Arkansauce: Check It Out!

Okay, now, what do the following all have in common:

—Mammy Hannah’s Fried Chicken

—Grapette

—Pan-fried squirrel

—A hundred pounds of pickled beef

—Fried green tomatoes

—Purple hull peas

—“Grape acid”

—Butchering a hog

—Blackberry cobbler

—Green beans

—Fried crappie

—Barbecue pulled-pork sandwiches wrapped in wax paper

—Turnip greens

—Beans and cornbread

—Rhoda’s Famous Hot Tamales

and

—Sweet potato pie.


I know: You’re thinking, “southern food” and “Ozarks food,” right? Well, sure, but we should be more precise: these are all mentioned in the premier issue of Arkansauce: The Journal of Arkansas Foodways, a new (currently annual) publication of the University of Arkansas Libraries Special Collections department!




The journal is a forum showcasing the university libraries’ wonderful collection of elderly cookbooks, old menus, and other printed culinary materials, but it’s also a place for reflection on Arkansas food history, traditions, and folklore, as well as the current status of food and cooking in that state.

The inaugural issue is online and can be read right here.

Note that it’s a pdf file, and with all the nifty pictures and graphics on twenty-four pages, it will take a while to load. Don’t worry: it’s worth the wait.

Or, you can receive the publication in the mail for free (yes!) by contacting Diane F. Worrell (dfworrell@uark.edu) or by calling her at 479-575-5577. (Naturally, she’ll need your mailing address.)

I hope you’ll check it out!


Special thanks to Op Op friend Michael Saar for telling me about this fun new journal!

Cliff House Inn and Restaurant

Now the “place to be” at the so-called Arkansas Grand Canyon is the Cliff House, which offers food, lodging, and souvenirs. And, of course, the magnificent view.

Now, just as you wouldn’t want to confuse the Arkansas Grand Canyon with the more famous one in Arizona, neither would you want to confuse this Cliff House with the venerable Cliff House in San Francisco (see here). They are not the same, okay?

Though a steaming bowl of cioppino does not await you at this restaurant, there is much to enjoy about your stop at the Arkansas Cliff House Inn. First, of course, there’s the view. Nooooo, it’s not a view of Ocean Beach, Seal Rocks, and the mighty Pacific. But come on: Tremendous views like all of these take your breath away, no matter what state you’re in.

I made fun of them in my last post for calling it the “Grand Canyon,” but it is truly a tremendous sight. Yep: About six miles south of Jasper.

And then there’s the grub. I mean, the cookin’. I mean, the food. Naw, this isn’t fine dining, and unlike the place in San Francisco, it’s unlikely that someone would come way out here to secretly replace their fine coffee with Folger’s crystals to see if anyone notices. In fact, that might be Folger’s right there in your cup, already! (I don’t know; I didn’t get coffee that day. I think I ordered a diet sodie.)

The place specializes in homemade pies, so I guess their coffee’s pretty decent, too. It’d have to be, these days, since everyone’s become a coffee snob.

But enough speculation on things I didn’t try. I did sample some of the lunch items among the dishes at our table.




I had the catfish sandwich, with a side of greens instead of the fries it usually comes with; Sue ordered the “Ozark Favorite” (pictured above), which was pinto beans, coleslaw, a cornbread muffin, and sliced tomato and onion. Everything was good, though perhaps a bit overpriced for the quantity and the fact these are not high-ticket ingredients. The fried catfish sandwich plate (with the fries) is seven dollars; Sue’s “Ozark Favorite” plate cost six dollars.

Okay, it’s actually $6.99 and $5.99, respectively. Like I’ve been trying to explain, these folks aren’t birdbrains when it comes to marketing.

The fish sandwich was about how you’d expect—fried fish pieces that were nice and crispy, not greasy, with lettuce, tartar sauce, on a thankfully substantial roll. The greens were delicious. (Why don’t I see greens on more menus? It doesn’t have to be a “southern” thing; they’re tasty and nutritious.) (Eat more greens, people!)

I think the beans were a little oversalted, but then some people might like ’em that way. The “side” of tomato and onion comprised some very thick slices of tomato (unfortunately out of season, so it was hard to get too excited about it) and a generous slice of raw white onion, which (glory!) wasn’t too strong to enjoy, cut up and eaten with the beans. The fresh veggies were welcome. I thought the cornbread—corn muffin, actually—could have been bigger, given the quantity of the beans. Or maybe they could have sent along two instead of just one.

The Cliff House is supposed to be famous for its biscuits, but I don’t think any of us ordered anything that came with biscuits. We did, however, get slices of pie to go. More on that in a second.

The decor was a blend of “old-stuff-on-the-wall” and framed photos of old movie stars, and (on the side facing the big valley) big picture windows showing the view—and the hummingbird feeders and flower planters. The restaurant was built right on the edge of this cliff, so you get a tree-housy sensation of being up in the air. Depending on how you feel about heights, maybe you shouldn’t think about it too much.)




Between the building’s entry door and the dining room is the gift shop! Well, you can’t blame them. Wouldn’t you have a gift shop, too? Yes, they sell cookbooks and postcards as well as those Arkansas novaculite “natural stone” nail files. And all kinds of other stuff.

Anyway, the whole place was clean, the hosts and waiters were friendly and helpful, the food served hot and good, and you do get a pretty awesome view. So this a good place to stop while on Highway 7, whether you’re traveling by car . . . or by motorsickle.

Regarding the Pies . . .

Yes, the Cliff House Inn sells cookbooks containing some of their famous recipes, and the most celebrated of these is their Company’s Comin’ Pie. And it looks like a dream, like cream pie topped with merangue. It looks like something upon which you could take a nice comfy nap.

The menu describes it thus: “Arkansas State Pie and Our House Specialty. Merangue crust with pecans baked and filled w/real whipped cream & pineapple . . . $2.99.”

The story of how “Company’s Comin’ Pie” became the official pie of the Arkansas statehood sesquicentennial is on the Web site “Cuisine Cruisin’ the Natural State,” part of the Arkansas Department of Parks and Tourism’s Web site; the recipe’s there, too.

. . . Too full for dessert right after lunch, we got pieces of pie to go and enjoyed them at a rest stop later, under pine trees and surrounded by wildflowers.

They Call It the Arkansas Grand Canyon

First: Apologies for being so far behind. I’ve been pretty busy recently. It’s not that I don’t want to post, it’s that posting doesn’t get me money for the house payment and stuff . . . So today we’re dialing back to the little Arkansas trip.

The day was Saturday, April 25. We left Eureka Springs and drove to Hot Springs, driving first to Harrison and then south down beautiful Highway 7. And I do mean beautiful. As I read in Scenic Driving the Ozarks by Don Kurz, Newton County, Arkansas, is too rugged to have ever had a single mile of train track in it. Meanwhile, the land is rich in flora and fauna, and ecotourism is flourishing here in one of the prime natural highlights in the Natural State.

We had lunch at the famous Cliff House Inn and Restaurant, which is six miles south of the town of Jasper, in the Boston Mountains of Ozark National Forest. (That’s the next post.)

The big attraction here is the so-called Arkansas Grand Canyon, which offers grand views over several miles across the Big Creek valley. I haven’t been able to figure out quite how far the view is.

I have to admit that whoever decided to name this area the [Anything] Grand Canyon had a lot of chutzpah, and even more, marketing savvy. Millions of people see the Arizona Grand Canyon, and millions more would love to see it.

But let’s briefly compare the two, shall we?

The Grand Canyon in Arkansas:

--Presents a steep drop of over 600 feet; according to Google Maps’s topography, the Cliff House is at about 2,000 feet of elevation, and Big Creek is at about 800 feet. (Dry Branch is the creek below the Cliff House; it contributes to Big Creek, which drains into the Buffalo River.) So the valley below is at most about 1,200 feet lower than where you are sitting when you eat your Company’s Comin’ Pie.
--Has an “expansive view of several miles across Big Creek valley” (per Kurz, mentioned above). I think it is about six or seven miles to Round Mountain or Riddle Point, in the distance.
--The town down there, a ways off in the distance, is Vendor (pop. 229), elevation 834 feet. Again, the Cliff House is at ca. 2,000 feet.

The Grand Canyon of the Colorado, in Arizona:

--The vertical distance from the South Rim to just the Tonto Plateau is at least 2,000 feet, probably more. Total depth ranges from 3,500 to 6,000 feet from rim to river.
--The distances across the gorge are between 4 and 15.5 miles (average of 10 miles).
--Down at the Colorado River is Phantom Ranch, at 2,550 feet in elevation. Grand Canyon Village, at the South Rim, is at about 7,000 feet.

So. If that isn’t enough to convince you these are two radically different places, and that the folks who named the Arkansas place “Grand Canyon” were gutsy and creative marketers, compare the scenes below. Which picture was taken in Arkansas, and which in Arizona? (Hint: You don’t need any hints.)

(P.S. Doesn’t my sweetie take good pictures?)

Arlington Hotel: Venetian Dining Room, Hot Springs

Before I begin the restaurant review, here’s an overview of the place. We stayed at the Arlington Hotel on Saturday, April 25. It’s a large historic hotel built in 1924 on the site of two previous Arlington Hotels. It’s part of Hot Springs National Park; you can walk out your door and stroll down the historic “bathhouse row” or walk right into the wooded trails of Hot Springs Mountain.

The hotel is fun to stay at—the rooms are indeed small compared to most modern hotels, but the hotel is nice, well-maintained, and has all the modern amenities. Our biggest problem was with the door lock: The key, if you jiggled it just right, would eventually turn the deadbolt to and fro, but the door wouldn’t open anyway. The doorknob latch remained closed, and the doorknob wouldn’t turn. It about drove me crazy. We always managed to get into the room by pushing rapidly back and forth on the non-turning knob, but we never figured out how we managed to get it open. Very frustrating. They need to get new locks.

And at night we could hear the bed creaking rhythmically from the next room. The rooms are not very soundproofed. Oh well. It's an old building; what can they do about it? Not much.

We had dinner at the Venetian Dining Room, also known as “Window on the Park.” It’s on the hotel’s lobby level, has big high ceilings and large windows showing the park. Because the front desk people had said it was possible to eat outside at tables on the large veranda, we asked the maitre d’ if we could be seated outside, but he told us there was no service out there, although we could possibly get food to go and then not expect any waitstaff. (Hmm.)

So okay, we ate inside the dining room. The decor was elegant. The pianist was good, and her selections from the Great American Songbook added greatly to our enjoyment. There were plenty of waiters around, and I was glad that we’d be well cared for during our meal. (Note the foreshadowing.)

And the meal was wonderful. I had the braised baby back ribs with polenta and tobacco onions. I have to admit that the last was what made me order the plate—I’ve heard about a “new” trend among chefs to use tobacco as a seasoning ingredient for sauces, and I was thrilled to have a chance to try it. And yes, it was delicious; it didn’t taste like an ashtray at all. {{Note: Read the comments below! --JS 8/25/09}} And the cooked onions paired wonderfully with the rich flavor of the ribs. And the meat was tender and perfect. The polenta, of course, was just the right backdrop for all the savory, salty, smoky richness.

Sue and my dad both got the crab cakes and were very happy with it. The slaw it came with was really fresh, light, tasty, not heavily sauced.

The bread pudding we had for dessert was “kicked up” with cranberries and nuts (I think I remember they were pecans) and possibly some other goodies. I can’t remember, and I didn’t take notes. But yes, it was delicious, too.

So the ambience was excellent. The food was more than excellent.

But here’s the part where I complain bitterly: My water glass was never refilled. Nooo, I didn’t order another beverage. I really just wanted water. I can’t have alcohol, and I didn’t want to mess up my palate for the exquisite flavors I anticipated.

Sue and my dad both ordered glasses of wine, each of which was delivered to the table in a tiny, single-serving carafe that many people would be happy to use as a flower vase. The waiter poured the wine into the glass for them, and another waiter, later on, visited the table just to refill their wine glasses from the carafes—something Sue and Dad could have done perfectly easily themselves. But the waiters were trying to be impressive, I guess.

Meanwhile, I sucked on my ice cubes and rattled my glass as the waiters drifted past: Hint, hint.

I suppose I could have asked for more water, but then again, it’s the point of the thing.

I’ve been to all kinds of restaurants, some little more than greasy spoons, and dang it, they are usually happy to refill my water glass until I’m about to float away. And we were right next to the beverage station; the waiters’ water pitcher was in my sightline, just over my mom’s shoulder. (Agua . . . agua . . .)

So I was already a little ticked off at this small, but important detail, and then the waiter presented the bill to my dad, and it had two orders of . . . macaroni listed on it. Huh? My mom had gotten a salad. So my dad patiently waited for the waiter to return, explained the problem, and the waiter, who didn’t seem surprised that two orders of macaroni were on our bill, did at least agree to fix the bill. He asked if he could take my dad’s card then, or did my dad want to see the revised bill first. My dad chose the latter (well, yeah!), and I sensed that the waiter felt this was being too persnickety. But he eventually returned with a new bill, my dad inspected and paid it, and our evening went along nicely from there.

I don’t know what my dad tipped those guys, but I hope it wasn’t the full amount. In this kind of place, with these kinds of prices, you should receive at least the kind of attention you’d get at a greasy diner, where they get your bill right because they paid attention to what you ordered, or else quickly fix the error, snooty attitude be damned.

So yes, I can recommend the restaurant for the ambiance and the food. But check your bill carefully, and bring along a canteen of water.

And yes, this town is famous for its water.

(Oh, the irony.)

The Bavarian Inn, Eureka Springs

First I want to say how sick and wrong it is to drive clear down to Arkansas and then find excellent Czech-German food. Come on, y’all! This is the place to get yer fill of fried catfish, barbecued-anything, pulled pork, ribs, greens and grits and fried okra, beans an’ cornbread . . . and chicken. Northern Arkansas is the land of Tyson!

But then you come upon a place like the Bavarian Inn, and you think: “Maybe I should make an exception.” You think: “We can have catfish at lunch tomorrow. And we can have ’cue for dinner after that.” And those would be good ideas.

First, as usual, I have to disclose my bias: I’m a German American gal, and my grandmas are dead, so if I want the food of my people, either I’ve got to make it myself, or I have to find it at a restaurant. And for some reason—ridiculous, considering how many German Americans there are—German cuisine is crazy hard to find.

Well, unless you count America’s first choices in fast foods: Hamburgers and Frankfurters! Thank the Germans when you enjoy these foods!

Okay, I’m digressing. But it’s my blog, so there.

The Inn

As I mentioned previously, we were glad we didn’t stay at the famous Basin Park Hotel in downtown Eureka Springs, because there was a biker rally that weekend, and we do sleep better when Harleys aren’t roaring and rattling the windows.

I should mention that selecting lodging is often a harrowing experience for me, because I am rather picky. I like the idea of choosing locally owned, independent motels, but I have had bad experiences in the past; the so-called nonsmoking room that reeks; the soiled carpets; the doors with broken locks. . . . But trust me: The Bavarian Inn is a keeper. Put it in your address book; “favorite” it.

The Bavarian Inn (and its restaurant) are just about a mile from downtown Eureka Springs, west of town on Highway 62. It looks like a Swiss chalet on a little hill; you can’t miss it. The owners are immigrants from Czechoslovakia and have run it since the 1970s. I got the idea that the employees and owners are a tight-knit group.

Every experience at the hotel was pleasant. The lobby staff were friendly, knowledgeable, helpful, and enthusiastic about the town, the inn, and the restaurant. “Were you thinking of dining here tonight? If you were wanting the duck, let me know about when you’ll be arriving, and I’ll make sure they have it cooking for you, since it takes extra time.”

And the morning we left, we were encouraged to take extra (fresh made) blueberry coffee cake with us from the complimentary breakfast: “We weren’t full last night, so take all you want; we have more than enough.”

For what we got, the room rates were very reasonable: An enormous, clean room, comfortable king bed, nonsmoking, a gas fireplace, sofa, coffee table, jacuzzi, a nice private balcony overlooking peaceful pine trees and the rest of the forest, oak furniture, and truly soundproofed walls and doors—for just about a hundred dollars. It was great to wake up early, slide the door open onto the patio, and let clean air and the voices of fish crows, towhees, cardinals, and mockingbirds drift in.

The folks at the Bavarian Inn advertise their packages and ability to do special requests—champagne in the room, welcome baskets, in-room massages, horseback riding and canoeing packages, etc.—but we didn’t partake of any of these. I suspect they do take good care of their guests in these respects, too.

The Restaurant

Again, it seems strange to have German-Czech cuisine in the heart of hillbilly country, but don’t let that bother you. You can see the complete menu online at the lodge and restaurant’s Web site, here.

The rye bread served with every meal was lightly flavored and pleasantly crusty, definitely homemade. All the food was excellent. The soup of the day had sauerkraut in an orange, creamy base, with paprika, I think, and it was great. Actually, that and the rye bread would have satisfied me as a light meal right there.

I also want to mention that they had nonalcoholic beer available, and I am grateful for that.

But the entrées were worth waiting for. I had the duck, which was cooked perfectly, and yes, Dr. Johnson, I couldn’t resist eating some of the skin—it was really good. The “sweet and sour cabbage” was what I’d call “cooked red cabbage”; mild, not too sweet or too sour—who wouldn’t like this? (Why doesn’t it appear on more restaurant menus?) The Bohemian dumplings were the big, thick kind, sliced so that they looked like pieces of bread. It was all really yummy.

Sue got the “Chicken Anna Marie”—I think because my name is Julianna Marie, and Sue thought it was funny—the owners of the Bavarian Inn named it after two of their grandmothers, or their mothers (I can’t remember). The chicken breast was topped with a creamy sauce with mushroom, smoky bacon, and onion and was accompanied with red cabbage and those pretty potato dumplings—which were wonderful dipped in the sauce.

By the way, our waiter was right-on. She was a little late getting to us at first, but the host who seated us warned us that she’d be a little delayed beginning our service—about five minutes. Since we had been advised of this when we were seated, we didn’t mind the wait at all. And once she began serving us, she was attentive and helpful.

I overheard a couple at a table next to us, clearly on vacation and visiting Eureka Springs and this restaurant for a second time, tell our waiter they were so glad to have had her again this visit, too. You know, that’s something when you remember your waiter after perhaps months or even years.

The ambiance and decor: Darkish but with an open feel, chalet-style; quiet, decorated with a lot of German stuff. Lots of wood. Comfortable and rather informal, but still a place for you and your children to sit upright and display good manners. Comfortable like being at grandma’s house, but still a wine-list-and-cloth-napkins kind of place.

My mom got the “Bavarian plate,” which was a sampler with bratwurst, sliced smoked pork, potato pancakes, and a side of sauerkraut. She let me try samples, and it was all good. The sauerkraut was mild and tasty; it had definitely been cooked with broth or onions or white wine or something. In other words, they took the time to doctor it up so it tasted terrific.

My dad got the sauerbraten—which the menu says is actually a Czech version of the dish, called Svickova. He must have enjoyed it okay, because he made it disappear and I didn’t get any! He did comment that it lacked the intensity of flavor that my sauerbraten has: “Maybe they didn’t marinate it long enough.” Well, or maybe they don’t like it as strong as I do! Anyway, he might have been saying that to flatter me and encourage me to make sauerbraten more often.

We had apple strudel for dessert, served warm, and it was perfect—the layers of pastry were crisp and thin as paper on the outside, and inside were substantial enough against the filling to maintain the shape. The filling was just sweet enough, and the apple flavor shined through. Powdered sugar garnished the top; and you can get it with a scoop of ice cream. Yes.

In summary, the thumbs are all up in our party of four; we’d love to return again: The Bavarian Inn Hotel—check. The Bavarian Inn Restaurant—check.

(. . . Or should I say, “Czech.” Ha ha ha.)

Yeah . . . you can go get barbecue some other night.

Friday Was Eureka Springs

First off, it was a “biker” weekend, and I don’t mean bicyclists. It was a good thing we didn’t stay at the historic Basin Park Hotel, right in the center of downtown, because we never would have slept.

The Town

Eureka Springs is one of those unforgettable towns, a place that makes an impression on you. If you don’t understand the Ozarks or what its hills and hollers are capable of, Eureka Springs is a great place to start. I dare you not to fall in love with the place.



The landscape is incredibly hilly; the roads curve and switchback. Many are quite steep. They are narrow. You can see why bikers would love the place. The architecture is antique, colorful, charming, stately. There are many, many Victorian homes with gorgeous paint jobs. Larger institutional buildings, hotels, businesses, and the like are made with stone. Many of the oldest sidewalks are of well-worn stone, and not concrete.




Because of the topography, you can enter a building, go down three or even four flights of stairs, and emerge again on ground level. There are stairways that compete well with those in Montmartre.

To assist in the tourist congestion, the town has a trolley system, enabling you to park at your motel and ride all around the town—what a wonderful and progressive idea.




You get the idea that there are plenty of progressive and creative types in the town. There is a lot of whimsy in architectural ornamentation and yard sculptures. The gardens, flowers, and landscaping are profuse, informal, and cheerful. It reminds me of places like Santa Fe, Jerome, Arizona, or San Francisco: Artist colony, hippies, free-thinkers, creative writers, cooks who enjoy ethnic influences, people who color outside the lines. Walking around the town, you see cool things that people have done with old stuff, junk, and other simple things, and it inspires you with crafty ideas.

The Springs

I don’t know what the official count is, but there must be dozens of natural springs in the area. Several of these are well-known historic spots and have been preserved by the town, made into nicely landscaped little town parks, with interpretive signs nearby.




It is a little hard today to imagine what it was like in the late 1800s when people were such believers in the health benefits of water. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I encourage you to read the first hundred or so pages of Loring Bullard’s Healing Waters: Missouri’s Historic Mineral Springs and Spas, which provides a great explanation of the thinking before modern allopathic medicine and microbiology became the leading pathways for understanding and fighting disease.

The “taking of waters” goes back at least to biblical days and to Classical times, and hot springs, mineral springs, sulfur springs, artesian wells, sweet springs, and so forth were conceived of as part of God’s gift to mankind, like food and medicinal herbs, things put here to help us live.

By the late 1800s, doctors who specialized in mineral water treatments were codifying water-based treatments for specific complaints and diseases that involved drinking, bathing in, and soaking in various types of mineral waters. Anecdotal evidence fueled faith in the efficacy of these treatments.

I mean, people really took this seriously, and state governments hired geologists to conduct surveys of the state’s spring locations, their rate of output, and the various types of waters that flowed forth. Think of it this way: If Paxil, Vicodin, and Prednisone seeped naturally out of the ground, today’s governments would want to have an inventory of those resource riches, too.

But now it’s mostly a quaint old memory, though the waters still flow forth out of the ground and, in Eureka Springs, in stone grottos and basins built a hundred years ago. There are drinking fountains at many of the park springs, and yes, the waters taste sweet and cold and clean. If you go, bring some empty jugs with you.



Also, bring a nice book, your paints, or your writing pad. You’ll want to spend some quiet time in Eureka Springs, sitting on a park bench somewhere, or on a little patio or porch at the hotel or B&B where you’re staying. There are lots of sweet little cottages where you can stay, or, like us, you can opt for a hotel. Next, we’re gonna talk up the Bavarian Inn. Stay tuned.

Arkansas Weekend: Overview

Well, that was pretty fun! We just got back from spending three nights in northern Arkansas. Friday night was Eureka Springs. Saturday night was Hot Springs. Sunday night was in Mountain View. I’ll write about the more fun aspects later, but first, and to get it “out of the way,” here’s the overview. Sorry it’s such dry reading.

Friday morning, from Jefferson City, we took Route 54 south through Lake Ozark and Camdenton, then Routes 7 then 5 to Lebanon, where we picked up I-44 to Springfield. After a picnic lunch (windy!) at a local park north of Lake Springfield, we continued southward on I-65, through the outskirts of Branson. Before reaching the state line, we turned west on Highway 86 and crossed over a southern arm of Table Rock Lake. We skirted the state line for quite a while, then went south on Missouri Highway P, which became Arkansas 23 when we crossed over the boundary. And Arkansas 23 leads right into Eureka Springs, where we spent the first evening.

We drove around the town’s historic loop, stopping often to look at the various springs, take photos, and partake of the healing waters when fountains were available. The hotel where we stayed was the Bavarian Inn, on the west side of town, which, considering it was a “biker weekend” in all of northern Arkansas, was incredibly quiet and clean and lovely. Easily the best lodging of the trip.

Dinner that night, if you can believe it in Arkansas, was German food, there at the hotel’s restaurant. Very good. After dark, Sue and I drove back to town and walked in some of the neighborhoods, ending up at the St. Elizabeth Catholic church, next to the historic Crescent Hotel.

Saturday, we took Highway 62 east through Berryville and Green Forest to Harrison, where we picked up Arkansas Scenic Byway 7 and drove south clear to Hot Springs, having a pit stop at Jasper and a lunch at the Cliff House restaurant, which famously overlooks the so-called Arkansas Grand Canyon. We picked at a couple of rock and crystal outlets outside of Russellville. You know I couldn’t resist it.

At Hot Springs, we had reservations at the historic Arlington Hotel, which is part of the National Park. Dinner at the Arlington’s Venetian Dining Room. Afterward, we took a walk down Central Avenue to look at tourist-trap shops (on the west side of the street) and to view the historic bathhouses (on the east side). The bathhouses are owned by the park service and are being renovated and then leased out. One, for instance, is a local art gallery.

Sunday morning, we looked at the visitor center and bathhouse/spa museum at the historic Fordyce Bathhouse on Bathhouse Row. After that, we drove to the top of Hot Springs Mountain (still part of the National Park) and went up in the viewing tower there.

Back on the road, we took Grand Avenue to Highway 70 to Interstate 30, heading to Little Rock. We stopped at Benton for lunch; the restaurant, called Catfish Barn, was worth driving in circles for. If you’re driving through there, skip “Crack Yer Barrel” and go to the Catfish Barn.

In Little Rock, we took 430 north, then 630 east to the city center, where the state capitol is located. Dad wanted to see the Arkansas state capitol, and so did we. We also saw the statutes of the Little Rock Nine, and later, as we were driving out of Little Rock, we saw the William J. Clinton Presidential Center (i.e., the presidential library) from the highway. Not enough time to stop there.

Heading north from Little Rock, we took Highway 40 to Conway, then took a route identified variously as 287, 65, and 25 through such burgs as Springhill, Greenbrier, Damascus, Bee Branch, and Choctow. Then 9/95/330 north to Clinton, and then 16 or 9 through Shirley and Rushing to Mountain View. We stayed at the Best Western Fiddler’s Inn.

Dinner was at a place called Wing Shack and Cheeseburger Grill, which I have nice things to say about. After dark, Sue and I went downtown to the square, where we enjoyed live bluegrass music outdoors in two places right across the street from each other: the “Pickin’ Porch” at Aunt Minnie’s Yellow House, and Mountain View Music.

Monday morning: a cold front was moving through, and it was windy and rainy. We had breakfast in our rooms from the Best Western’s lobby offerings. The Ozark Folk Center, an Arkansas State Park, apparently is closed on Mondays, so that was a bust. We did have fun walking the square and poking around in shops, especially a general mercantile, which happened to have a fun selection of used books at low prices, and the Mountain View Music Shop: music stores are always fun.

North on Highway 5 through Optimus to Calico Rock, which is a cool little historic town on the White River. We had lunch at a café there. Then it was all crazy backroads (5, 177, Norfork, Salesville, 5, Briarcliff) to Mountain Home; then 101 to Gamaliel, and then across the state line back into Missouri. At Caulfield, we got on 160 and took it to West Plains. A pit stop there, and then we got onto Highway 63, which leads directly to Jeff City . . . via the Vienna Drive-In for sundaes, of course.

So that’s the overview. I did most of the driving today (hence my fuzziness about today’s route, which I did not pick out myself—I just drove where my dad, the geographer and lover of blue highways, told me to). It rained or sprinkled most of today, and the roads were fairly challenging, so I’m going to leave you here with this rather dry post.

More colorful specifics, with pictures, to come. But now it’s time for me to start focusing again on work and work and work. More soon.