shower of flying wrapping paper that secretly hid the identity of oh-so-many presents. And how can an organized Christmas dinner, where one daughter cooks the casseroles, one the pies, while the mother bakes and bastes the turkey, ever replace those 5 a.m. disputes where my unmarried aunt, holding something wrapped in what looked like a baby blanket, would wake up my mother to ask her how long it— the roast— should be cooked, even though she would always overcook it no matter what my mother said? All the people who sat at our table would sit elbow to elbow and tell stories and not really care that the roast was burned, because the rest of the food was good and mothers didn’t die yet and all was right with the world.
And, OK, maybe I never really liked going to midnight service at the Episcopal church, wearing dresses that crinkled like wrapping paper every time I stood up, then knelt (which you do a lot in an Episcopal church), singing impenetrably tuneless hymns. But still. To have those Christmas Eves back would be wonderful. How fun it would be to wake up to all those glorious presents— ripping them open in a blizzard of ribbons and paper— and then knocking off that entire box of chocolate-covered cherries for breakfast, followed by the nuts and the hard ribbon candy Santa left.
And sure, getting that big Christmas morning present from Mom will continue to be a wish I’ll never stop having. The bicycle. The ping-pong table. One year, my brothers got clarinets, my sister got a guitar and I got a ukulele. They all became musicians and I became the writer who wrote funny things, like about getting that ukulele for Christmas. To have that ukulele back now would mean everything to me.
And, oh all right, even though I rolled my eyes when Mom crammed my brothers and sister into the car to go visit those frail little aunts on Christmas afternoon— the ones who never had presents for us, but had a busload of Pecan Sandies, year-old marshmallow Santas and enough jelly beans to last a month— I’d give my eyeteeth to be able to get in the car with my mother so we could go visit them today.
And, oh, for the day after Christmas when our extended family would show up! Mom would still be cleaning everything with Pine-Sol at midnight (after giving up on making us clean our rooms so she could do it herself), as they rolled in. As kids, we felt so lucky and strange and wildly happy to be able to stay up so late to wait for our cousins. Then they’d finally jump out of the car— the long-awaited presents we really wanted.
Oh, to have all of that back… what a gift.
I’ve spent 10 years dreading that our 10-year-old daughter, Jenkins, has never had what I had, and that my husband, Bill, and I haven’t been able to supply her with all those magical moments. Yet, the entire time I’ve been supplying her with something even better, and I’m just now seeing that.
The star that topped my childhood Christmas trees— the same star that topped my parents’ Christmas tree, and my mother’s childhood tree, handmade during the Depression out of an old Victorian greeting card— now sits in my lockbox, because it’s my memory, not our daughter’s. But in the spirit of that star, we make a new star every Christmas and then put it into a book for Jenkins to have always. When she was a baby, we made cut-outs from paper plates and greeting cards, but as she’s grown into her own creativity, she’s added other things— the only rule being that the stars must be somewhat able to be pressed into her Christmas Star book. Last year she made an aquarium out of two paper plates, plastic wrap, tape and real sand from Edisto Island— instead of a fish inside, there were swimming stars, hanging from bits of thread.
We still open one present before bed, as I did throughout my childhood. But now we start early. On Dec. 6 we follow Jenkins’ godmother Andrea’s German childhood ritual of planting our shoes outside our bedroom door for Saint Nicholas to fill with candy. During Hanukkah, we spin the dreidel in honor of Jenkins’ cousins in Haifa, Israel. A few days before Christmas, in honor of her Chinese cousins, we begin to make red paper lantern ornaments for the tree. Last year, on Christmas Eve, we made a Bûche de Noël, a French yule log that’s dripping in chocolate, in honor of her cousins in Paris, France. (I wasn’t joking when I said my family moved away!)
And in keeping with the tradition of always looking for something from another culture, this year we will tip our hats to my cousin’s new Chilean husband by putting a little clay figurine known as “pesebre” under the tree, and making a fruity cake called a Pan de Pasqua (hoping it is better than the brick-shaped fruitcake that seems to continue to be passed around to different members of my family each year).
Santa still comes, but now our tree is always in a different spot— often a different country: Paris, Provence, Belgium, Germany, Scotland, the Queen Elizabeth II, Bali, Indonesia, Oak Ridge, Tennessee and New York City— and coming up the road, Timonium, Md. 21093.
We still have loads of presents, but instead of opening them all at once, Jenkins opens a few in the morning while she, yes, fills up on those dastardly chocolate-covered cherries and then she opens a present every hour on the hour, because I decided a long time ago that I didn’t want Christmas to stop after the presents were opened. And one of her biggest presents is always under the covers waiting for her at bedtime.
The stories of my mother’s childhood are filled with colorful enough memories that they’ve become my memories, too. My mother had four siblings and two rather unconventional parents. Her father— my grandfather— was a famous tuberculosis doctor in the South and they grew up at a sanitarium. My grandmother was as blue blood as one could get— she was an only child whose father had won the Congressional Medal of Honor; his grandfather was a general in the Civil War; and the first American grandfather inherited hundreds of acres of barrier island land near Charleston, S.C., from King Charles of Spain in the 1500s.
When guests would come for dinner at the sanitarium and politely ask if someone could pass the bread, my very elegantly dressed, seemingly Victorian, grandmother would take a piece of bread out of the basket and wing it across the table like a Frisbee, leaving the guest astonished and the kids to abandon their manners and become five little monkeys roiling with laughter. I might not have been born, but still, I was a laughing monkey, too. When people recall walking past the sanitarium at 2 in the morning, instead of the lights being off, the lights were blazing, my grandmother was playing the piano and the kids could be heard singing whatever songs were popular during the Depression. And as my aunt later taught me “K-K-K-Katy,” that’s the song I remember singing… even though, of course, I was never there. When Uncle George— at the age of 14— decided to expand the front door of the family beach shack, Happy Landing, into a double door and the shack caved in, leaving all five kids oooh-ing with their hands clamped over their mouths on the side of the unpaved Steamboat Landing road, well, I was one of those children.
I know by heart that when the hurricane of 1940 hit Edisto Island, there was no warning, and my Uncle George walked his four siblings through waist-high ocean water over the Dahoo bridge to get to the mainland. Of course, I was there for that, too, as vivid as it was. I also remember the time when my grandmother was in her Sunday dress and ribbon hat, and rode the giant sea turtle on the shores of Edisto Beach. And when my grandmother and grandfather had their first child, my Aunt Sally, and they were so pleased with her that they put her in the silver fruit bowl during breakfast so they could watch her while they ate, I was watching her, too. And yet, after all these years, it has finally come to me that I never did ask my mother what her childhood Christmases were like.
Jenkins will probably forget to ask me about my childhood Christmases, too. And I’ll probably forget to tell her that my brother Adam used to sit around burping the alphabet and “Silent Night;” or that her Uncle Micah would always say such amazingly, funny, snarky things about the yearly Slinky he’d unwrap, because, for the poet Dylan Thomas, there might always have been aunts at Christmas, but for us, there were always Slinkys in our stockings; or that her Aunt Kathy was very shy and only seemed to really come alive for us on Christmas morning, when, being the oldest, she would always be the first to give our mom the adult literary comic book with naughty illustrations; or that our mom, Jenkins’ grandmother— the extraordinary, beautiful woman she would never meet— would always make an entrance in the room, sticking her finger in the air in a Ta-Da! motion, with her other arm behind her and two dachshunds trailing; or that I— Jenkins’ mommy— would always be the last to go to bed, the first to wake up, and the absolute first to yell, “Look what Santa brought!” on Christmas morning.
Jenkins won’t know any of that, but she will know that there is a Santa, and that Christmas comes every year no matter where she is, and that Christmas has been and always will be one of the most special holidays in her life. And somewhere down the line, she’ll be able to connect the dots and see that all her Christmases have less to do with the rituals than they do with the fact that my grandmother threw the bread around the table at dinnertime.
I wish I could explain it better, but I’m just now beginning to figure it out myself. And I also don’t have time. Jenkins has decided to make the star for the tree earlier than usual, and I have to go to the store to get the material: tape, wrapping paper, paper plates and, get this, a Slinky. I’ve no idea what she has in mind, but I know that instead of missing my mother so tremendously, I’m going to tremendously enjoy being right here, right now, watching my daughter bring in this holiday season.
If you’re looking for a very merry holiday getaway, you don’t have to go far. Williamsburg, Va., is just a few hours away by car, and it’s the ideal escape for those seeking festive, old-fashioned charm. With each historic home, restaurant and shop window decked out in authentic, all-natural Christmas decorations, the holiday season marks the busiest time of year for the city, which draws as many as 200,000 people from Thanksgiving to New Year’s.
To walk through the historic area of Williamsburg is to be transported to Colonial America. To enter the Williamsburg Inn is to step back to a time where couples still dressed for dinner and refinements such as finger bowls weren’t a novelty but a necessity. The inn, which opened in 1937, was designed to the specifications of Williamsburg’s patrons, John D. Rockefeller Jr. and his wife, Abby. A major renovation in 2001 modernized the inn without sacrificing its famous understated luxury and Southern charm— the Regency period-style furnishings in the inn’s lobby are still arranged to Mrs. Rockefeller’s preference, for example. My room was a luscious (and large) home away from home. It even had its own little boxwood Christmas tree.
My first adventure at the inn was getting lost while trying to get to an appointment at the new Spa of Colonial Williamsburg. The inn is a warren of hallways and stairways that invite pleasant wandering. One random corridor leads to a gorgeous sitting room; around another corner, there’s a great little reading nook. In one lounge, travelers can scribble a note about their stay on gilt cards and hang them from the boughs of a Christmas tree. And every room and hall is filled with the heady scent of blooming paperwhites coupled with red amaryllis and Christmas greens in china bowls.
A re-created Colonial America might sound like Disney-esque kitsch to some, but Williamsburg takes its role as an educational destination and preservation district seriously. So while the spa was built in 2007, history played a role in every aspect of its development. “The challenge for us was how we could work a spa with the concept of a historic area,” explained Ed Allmann, director of marketing. “The [Williamsburg] Foundation’s mission is ‘so the future may learn from the past’ and everything must echo that mission.”
After extensive research, the spa settled on a theme of “five centuries of wellness,” which, in practice, means it emphasizes herbal treatments germane to the Tidewater area. Most high-end spas offer treatments using these same products, but these are treatments with a two-hour, century-inspired twist. You’ll be wrapped in steaming linens and massaged with the essential oils used during the 17th century: lavender, juniper and rosemary. Angelica, pennyroyal, sage, ginger and oranges— items used by apothecaries of the time— are introduced as your 18th-century herbal rub and scrub down. The 19th-century treatment consists of some of the same properties of the past, but introduces clary sage and sea salts.
Wanting to cover as many years as possible in a short period of time, I opted for the 17th-century hot stone massage (a modern interpretation of an ancient healing ritual) and the 21st-century facial. The massage began with a cleansing ritual wherein a porcelain container of sage-scented oil was opened and the aroma wafted over me. Then my service provider used herbal oils and hot stones to massage my body. Warm stones were placed in my palms and under my feet before she wrapped me in warm, damp linen and then in something akin to plastic wrap. While toxins were (hopefully) leaching out of my skin, I received a cranial facial massage. After that luxury, I rinsed off in the shower of my private room, and then had yet another stone massage. Finally, in a completely gelatinous state, I was left to pull myself together and stumble back to the inn for dinner.
The Regency Room at the inn is a restaurant with old traditions— men in ties, finger bowls with rose petals, a palate-cleansing sorbet— that are holding strong against the increasing casual dining experience (in which BlackBerrys are brought to the table). My keeper for the night was Joseph O’Callahan, formerly of the Colonial Williamsburg Co. Joe and his family were among the approximately 100 families who live in the historic area of Colonial Williamsburg. When I relayed my delicious spa experience, he responded, “We decided if we were going to do this, we needed to do it perfectly to fit into our history. The 18th century was pretty big on healing methodologies.”
To start the meal, I ordered the salmon tartare, the lobster bisque and a sublime dish of porcini-dusted scallops. My main entrée was a pan-roasted cod that arrived just as the pianist started to play. A few couples took to the dance floor. “Williamsburg really invented the holiday getaway,” Joe said, watching the dancers spin across the floor. “People naturally gravitate to this area in the winter for the holiday decorations, and it has just grown. There’s something special about being here at Christmastime.”
Williamsburg’s tradition of using natural elements to decorate its streets and homes is a modern interpretation of what might have been in the 18th century— there are no ribbons or bows because that would be so Victorian. Walking through the historic area on an unseasonably warm day, I spotted the usual suspects— various incarnations of apples, oranges and pineapples nestled in boxwoods or attached to evergreen swags— but also things one would never expect, such as oyster shells, tobacco leaves, bird feathers and dried coxcomb. There were whimsical touches, too, like the pub whose wreath was ringed with pewter beer steins filled with fluffy natural cotton to simulate foam, and the printing house that had a wreath of newsprint twirled into rosettes and surrounded by dried herbs and flowers.
To complement the decorations, there are festivities and events throughout the season, from musical performances and 18th-century plays to special re-enactments and a dance at the Governor’s Palace (see sidebar). And for those who need less holiday and more history, the DeWitt Wallace Decorative Arts Museum and Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Folk Art Museum are perfect places to explore on cold, dreary winter days.
Early on my second day in Williamsburg, I found my way back to the spa, where I sipped on a cup of apple mint tea and snacked on a few almonds while paging through copies of 18th-century literature about using sage and rosemary to cure headaches and making beautifying masks from items found in the Colonial pantry or apothecary: juniper, rosemary, angelica and sage. My 21st-century facial began with something decidedly un-modern: Toilet de Flora vanilla-lavender salt scrub footbath in a copper pan— copper being considered to have an antifungal property at that time— which was followed by a decidedly contemporary skin manipulation treatment. The ultrasonic exfoliation combined with an oxygen treatment left my face feeling refined and hydrated.
Following the treatment, I went downstairs to the “wet lounge.” I bypassed the women’s plunge pool and chose 15 minutes in the steam room, after which I rubbed down with a chilled towel from an ice bucket. A glass of fruit-infused water was a perfect end to the experience.
That night while dining at Christiana Campbell’s Tavern, I had another uniquely Williamsburg experience: listening to a serpent player fill the room with his deep bass renditions of traditional holiday tunes. (A serpent is a 16th-century instrument carved of wood that’s the great-granddaddy of the tuba.)
Unfortunately, modernity and all its responsibilities tugged at my sleeve, though before embarking on the drive home, there was one more stop. I swung into Market Square, an ideal spot to pick up last-minute Christmas gifts.
There I found all the trappings required to re-create a Williamsburg-inspired holiday at home, such as ropes of pine, fresh and dried fruits (apples, oranges, pomegranates, figs, pineapples, etc.), holly and juniper berries, along with more unusual items, such as clam shells, seed pods and sea gull feathers, all used to make wreathes and to spruce up evergreen swags.
There’s even an instructional DVD that shows how to make a hanging window wreath using magnolia leaves and clove-spiked oranges. Still, even with the DVD, it’s hard to believe you could re-create the charm and beauty of Christmas in Williamsburg anywhere else.
Winter Wonderland
Grand Illumination: Colonial Williamsburg’s 74th annual holiday season kickoff event includes music, window display lighting and an “18th-century-style” fireworks display. Dec. 7. Fireworks at the Palace Green, Magazine and Capitol Building begin at 6:15 p.m. Entertainment on multiple stages in the historic area begins at 4:45 p.m., then fireworks until 7:30 p.m. Free.
Shields Tavern Holiday Feast: Spend some quality time with Colonial interpreters over an opulent supper and mulled cider, eggnog and wassail punch.
Dec. 19 to Dec. 31. $55 per person.
Thomas Jefferson Wine Dinner: Become a Williamsburg VIP as you wine and dine with Mr. Jefferson, who will share stories of his European travels.
Dec. 19. 5 to 8 p.m. $120 per person.
Kids’ Holiday Memories Weekend: Features caroling, dancing, storytelling, puppet shows and a complicated Colonial card game called “Loo,” which involves rounds, bets, tricks and ... well, they’ll explain the rest. Weekends of Dec. 13, 20 and 27. $15 for children 6 and up; $7 for children under 6.
An Evening of Dance at the Palace: Practice your country dances, reels and minuets amidst the candlelit Governor’s Palace. Dec. 18. 7 to 8:30 p.m. $15 per person.
Fifes and Drums March: A traditional militia field musicians’ march from the Capitol Building to the Palace Green. Dec. 24. 6:30 p.m. Free.
[ To reserve tickets for these events, call 1-800-HISTORY or visit http://www.History.org/Christmas. ]
The Williamsburg Inn is located in Williamsburg, Va., approximately 4 hours away from Baltimore. 757-220-7978, http://www.colonialwilliamsburgresorts.com. Rates $319- $799. Golf and spa packages available.
Photographed by Erik Kvalsvik
Stepping into the log cabin family room of Melanie and Bob Sabelhaus late 1890s Federal-style estate home in Green Spring Valley is like walking back in time. There may be no stately gentlemen drinking port, but during the holidays the ghosts of the past are in attendance as guests at the Sabelhauses annual party stand atop tables and sing “The Twelve Days of Christmas” into the early morning hours.
“The house moves you into the spirit as soon as you walk in the front door,” says Melanie Sabelhaus of the elaborate holiday display she creates annually with her husband, Bob, and floral designer Jeffrey Conti, owner of nearby Pinewood Farm.
On the day after Thanksgiving, the Sabelhauses begin the process of decorating seven special rooms in their home. To start, they travel to Green Fields to find the biggest and fullest Christmas tree— hopefully one that stands at least 15 feet tall— for the log cabin room. “I better have a big tree,” says Sabelhaus. “I have a lot to hang.” Antique, glass and porcelain ornaments adorn the tree as well as a cherished family collection of tiny violins, harps and stars passed down from Melanie’s mother. Other special decorations have been collected around Darien, Conn., and Nantucket, where the Sabelhauses have additional homes.
Reminiscent of an Adirondack lodge with its huge timber beams, the log cabin room or “Christmas room,” as it is affectionately known, is the heart of the home during the holidays. Above the mantelpiece overflowing with lush greenery from Norway spruce and silver fir trees is a moose trophy that evokes a resplendent outdoor feel. A roaring fire, candles and the twinkle of Christmas lights cast a warm glow. “It feels like Santa Claus could be right there next to you,” says Sabelhaus.
In the conservatory, a garland of evergreen magnolia leaves hangs from the ceiling and dresses the fireplace mantel, which holds a centerpiece abundant with pine cones and leaves. Other festive touches in the room include creamy white poinsettias and bare branches of willow, silver maple and star magnolia in the two vases standing upon the mantel. Welcoming guests into the center hall are two red-capped toy soldiers that flank the entryway. An ornate table with golden touches takes center stage with jolly Santas, tiered candles and a tall arrangement of red osier dogwood, ilex berries and white pine.
By the first week in December the Sabelhauses decorating work is complete. “I want to enjoy my home,” Sabelhaus says. “I want the entire month to be nothing but Christmas.”
RESOURCES
Floral design
Jeffrey Conti, 410-877-7082
Christmas tree
Green Fields Nursery & Landscaping Co., 5424 Falls Road at Northern Parkway, 410-323-3444, http://www.greenfieldsnursery.com
Tapabar is a cozy little tapas and dessert place in Little Italy, occupying the spot vacated by Cafe di Roma. The menu concentrates on small plates such as pulled chicken and sautéed onion empanadas, ceviche, char-grilled lamb chops in Seville sauce and steamed mussels in garlic wine sauce. Part of the “eat local” movement, the restaurant uses ingredients from Maryland farms. The wine list is limited, but does offer three that are certified organic. 413 S. High St., 410-233-3020
Every year my Christmas season starts with a day spent inside, a little spilled sugar, soft butter and a hot oven. When my sister and I were young, we’d spend this day in my grandmother’s basement kitchen. We’d start with gingerbread, eager to try out all of the cookie cutters in Grandma’s unusual collection of metal lions, Scottie dogs, even playing card suits like clubs and spades. “Close together,” my mother would urge, guiding my hand with hers as we pressed a metal star into the molasses-colored dough. “Go around the edges first. Then cut out the middle.”
Before long, a dusting of flour had coated Grandma’s black-and-white table, formed a small pile on the gray concrete floor and smudged my sweater. From Grandpop’s workshop in the other part of the cellar came the sound of a drill, which competed with the music from the radio that sat on top of the cabinet that held Grandma’s dishes and mixing bowls.
Next up were sugar cookies, which we sprinkled with red and green sugar— “Just a little,” Grandma admonished— and buttery spritz dough that emerged like bubble gum from the copper top of the cookie press to become fat little Christmas trees, wreaths and even camels. By the end of the day we’d have baked four types of cookies, including the deep-brown discs of black walnut cookies sliced from dough Grandma had made and refrigerated the day before. By Christmas, there would be even more: fruity spirals of date and nut pinwheel cookies, lacy Swedish oatmeal cookies and almond crescents dipped in powdered sugar.
Over the years, my grandmother, mother, sister and I accumulated new recipes from pages torn from magazines or from friends or work colleagues. We ventured into ethnic traditions other than our own, spooning thin batter onto a pizzelle iron to make the crispy waffle-like Italian cookies and dipping egg-shaped cookies into honey and walnuts for Greek finikia. We tried different flavors such as anise in drop cookies (“Don’t make those again” was Grandma’s judgment) and combinations like lemon and poppyseed (another no-go, according to my sister). One year we skipped making gingerbread. Because we missed it, we decided to make it again the following year.
When, in 1992, I began a series of moves that took me from Baltimore, I found that I still needed to bake cookies in December. It wasn’t the sweets I craved; it was the ritual. In apartments in Chicago and Morgantown, W.Va., I baked alone, rolling lumps of chocolate dough into little balls while listening to tapes my father made for me of our old Christmas albums (several of them relics from the days when companies like Firestone and Goodyear produced Christmas LPs).
When I flew home for the holiday, I wrapped cans of chocolate crinkles in sweaters and nestled them in my luggage. By the time I moved back to Baltimore in 2001, my sister had married and moved out of the area, and she, too, found herself baking solo and bringing home her favorite cookies: peanut butter blossoms and red currant filled thumbprints.
Since 2006, however, Kathleen and I both live on the East Coast, and once again we bake together with my mother. This year, on an early December Saturday, I’ll walk into my mother’s kitchen to find the table covered with cookie sheets, half-drunken mugs of coffee and sticks of butter, softening. The Ames Brothers’ version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” will be playing from the turntable in the dining room stereo. Dad will yell hello from the basement where he’s unpacking Christmas decorations. Mom and Kathleen will have already started making one batch of cookies, and before long we’ll have coconut balls in the oven and chocolate mint batter in the mixer.
We’ll bake throughout the morning and into the afternoon, the kitchen reverberating with the sounds of too many cooks multi-tasking: “How many sticks of butter does the recipe call for?” “Did you put sugar in?” “Who’s timing the cookies?” “Where’s Milo [my sister’s energetic puppy]?” We’ll recall Mom’s “Pillsbury’s Best Butter Cookie Cookbook, Volume III,” a 20-cent treasure filled with cartoon elves called Whitey, Choosy and Freshy, and cookies with names like Chocodiles, Slice o’Spice and Jam Strip Cheesers. For some reason, those cookies never became part of our repertoire, but whenever Kath or I reminisce about cookie baking, that cookbook— and its recipe for Jam Strip Cheesers, in particular— comes up.
Some of us talk more than we bake; some of us sample incessantly; all of us sing along with John Gary’s version of “The Christmas Song” and with the cast of the television show “Bonanza,” as Lorne Greene and Michael Landon warble “Merry Christmas, Neighbor” on my and Kathleen’s favorite Christmas album, “A Partridge in a Pear Tree.” By evening we’re ready for pizza and just about anything but a cookie (though Dad never loses his taste for them).
As much as I love these baking days, there are moments when I throw up my hands and think, “Why?” Baking cookies is labor intensive; it forces us to take time at a point in the year when there is no time, or at least there doesn’t seem to be. But each year I continue to measure, mix and bake because cookies mean bounty, even when there’s not a lot of money to spend. And because cookies invoke a connection in the doing and the eating, in the dark tang of black walnut, in the familiar blend of ginger and cinnamon.
Pistachio Cherry Icebox Cookies
Mary K. Zajac
photographed by Erik Kvalsvik
“We’re not show-offy kind of people. We didn’t set out to buy a house this big,” explains the owner of this 20,000-square-foot home set on 15 acres in Garrison. “We just fell in love with it. The oldest part was built in 1895 and it has all the old mouldings and charm of an old house. But it also has the systems of a new house. And the property is great.”
But even after falling in love with the house, which was once known as Pen-Y-Bryn and occupied by a member of the Hecht department store family, the owner, a former lawyer turned stay-at-home mother of two, and her husband, a commercial real estate developer, hesitated. “My husband and I both grew up in apartments,” she says. “We’re used to small and cozy. My biggest concern was, ‘Can we make this feel cozy and use all of the space?’ I didn’t want a house with empty rooms.”
The couple ensured they wouldn’t have empty rooms when they decided to convert two rooms on the second floor into a home theater designed to look like a vintage movie house, with a royal blue-and-gold color scheme, decorative arches and columns, velvet curtains and seating for 20. “It was my husband’s dream to have a movie theater,” says the owner. “Almost every day someone is in there watching something.” Same goes for the roomy basement, which the owners had dug out an additional 8 feet so the husband could install a professional golf game among the jukebox, ping-pong and air hockey tables and video games. “The kids love it down here,” the owner says of her two children, ages 11 and 13.
To make sure the house felt cozy, the owners hired designer Dan Proctor, principal at Kirk Designs, to preside over a complete redecoration of the interior to reflect their eclectic, down-to-earth taste. “We have a large extended family with lots of kids,” says the owner. “I didn’t want the house to be uptight. I wanted everyone to be able to be in every room in the house.”
The owner also wanted to be a true partner in the design process. Since the family was moving from a 3,000-square-foot house, she needed to purchase a lot of new furniture. That meant trips to the design centers in Chicago, Miami and New York City. “It was a blast,” the owner says. “I learned so much.”
Proctor and the owner decided early on that the basic palette for the home would be mostly earthy shades— subdued greens, purples, blues and beiges— with the owners’ art collection providing splashes of color and interest in each room. They also decided that instead of stripping down the woodwork, much of which had been painted white, they would faux-paint it.
In the foyer, for example, the coffered ceiling and intricate moulding was faux-wood-grained to look like pecan then painted with a gilt glaze. The result is woodwork in a warm honey tone a shade darker than the parquet floors. The walls are upholstered in silk damask that contains threads of purple, green and gold, with the gold thread echoing a gilt-framed mirror that is aged to look like an Italian Renaissance piece. The center table can expand to seat six to eight, allowing the foyer to accommodate overflow from the adjacent formal dining room. On the opposite wall is a fireplace with an onyx surround, the same material that tops the custom-made vanity in the nearby powder room, with its hand-block gold wallpaper.
Adjoining the foyer is the sitting room or library, one of the owner’s favorite places in the house. Deep gray-purple walls and built-in bookshelves create a relaxing, bookish feel, with the furniture upholstered in shades of purple, sage and biscuit. Across the hall, in what used to be the formal living room, the owner’s husband has a home office. With its mahogany faux-grained moulding and built-in bookshelves in a traditional style, it has a serious, sophisticated look— what the owner’s husband calls “a grown-up room.”
Originally, the house ended at the rear wall of the foyer, but an earlier set of owners added a sunroom on the first floor and a master bedroom suite above. Since the current owners had decided to make the formal living room the husband’s home office, they in turn converted the sunroom to a formal living room. A window between the foyer and living room remains as an artifact of the home’s original configuration, and Proctor used that to create a niche or transitional space where a grand piano is located. “There’s certainly a beautiful vista as you come in here,” says Proctor. The back of the room is an entire wall of windows that are covered in woven grass shades. “They have a lacy blade-of-grass feeling,” says Proctor.
The room is furnished in an eclectic mix of styles: Art Deco side chairs, a bone table from Holly Hunt that emulates the Biedermeier style, a classic Niermann Weeks chandelier with wrought iron and crystal beading, Biedermeier chairs upholstered in a purple silk print and a sofa upholstered in beige silk, all set on a custom made rug in purple and cream. As in the rest of the home, art plays a leading role, with a painting by Israeli artist Sevitt Francis displayed above a cabinet. The owner has been collecting art for more than a decade. “My husband gave me my first piece when I was pregnant with our first child,” she says. “I buy what I like— I don’t care who the artists are.”
In the hall leading to the dining room, a series of four pastels by Aleah Koury hangs over a whimsical server from Holly Hunt whose feet are lions’ paws. On the opposite wall hangs a sculpture custom-made by Jennifer Hollack for the spot. In the formal dining room, an original lithograph by Joan Mir— hangs over the fireplace, which has been faux-painted to look like Calcutta gold marble. The walls, which had been paneled originally, were faux-painted in a parchment tonal finish to appear mottled with age. The table, made of mulberry with a tortoiseshell veneer and tulip wood inlay, was custom-made as a round table with leaves that extend it to an oval. “The room couldn’t accommodate as big a table as the owner wanted in a round shape, so we did oval,” says Proctor. He’s particularly fond of the chairs by Therien, which are covered in a sturdy carved chenille.
In the large kitchen, the owners kept the existing cabinets but had them painted white and glazed to give a traditional aged look. They also removed the commercial stove and installed a hood encased in cabinetry and a tile backsplash, and added a Durango limestone countertop. A console on the border between the kitchen and living room houses two flat-screen TVs— one facing the kitchen, one facing the living room.
In the informal dining room, an Irish wake table— where a coffin as well as food would be laid out— is situated in a sunny corner. A custom-made curtain rod fits the curved wall of windows, with curtains that can move in any direction.
The living room ceiling was painted to look like parchment with the strapping faux-wood-grained to define it. A custom-made coffee table made of distressed wood sits between two sofas from Holly Hunt and two lounge chairs from A. Rudin, all of which are set upon a custom-made rug with leather and stud binding. Two “chairs and a half” in front of a fireplace that boasts a travertine noche limestone surround offer a comfy place to lounge.
But perhaps an even better perch is the window seat upholstered in aqua blue in the living room. When the owners moved in, “they had a wooden box window seat. We wanted to create something with movement because it’s very long,” says Proctor. “This is still built-in but we made it to look like a sofa.”
Upstairs in the master bedroom, a sunny room with three walls of windows, the owners wanted to create a true retreat. “She [the owner] really wanted to bring the whole bedroom to one monochromatic color,” says Proctor. “It’s cream and white, ethereal. It’s like heaven.”
The four-poster bed is romantic yet contemporary with its twisted posts and velvet headboard— and an original drypoint etching by Picasso hanging above. A custom-made mirror and fretwork TV lift cabinet stands between two lounge chairs upholstered in a heart leaves fabric.
The owner and her family spend most of their spare time at the house— whether in the game room, movie theater or the elegant yet casual living room. And now that the redecoration is done, the owner’s initial fears have disappeared.
“The house reflects my taste and it is cozy and comfortable,” she says. In the year that the family has lived in the home, they’ve done some large-scale entertaining and plan to host more charity events in the future. “My husband feels that if you buy a house like this,” says the owner, “you have to put it to good use.”
Resources
Design
Dan Proctor, Kirk Designs, 410-468-0798
Faux painting
Extreme Faux Finishes, Florida, 561-686-1408, http://www.extremefaux.com
Movie theater
First Impressions Theme Theatres, Florida, 800-305-7545, http://www.cineloungers.com
Art
Madelyn Madden, Renaissance Fine Arts, 410-484-8900
Last year, a young friend of Savvy’s moved to Baltimore and called Savvy in a state of panic. “I went to Crate & Barrel today,” she cried, “they don’t have any stuff!” Indeed. In the lexicon of retail insults foisted upon Charm City over the years, perhaps the worst was Towson Town Center having possibly the saddest Crate & Barrel in the country. Shoved into a cramped corner next to Nordstrom, you could barely find six matching glasses, forget a sofa. Well, much like the last administration, our nightmare is finally over. The new Crate & Barrel is here. Yes, there are endless displays of stemless wine tumblers for under $2 each, but also two full floors featuring C&B’s entire housewares and furniture collection. And, in these tough economic times, that’s good news for all of our new-to-town young friends— and the rest of us. Don’t miss: The entire front of the store. Savvy always finds a darling little something for her holiday decorating and entertaining. Towson Town Center, level 2, 410-296-8282
On the evening of Oct. 23, 2008, Turner Development Group hosted the grand opening of its Silo Point Luxury Condominiums project. High overhead, in a duplex unit on the 19th and 20th floors, the STYLE Sky Lounge made its debut as well. A joint project between Turner and Style magazine, the 20,000-square-foot luxury lounge boasts several comfortable lounge areas, two fully-equipped kitchens, a media room, dining and meeting space and a spectacular 19th-floor terrace that wraps around two sides of the building to offer panoramic views of downtown Baltimore and the Inner Harbor. Partnerships with the Calligaris Shop by Pad in Fells Point and Starr Systems Design in Mount Washington assure that the levels of comfort and luxury in the interior spaces are just as stunning as the commanding views and sleek design of the project itself. Over the course of the coming months, Style will use the space for entertaining, and residents of the condominiums will have use of it as well.
Media area
This first-level space features a conversation grouping that doubles as a viewing area for the 50-inch flat-screen LG television. A wall-mounted AMX touch-screen system controls all facets of the audio and video components in the space. The audio system features Bowers & Wilkins speakers, a ReQuest music server and a Sonance iPort iPod docking system— all programmed by Starr Systems Design. Furniture is by Italian design house Calligaris and decorative accents such as rugs, lamps and artwork come from Pad in Fells Point.
Upstairs dining area
This second-level space can be used for meetings, dining or playing games. It adjoins a second catering kitchen that can service the upper level during larger parties. Clean-lined square tables, with white leather seating for 16, fill the space, while a four-bay console offers storage and a serving area. Deep, expansive windows overlook downtown Baltimore as well as Harbor East, Fells Point and Canton.
Upstairs conversation area
The second level contains two distinct areas: a meeting/dining/gaming area (shown opposite) and this conversation area. Outfitted with several sofas of modern design with tubular steel frames, all by Calligaris, this area has a second wall-mounted 50-inch flat-screen LG monitor for television viewing. Directional track lighting is employed throughout the unit.
Kitchen/bar area
The lower level contains a full kitchen featuring stainless steel GE Profile appliances, granite countertops, an eat-in bar and a separate dining area. During social functions, the counter doubles as a service bar, where cocktails featuring spirits such as Chopin Potato Vodka, Glenmorangie, Navan Vanilla Liqueur and Ruinart Champagne are served.
Downstairs conversation area
Dark ebony-stained hardwood floors are a backdrop for this seating area on the first level that features a built-in gas-burning fireplace, soaring 20-foot ceilings, furnishings by the Calligaris Shop by Pad, and access to the unit’s wrap-around 19th-floor balcony that offers sweeping views of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and downtown skyline.
Featured vendors/suppliers
project Silo Point Luxury Condominiums, 410-539-SILO, http://www.silopoint.com
developer Turner Development Group, http://www.turnerdevelopment.com
media design & controls Starr Systems Design, Baltimore, 410-494-4310, http://www.starrsystems.net
furnishings Calligaris Shop by Pad, Baltimore, 410-563-4723, http://www.calligaris-shop.com/pad
spirits Chopin Potato Vodka, Navan Vanilla Liqueur, Glenmorangie and Ruinart Champagne
by Scott Suchman
Curries are the meat and potatoes of many Asian cuisines, the go-to, one-pot meal for millions of people from Thailand to India to Singapore. In this country, curries are often misunderstood as being either too spicy or too difficult to cook with. But, in fact, curries can be made with subtle flavors just as readily as bold ones, and good, authentic curry dishes can be whipped up within minutes. An entire meal can be made from buying just a few fresh ingredients and relying on basic items, like coconut milk, curry pastes and dried rice noodles. To prepare these dishes, I purposely did not shop in a specialty grocery store. You can find their ingredients in any large supermarket.
I’ve also included a broad variety of curries to appeal to different taste buds. The traditional Indian curry, made with braised lamb leg, is a classic. Thai curries can be quite thin but still boast huge flavors, like the red duck curry, which I serve regularly at my own Thai restaurant. For a not-so-hot curry, try the Singaporean chicken Laksa, in which the primary flavoring components are turmeric and lime juice. And for a closer-to-home spin on the curry theme, try the curried crab— you may not reach for the Old Bay ever again.
Chicken and Coconut Milk Laksa
Andrew Evans is owner/chef of Thai Ki in Easton.
Who says hotel bars have to be boring? Not when you’re literally across the street from the action in Camden Yards and surrounded by 20 high-definition TVs that capture the hometown baseball action as well as sporting events around the globe. But the sports vibe isn’t the only reason to duck in to Diamond Tavern. Check out the menu, which offers breakfast, lunch and dinner choices, so even if you’re not stopping by to see a game, you won’t go hungry. Everything from the Chesapeake Benedict to the grilled citrus marinated chicken Caesar salad to the grilled filet mignon to the pan-seared crab cakes is appealing. For wine lovers, there are 63 vintages offered, with 25 of those available by the glass. And the gorgeous lounge makes a perfect spot for sipping a cocktail such as the Oriole or the After 9. Open seven days, 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. 401 W. Pratt St., at the Hilton Baltimore, 443-573-8777
You may have noticed a few changes to the Style masthead recently. Though our editorial staff is small, some major shifts have taken place in our ranks over the past few months.
Last summer, senior editor Laura Wexler went on a two-month maternity leave after giving birth to her first child, beautiful daughter Charlotte Olivia. To fill in for Laura while she was out, I brought in former senior editor and columnist Petey O’Donnell. Petey worked with us until Laura returned to the office in September. Just as things were about to return to normal, senior editor Joe Sugarman was tapped as the new editor of our sister magazine, Chesapeake Life (congrats, Joe!). So now I had another staff position to fill.
Which brings us to our official welcome of new senior editor Sarah Gilbert Fox. An accomplished novelist, writer, editor and Web guru, Sarah brings a wealth of talents to our Style team. She’s responsible for many of our front-of-the-book sections, including the Get Out, Gallery, Epicure, Travelogue and Getaways pages. She’ll also be presiding over our brand new beauty page, Beauty Mark (see page 40), and writing a new blog on the Style Web site, “Town Talk.”
Two other names you’ll recognize as longtime Style contributors are Bill McAllen and Sarah Achenbach. This talented duo first collaborated on a piece in the December ‘04 issue of Style titled “Me and My Building,” in which they asked a dozen prominent Baltimoreans to talk about their favorite building in the city. Bill shot a portrait of each with their building and Sarah interviewed each one about their feelings for, and connection to, the building. This month, Bill and Sarah will publish “Spirit of Place: Baltimore’s Favorite Spaces,” a beautiful 132-page coffee-table book that is an expansion of their original piece (see page 62). It’s thrilling to see an idea that originated in the pages of this magazine turned into such a gorgeous book, and we’re all so proud of Bill and Sarah for seeing it through.
Style also is proud to unveil in these pages the long-awaited STYLE Sky Lounge at Silo Point. This collaboration between the magazine and Turner Development Group is a first-of-its-kind project for the city. Starting on page 72, we showcase this stunning duplex unit on the 19th and 20th floors of the just-opened Silo Point Luxury Condominiums. Designed in conjunction with the Calligaris Shop by Pad and Starr Systems Design, this state-of-the-art lounge will be used by Style in the coming months as our base for corporate entertaining. Here’s hoping you’ll be on the guest list.
Brian Michael Lawrence
editor-in-chief
http://www.baltimorestyle.com
After a two-month renovation, Federal Hill favorite Corks has reopened. Diners are now greeted by a newly designed exhibition kitchen and a wall of dramatic glowing backlit panels upon entering the space, which has been re-envisioned by designer/architect Patrick Sutton. In the dining rooms, new color palettes, new carpets and fresh artwork and lighting are a backdrop for a revised menu that features the sophisticated entrées and wine pairings that Corks is known for, but adds more casual plates as well. Artisanal cheeses are a focus, with a daily cheese board, multiple variations on grilled cheese sandwiches and several fondues all taking their places on the bill of fare. (1026 S. Charles St., 410-752-3810.) And just a few doors down the block, another neighborhood favorite, Metropolitan, also has reopened after a devastating fire destroyed the first floor of the restaurant last summer. Now completely renovated, the popular eatery and wine bar is back in business. (902 S. Charles St., 410-234-0235)
When Savvy brought her mother along to see the new stores at Towson Town Center, they separated and promised to meet back at Pottery Barn. Well, 10 laps of the store later, Savvy resorted to calling mom on her cell. “Oh shoot,” she said, “I’m in Crate & Barrel, I get them confused.” Point taken. As practically next door neighbors, one might wonder how much “serveware” one mall wing can handle. Turns out, a lot. Yes, Crate & Barrel is the bigger and brighter, but somehow they each manage to have a distinct personality (for Savvy’s money, Pottery Barn wins the decorative pillow, linens and lighting categories). Does Savvy need to detail the available home furnishing, bedding, bath, accessories and holiday décor? If you own a mailbox (can we all just call it a day on catalogs?), probably not. Don’t miss: Savvy was impressed by the framing options aplenty. Fabulous for personal yet inexpensive gifts. Towson Town Center, level 2, 410-821-3494