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“My Weekend in New Hampshire”

I’ve lived in the city all my life, from Queens, to Manhattan, and now Brooklyn. But some of the fondest memories of my life are not from any one of these boroughs. They’re from a small town on the coast of New Hampshire called Rye.

Every August when I was growing up, we spent a few weeks at my Grandmother’s house, driving North out from under the suffocating heat of the city to the cool salty air of New England. My brother and I staked out opposite sides of the back seat of our yellow station wagon, the Hornet as we called it, and my Mom did the driving, usually answering our non-stop chorus of “Are we there yet?” with “No, and we won’t be for a while so stop asking.” We didn’t. The ride up to New Hampshire felt eternal. In the warm, sticky leatherette back seat of the Hornet, time stopped dead in its tracks. I counted cars, sang songs, crossed off the hours (there were about 6 that would need to pass until we arrived), and tracked the minutes until we’d feel the rumble of the pebbly gravel road under the wheels of the Hornet and knew were finally there. And then, like a scene from a movie reuniting long lost loved ones, my brother and I would run from the car, our little feet stumbling over the potholes in that rather primitive road, yelling “Grandma!” In my memories (which may not be quite accurate as we tend to rose color scenes like this) she was already heading out the front door, running down the rickety weathered steps, with her arms outstretched to welcome us.

By this late in the summer, she was already tan, her skin golden, her eyes bright blue, her mane of red hair twisted into a bun and tucked up under a knotted cotton kerchief. There would be pie and some rugelach on the table made from fruit picked from a peach tree that knocked against the dining room window, and cold glasses of milk from a small refrigerator that grandma called an ice box.

The house in New Hampshire had slanted floors. They sloped and dipped and would’ve made roller skating around the house quite a lot of fun. When I was little, I wondered how they got that way. Were they always bowed? Or did they weep and wilt, growing tired of standing straight over the years, as people tend to. It was a white A-frame cottage with a wrap around screened-in porch where a glider hung from two chains and white wicker rocking chairs faced out onto the marsh—a protected wetland that was thick with tall, willowy cat-o-nine tails. Beyond the marsh were the Rocks—a wide stretch of beach crowded with weathered slabs of smooth stone and seaweed-smocked boulders. My brother and I spent our days searching for crabs and star fish and any other sea creatures we could get our hands on, and tossed them into plastic buckets. We’d bring them back to the house and planned to keep them as pets. They never lasted more than a day, but we were always surprised to find them motionless the next morning.

After the Rocks, we usually went over to Wallis Sands beach with our cousin Danny, trailing after grandma like obedient ducks waddling all the way down Ocean Boulevard, across the foot bridge over Stinky Creek (yes it stunk) to the ocean. The beach in Wallis Sands was wide and sandy and the tide washed up all the way to the houses and then retreated so far out into the ocean that it seemed we could walk to the other side. But we could barely step foot in the water. It was viciously cold, painfully icy and instantly numbing, like local anesthetic, to the touch. As a child, I didn’t want to get any where near that water, but Grandma was adamant. We would swim. She’d pull her flowered bathing cap down tight over her head and ears, and walked straight into the froth, waves crashing around her, swimming strongly against the current like she was wading in warm bath water. We stood and watched and shook our heads in disbelief. But most of the time she’d coax us in and once we’d adjusted to it, we were in for hours until our finger tips wrinkled and puckered and we had to be pulled from the water, like stubborn snails from shells.

After a long day of ice-swimming and crabbing, we’d come home exhausted, and go to bed quite early, tucked into a room my brother and I shared that faced out onto the marsh. Out of Queens there were no cars, no sirens, no sticky air or impenetrable heat. In New England, the night air was fresh and cold, and the white cotton sheets on our beds were crisp and topped with pillowy toasty warm duvets. Every night as I closed my eyes, I listened for the sound of the foghorn from the lighthouse. It was a rich and deep baritone that sounded powerful and protective, like it was warding off something wicked, keeping all of us safe.

Of all my memories of my childhood, none is as precious as those summers at Grandma’s house. When I think back to those days, I have no memories of rain. All I see in that Super-8 memory movie in my mind is day after day of soft warm sunshine, of playing with my brother and thinking of nothing more than the Rocks and all the creatures we could capture. I don’t remember why we stopped going up to Rye Beach, but I think it may have had something to do with my parents getting divorced. I was 11 the last summer we spent in Rye. After we stopped visiting, Grandma sold the house. She didn’t tell anyone, she just did it. I’d heard that the people who bought the house rebuilt it because they didn’t like the slanted floors.

Last weekend, I went back to find that house. Craig found us a room at a B&B called Rock Ledge Manor on Ocean Boulevard facing the Rocks, and last Friday morning we drove up from Brooklyn. In the front seat now, listening to music, drinking coffee, and chatting with Craig, the drive was a different animal. Five relatively painless hours later, we were on Ocean Boulevard, hugging the rocky serpentine coast, the Rocks on our right, the waves crashing over them, just as I remembered it. We came up to the street I remembered from so long ago, and we made that left turn, and then I felt it— the rumble of the gravel under the wheels, and then I saw it, behind the cat-o-nine tails: Grandma’s house. It was different, more modern and clearly rebuilt, but in my mind, I could still see it the way it was.

The new owner happened to come home as we were inspecting the house and after some initial alarm, she warmed to us and told us about the house, explaining that she’d gutted it, enclosed the porch, and lifted it up onto a new (non-slanted) foundation. We took some pictures, and I walked around the back to show Craig where the peach tree used to be. Someone had cut it down. There wasn’t even a stump left behind. A flagstone patio was laid over the space where it had been.

Before we left, the new owner told us the house was for sale. If I had my checkbook (and several hundred thousand dollars in my checking account), I’d have bought it on the spot. Instead, we exchanged emails with her and said our goodbyes, and then drove down the gravel road, back out onto Ocean Boulevard.

We spent the next three days revisiting memories of my childhood, walking on the Rocks, dipping our feet into the icy waters (we did not swim, sorry Grandma), walking over Stinky Creek, and visiting with my cousins who still live there and now have families of their own. As you might expect, we also did a fair amount of eating. At the very least, there was a lobster roll and a cup a chowdah a day. But there’s more to Portsmouth than just lobstah. There’s a burgeoning dining scene fueled by a great community of chefs doing really beautiful food. I didn’t get to try all the places on my list (we only had three days) but we did made a nice dent and we plan on returning regularly. Here’s my short list of where to dine in Portsmouth.

The Black Trumpet, 29 Ceres Street, Portsmouth, NH, 603-431-0887

This beautiful two-story bistro and wine bar on cobblestone Ceres Street is located in the heart of Portsmouth’s historic old port, with up-close views of the Piscataqua River and the tugboats docked in the harbor. The building dates back to the early 19th century and has a serene and romantic vibe with its soft amber lighting, hammered copper table tops, hand-hewn beamed ceilings, raw brick walls, and wide wood planked flooring.

The Black Trumpet is one of Portsmouth’s most acclaimed restaurants, but it’s about as far from pretentious as it is from Manhattan. It’s a sweet mom and pop operation owned by chef Evan Mallett and his wife Denise, who live in nearby Southern Maine with their two kids, two dogs, cat and seven chickens on a woodland parcel where they forage for mushrooms, including, yes, Black Trumpets.  

Mallett’s menu is seasonally driven and eclectic in scope, but not untamed. It reflects a bit of the chef’s wanderlust (he and his wife lived in San Miguel de Allende in Central Mexico, and ran a Cajun-themed restaurant and gourmet food shop there), and his passion for the flavors of the Mediterranean, North Africa, and Turkey. So you’ll find braised octopus with chickpeas, cured capers and lemon oil ($7), braised escargots with fiddleheads and mushrooms over mimolette cream sauce ($13), fried pork empanadas over hominy with fire-roasted poblano pepper salsa ($12) and a Quahog chowder rich with corn, bacon and salsify ($10).

We were seated in a smooth wooden corner banquette for dinner and started with a terrific salad of crisp spring vegetables—radishes, carrots, cucumbers (Spring in NH is different that Spring here), with white beans and wedges of Bulgarian Pecorino cheese, all tossed in a fiery red harrisa dressing that was lemony, tangy, and spicy at the same time. The chef should bottle it for sale or as a birthday gift to regular guests (or just to me). We also had the mezze plate, which changes nightly and is a trio of little chef amuses that last week included pan-seared sweetbreads with jammy caramelized peaches, a housemade seafood sausage on a mustardy homemade kraut, and a ripe fig filled with sharp blue cheese ($12).

Dinner was trout ($24) stuffed with shrimp, crab and lobster and pan-fried so the skin was like a crunchy wrapper holding it all in, served with dill and horseradish crème fraiche potatoes, and a roasted radish and beet salad, and a tahini-crusted duck ($23), served over faro noodles in a ginger soy broth. The duck was spectacular, the tahini really created an intense wrapper of flavor for the meat, which was also pink and tender, perfectly cooked. But I thought conceptually the duck should have been served with cous cous rather than an Asian broth and noodles. It was rather hard to slice and eat the duck and combine it with the other components. Perhaps if the duck had been pulled and shredded up into the soup it would have worked, but for this preparation I’d say a bed of cous cous or quinoa might make more sense.

I had no issue with the trout, however, which combined rustic and right flavors—dill, horseradish, beets, radishes and cream, like a dinner plate in Brighton Beach—and was beautifully presented in a clay casserole. The portion was enormous, and could have easily been shared between two. I guess those trout grow big up north.

For dessert, there was a fruit soup in a gorgeous clear broth that tasted like liquid berries and a cup of Colombian chocolate pudding that was dark and spicy, and tasted almost x-rated. But you might forgo dessert and walk over to the ice cream shop across the street and wander around town with your melting cones. It’s a magical little town that feels like a Norman Rockwell painting, complete with church steeples, cobblestone streets, and clock towers glowing in the moonlight.
 
Petey’s, 1323 Ocean Blvd Rye, NH 03870 (603) 433-1937

We ate quite a few lobster rolls while in NH (what else is a Jewish girl from Queens to do?), but my favorite was at Petey’s, a beachside fish house and lobster shack decorated with pastel-striped buoys, dusty old maps of the Isles of Shoal, and clusters of vintage cans of clams. We arrived at Petey’s on Friday afternoon, when the temperatures were still in the low 50s and the sky was grey and threatened storms. We ran from the car, pretty much shivering in our shorts (at least I was), and ordered a big bowl of clam chowder to warm us up ($6). The chowder (served curiously in a medium takeout container) was a chowder to eat before dying—intensely seasoned, rich with plump and briny clams, buttery white potatoes, and just thick and creamy enough without being immediately artery clogging. You could stick a spoon in there and it would lean over to one side, not stand straight up. Quite frankly, it was the best New England Clam Chowder I’ve ever eaten. We just don’t do it right here in New Yawk. Ditto the lobster rolls, which we can get a good approximation of here at places like Mary’s and Pearl, but things are different on the Seacoast. The lobster roll at Petey’s is served on a round bun in the shape of a Kaiser roll (not a split roll) that’s toasted and buttered and then loaded up with lumps of sweet claw and body meat, lightly dressed in mayo with diced celery, salt and pepper, and lemon, with a few sour pickles and a handful of decent, but not life changing, wide-cut fries on the side. That first bite of the lobster roll was like that first piece of summer corn—sweet and delicious. I wanted desperately to finish my lobster roll but the thing was huge, and wildly overstuffed, and so I gave it over to Craig. I regret that now. What I would do for just a half of Petey’s lobster roll right now.   

Latitudes, 88 Wentworth Road, New Castle, 603-422-7322

Located in the Wentworth by the Sea, a grand old red-trimmed hotel that dates to 1874, Latitudes is a picturesque dockside dining room with outdoor seating on a teak deck overlooking the sailboats in the port. It’s an ideal spot for sunset cocktails and a couple of appetizers or a relaxing al fresco dinner. We did the former, grabbing a high top table at the bar, with a bird’s eye view of the harbor through the tall glass windows. My cousin Myrna had recommended the place and she joined us for drinks and an icy plate of Beau Soleil oysters and a bowl of warm artichoke and crab dip ($9) that’s gotta be really bad for you but was a delicious guilty pleasure, in the same way that artichoke and spinach dip is. If you’re considering dinner, the menu includes bite size Angus burgers three ways (smoked gouda and bbq mushrooms; Great Hill blue cheese and apple wood smoked bacon, arugula, grilled summer tomato and basil  $10), along with oversized salads, lobster rolls ($19), and wood-grilled center cut sirloin steak caramelized fingerling potatoes, summer tomato salad, shallot confit ($36).

The Flatbread Company 138 Congress Street, (603) 436-7888

This was one of my favorite stops on our Portsmouth visit. It’s an organic Artisan pizza joint with an industrial warehouse vibe: triple height ceilings, a long welcoming bar up front and picnic style tables fill the 2000-square foot space and frame a wood-burning clay oven the shape of an igloo. The place is pretty busy and there can be a wait for tables, but grab a spot at the bar, have a couple of Smuttynoses and you’ll be set.

The restaurant is one of seven Flatbread Company pizzerias owned by friends who met in Vermont. As the story goes, a guy named George Schenk was baking natural breads and pizzas in a converted barn in Waitsfield, Vermont, and selling them to supermarkets and natural food stores. On weekends, he and his crew at American Flatbread would open up the "Flatbread Kitchen" to the public and sell flatbreads right out of the wood-fired clay oven. One of his regular customers was a guy by the name of Jay Gould who thought George was onto something. Three years later, Jay and George and John Meehan opened their first Flatbread Company in Amesbury, Mass. After our meal there last weekend, it’s not surprising that they already have seven stores. My only request would be to please bring one to New York, or Brooklyn? Pretty please?

The flatbreads, shaped into ovals and sliced into rectangular pieces, are made from organic flour, spring water, kosher salt and live yeast, and topped with local ingredients. The crust is puffy and chewy, with a nice smoky char from the clay oven. My test for any pizza crust is would I eat it naked, without the cheese and sauce and all. The answer here was a definite, resounding: you betcha. Craig and I shared the Community Flatbread, topped with wood-fired cauldron tomato sauce (a signature sauce with a super rich roasted sweetness), caramelized onions, mozzarella cheese, mushrooms and herbs and a couple of glasses of red wine and it hit the spot on that cold first night on the coast.

The menu also includes a couple of salads and a few other pies: the Coevolution—Kalamata olives, red onions, rosemary, oven-roasted peppers, goat cheese, mozzarella and herbs, and simpler pies like Jay’s Heart—mozzarella, wood-fired tomato sauce, garlic and herbs. And that’s about it. It’s a simple formula that provides a nice break from the lobster rolls and chowder.

This list is by no means exhaustive. Portsmouth is getting to be on par with places like Portland (Maine and Oregon). In addition to the restaurants listed above, you might want to check out these restaurants in Portsmouth and in nearby Southern Maine.

The Green Monkey, 86 Pleasant Street, Portsmouth, NH, 603-427-1010, www.thegreenmonkey.net

Five-O Shore Road, 50 Shore Road, Ogonquit, ME, 207-646-5001, www.five-oshoreroad.com

Bonta, 287 Exeter Road, Hampton, NH, 603-929-7972, www.bonta.net

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Posted: June 15, 2008

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