In Praise of the Hotel-Room Picnic

And why cheese is at the center of it all.

I am incredibly fortunate to have just spent a long weekend at a small inn five miles outside the tiny town of Stowe, Vermont (population 721).

We didn’t have a rental car, and Uber exists there in theory but much less so in practice. The only restaurant reachable on foot was the one at the inn, which, while lovely, was pricey: One cannot really justify eating a $64 rack of venison, or even a $39 burger, several nights in a row.

Time for a hotel-room picnic! Or two.

It’s become an anticipated tradition during my out-of-town getaways with my partner: Instead of eating at invariably overpriced and, to our New York food-snob tastes, often mediocre hotel restaurants, we instead locate and procure a ludicrous amount of cheese and charcuterie, an indulgent quantity of wine, some excellent bread, and some fruit, chocolate, and/or other accoutrements to round it all out, and eat it (weather and location permitting) outdoors on the hotel grounds or in our room, ideally in front of a roaring fireplace.

It started a year and a half ago. We were in the Hudson Valley for a long weekend, and I, unimpressed by and frustrated with the dining options near our hotel, said in a tone just shy of a temper tantrum, “I wish we could just get some cheese from that great shop in Beacon. And maybe some good wine from that place right next to it.” We looked at each other, suddenly realizing “Wait—why can’t we?” and hopped on the next train northward. We returned to our room in an ersatz castle in Tarrytown with two bottles of wine, three types of locally produced cheese, and a half-pound of prosciutto to enjoy with the luxe loaf of bread we’d been sent home with after dinner two nights before. We turned on the gas fireplace, laid out our spread on a table in front of it, and had a feast.

It was perfect. “We should do this again sometime,” he said.

So we did. Again and again.

This most recent trip saw us venturing on foot to a goat dairy I’d spotted on google maps, tromping down dirt roads, past forests and snow-blanketed fields and Rockwell-esque farmhouses, for an eight-mile round-trip journey to the farm stand that was manned by an aloof bicolored buck and operated on the honor system. The only cheeses on offer this early in the year were the season’s first chèvres, available in plain, floral, and maple varieties; we selected one of each.

We’d already visited Dedalus, in Burlington, to stock up on the usual provisions. We selected a couple kinds of charcuterie and four cheeses (two of them locally made), and I was delighted to find a pet-nat made in Stowe. We hadn’t been able to get bread in that town, though—the bakery recommended to us had sold entirely out by 1pm on the busy Saturday. So, once in Stowe and following our successful chèvre quest, we walked another five miles to acquire bread worthy of that glorious cheese, a baguette made in the next town over and carried at the Stowe locals’ favorite natural-foods store—where we found more cheese we felt we needed to try, this one from the dairy from which the chèvre place had purchased one of its bucks. Surely, eight cheeses wouldn’t be too many? (Dear Reader: There is no such thing as too much cheese. The excess made for an excellent snack on the eight-hour train ride back to New York.)

On other trips, we’ve hiked through the woods near Lake Placid to reach a gourmet deli loved by locals that stocked various regional wonders. We’ve lingered in the bustling farmers’ market in Edmonton, where we found terrific cider-based canned cocktails and small-batch ginger beer. Our hauls have included everything from small-batch beef jerky (also Edmonton) to jars of foie gras (Paris, of course) and even entire sandwiches (duck, extra meat) (Oslo). And always, cheese. Everywhere, cheese.

What’s my thing with cheese? you might ask. Well, first off, I love it and try to include some in every “normal” (outdoors, sunny-day, in park) picnic I participate in. But also, just about everywhere you go, you’re almost guaranteed to encounter some small-batch locally made variety that’s likely to be excellent. And, above all, cheesemongers at a good cheese shop or at a farmers’ market are generally lovely to talk with and make great sources of information about other good local foods. (They always know where to find the best bread, and often the best wine, too.)

Because that’s really the point of this, right? The quest for delicious, locally made, small-batch items is an opportunity to interact with the residents of the region and to get their suggestions and their takes on the local food and drink scenes. And it’s a chance to try new things—those particularly associated with the area or that simply look intriguing or that you can’t find anywhere else; to experience the local culture and values through its food products. It also, in many cases, represents a chance to explore the surrounding area more than you otherwise might, and (especially in cities) is a way to immerse yourself in the rhythms of everyday life led there.

And why the emphasis on locally made products? It’s not so much to experience the “terroir.” It’s more because, as we all know but occasionally need to be reminded, products made in small batches to be sold locally are generally made with more care than commercially produced, widely distributed foodstuffs. Products made with genuine care and pride simply taste better.

Where to find these people and these products, though? You can start at a local farmers’ market. I often search for “cheese shop” on google maps before visiting an area and go from there. The goat dairy in Stowe is something I simply happened to stumble upon on google maps when I was searching to see exactly where in the middle of nowhere we’d be staying.

And how to eat them? Room picnics are intended to be indulgent: Get twice as much food as you think is reasonable; you can always stick any leftovers in the mini-fridge and snack on them the next day. And once you’ve assembled your feast, I suggest you give it, and your dining partner, your full attention. Turn off the TV; light a fire in the fireplace, should you have one.

Because as these food items represent a connection to the land and to the region, your feast should engender a connection to your dining companion. What’s the point of a getaway if you don’t use it to strengthen your bond?

***

The Sidecar

Letter of recommendation: Those who follow me on Instagram may have noticed that I’m a fan of enormous, indulgent breakfasts while traveling. I just had one of the top three breakfasts of my life at The Grey Jay in Burlington. Its breakfast offerings largely consist of American favorites with an Eastern Mediterranean spin: think tahini french toast with halva and citrus (and is that rose water in the maple syrup?) and eggs benedict served atop falafel instead of english muffins. We added on housemade lamb sausage, and hummus with housemade pickled vegetables, and a citrus salad with maple and coconut dukkah. It was all incredible.

I was introduced to a Vermont favorite, maple taffy, made at our hotel in celebration of the eclipse. I’d noticed the metal pails attached to the trees lining the dirt road to the inn shortly after our arrival; the next day, I ventured down to the stables to find several gallons of sap boiling in the evaporator. (It takes 40 gallons of sap to produce one gallon of syrup, I was told.) I finally got to taste it in the form of the taffy, in which maple syrup is boiled until it reaches the “soft ball” stage on a candy thermometer, and then ladled over a tray of fresh, clean snow to cool it until it’s semi-solid. A wooden stick is added to render it a lollipop of sorts, and it’s eaten in a bite or two on the spot. It’s extraordinary, the greatest sort of hyperlocal treat.