Location must be how Felix's Restaurant survives.

I’ve eaten a lot of places in New Orleans. Most places have been at least good if not spectacular. Over all the years I’ve only had one truly bad meal in the city (involving chicken bones and bread pudding, but that place is long gone) but I have had a few mediocre ones… a couple of meals that were just close to completely uninspiring.

I don’t write about the really bad ones (well, not here) and I rarely write about the typical ones, but in this case it’s gotta be a public service. I have to tell you about Felix’s Restaurant.

*Note: Felix’s Restaurant in New Orleans is not to be confused with Felix’s Fish House in Mobile, AL -- which I adore.

Now, the restaurant will tell you the place has been around since 1900. I can believe that. The menu also says the place has been family owned and operated for more than 70 years. I’ll believe that, too.

I first wandered into Felix’s back in March 2008. It was a Monday night, it was late, we were hungry and it was open. It was just a block away from the Hotel Monteleone and it was about 11 p.m. Its location on the corner of Bourbon and Iberville seemed opportune, and we figured we’d eat and then see what was going on along the Walk of Decadence.

The place was about half deserted, being a Monday night. We were lead back past the bar into the empty backroom, where Paul and I played with the condiments and the camera until we could get service. And maybe that was a good thing -- since this particularly iconic shot has become for all intensive purposes the shot people recognize me by.

Fortuitous as far as that shot goes, not so much for the food. We both ordered sandwiches of a sort -- he went for the Crawfish Po-Boy (now $9.95) and I got the 1/.2 Po-Boy and Side (now $12.95) with the crawfish etouffee. We also ordered fries, which we discovered come on the side separately for $3.75, big pencil-sized yellow fries sprinkled with salt and parsley. That’s about all I can say for the fries.

And for the Po-Boys? Not much more than that. The crawfish was passable but not enlightening, salty but not spicy, with the world’s saddest mealy tomato very thinly sliced on top. The crawfish etouffee was decently good but not spectacular, with a yellowish roux and plenty of rice.

I’m not saying the food was bad, I’m just saying it was nothing to write home about. And so I didn’t.

Nearly three years later, I’m with Paul and four of our friends in the Quarter on a Friday night, 8pm, hungry and waiting in line at ACME Oyster House across the street. We’d called and asked how the line was just 10 minutes before we left the Hotel Monteleone, and were told there was no line. That wasn’t the case when we got there.

A half hour passes and we’re all getting hungry and irritable. I was standing there wishing Mike Anderson’s was still open on Bourbon, but alas it’s long gone (the remaining restaurant is in Baton Rouge, you should go). The line into ACME hadn’t moved. We had an early start the next morning. I warned our crowd that Felix’s Restaurant wasn’t all that great the last time I tried it, but we went anyway.

We saw a group getting up from a table near the front and went and perched by it but were shooed into the back of the place by a waitress who saw us come in. We did have to wait a few minutes before we got service, but the place was hopping with hungry people and that was to be expected, I guess.

Our waitress brought us menus and beverages -- mostly iced tea all around -- and departed while we looked. She came back for orders and we did what friends do -- yap at each other around the table.

A couple of our friends had ordered up some sweet potato fries ($4.75) -- and received a big plate of thick Sharpie-thick planks with a nice crust. They were of the crispy, meaty variety and were served with ketchup, which did get the approval of one of the partakers who complained how they usually come with cinnamon butter or honey at other places. Ketchup got a kudo.

The hubster and I had ordered up a half dozen Oysters Bienville, thinking we’d split what we had that night and enjoy it that much more. They came out on a bed of rock salt -- unfortunately, I didn’t notice that off the bat but I realized it well when I did my usual thing and attempted to eat one straight out of the shell. My bottom lip was covered and I needed half my tea and a moment of hacking to get back to the half-shells.

That being said, the Oysters Bienville ($9.95 half-dozen, $16.95 a dozen) were good… the oysters were salty but not rubbery, the cheese and the bits of shrimp, pepper and onion underneath balanced nicely. In fact, if I had only ever had the Oysters Bienville I think I’d adore this place. Yes, there was a shard of shell in one of them, but that’s about average. I really liked them.

I just wish I’d liked the next dish better. Each of the couples at the table had ordered the same thing, the Fried Seafood Platter ($17.95), thinking it should be big enough to share and enjoy. Well… well. Where to start? I guess I need to start with the coleslaw. It was weird. It had pickles in it. Pickles. In coleslaw. What? I suspect that instead of mayo they used tartar sauce. It wasn’t terrible, to me -- but most of my other tablemates hated it. Except the hubster -- who thought it was refreshingly tasty. He ended up eating the slaw from most of our plates.

Then there was the catfish… I am a catfish snob, but when I get a good piece of catfish I really enjoy it. This was not the case. I took one bite, recognized a muddy flavor and rinsed my mouth. I thought maybe I wasn’t being fair about it so I tried it again and got the same muddy flavor. I didn’t touch it again. But the hubster ate it all.

Then there were the shrimp -- and those? Those I liked. They were golden fried in a flour batter and they were tasty. I should have just ordered a shrimp platter in hindsight.

And then there were the fried oysters, and once again I got this impression. The oysters, though not the best fried oysters I’ve had (that honor goes to Mobile’s Wintzell’s Oyster House, in case you were wondering) they were nicely seasoned and a little crispy and meaty. Again, wish I hadn’t ordered the catfish with them.

The fries were… fries. Decent. Good with ketchup.

We were all about done, but one of my tablemates insisted she wanted Red Velvet Cake. It sounded wonderful to me but I had eaten plenty during the day and didn’t think the sugar would be a good idea. She offered to let me try it when she got it. And when she got it…

Again, weirdness. Because I have never seen a Red Velvet cake that’s reached quite this color before. Honestly, it was almost a day glow red, bright and scary looking. It was topped with a thick layer of cream cheese frosting dotted with red dessert sugar, with a layer of almonds across the back. It just didn’t look quite right.

And the flavor -- very cherry-ish. The frosting was quite good, and the addition of the red sugar crystals was unusual but fine. But still… it was just weird.

We walked out of there after settling up, thinking it just wasn’t the sort of place we were going to visit again. There was disappointment involved, which is just not what you should experience after any French Quarter meal. You just shouldn’t.

But I’ve had time to reflect since then, and I really wonder. I’m thinking Felix’s benefits from two things. One is its fabulous location a block off Canal on Bourbon. All those people who flood into the Quarter off the streetcar come past this street, and I’m sure there are many others who have given up on the lines at ACME and headed on over. Location is good.

If there was anything I’d ever go into the restaurant again for, I think it’d be to sit at the oyster bar and have myself a half-dozen raw. Maybe I just have high hopes for the oysters, or maybe it was the rascally gentleman behind the counter who’s flirted with me both times I’ve entered and exited the restaurant. Made me feel like we were sharing a secret I had yet to divulge, you know?

You’ll find Felix’s Restaurant at the corner of Bourbon and Iberville in the Quarter. Check out their website or call (504) 522-4440.

Arkansawyers, the Snowpocalypse and the Breadcast.

Last week’s snow warnings were just another reminder of how much my life has changed in the past couple of years. These days the hardest decision I have to make is whether or not I need to travel for work… and if I want to stay home I can do it.

That wasn’t the case back in my TV days. Too many years there when everyone was heading home ahead of (or in the midst of) a winter storm, I was heading into work to handle school closings and put a newscast together. Sometimes I got to go home the next morning. Sometimes I didn’t.

I was a morning show news producer for eight years with Today’s THV. My job did lead to a lot of fun and interesting meetings, events and happenings. It also lead to my longest ever trip ever down I-630 -- five hours. That was back on December 12th, 2000. My husband Paul was the morning show producer over at KARK at the time, and we’d both seen the forecast. That Tuesday morning we’d gone home to get a few hours of sleep and then set out from our apartment to head to work around 12:30 p.m.

We figured we were ahead of the storm; we were wrong. We also hadn’t figured on just about everyone and their dogs also hitting the interstate at the same time. It was slow going -- about 20 miles an hour from the Rodney Parham exit to Cedar/Pine. The freezing rain was coming down hard with pellets of sleet and sometimes even what appeared to be snow.

We debated getting off on the Woodrow Street exit but figured the side streets would be icy. About 100 feet beyond the turn we came to a dead halt… and that’s where we stayed for the next four hours. In a strange time before either of us had a cell phone… we debated attempting to walk to work. In the end, traffic did eventually move. I dropped Paul off at work around 6:30 and made it to THV around 7:30. We ended up being kept at different hotels downtown -- Paul at the Excelsior and I at the Doubletree -- for three days in-between shifts. We managed to get home on Friday and spent the weekend huddled around the fireplace, not even daring to venture out again.

It’s rare that we get anything that debilitating in Central Arkansas. The mere hint of such a weather situation sends folks to the grocery stores by the thousands. For some reason, there’s this need to stock up -- because heaven forbid you have to stay home without sandwich fixings for three or four days!

Back in those days, all a producer did when the show was on was produce the show -- make sure the director knew what was going on and keep everyone on time. One particularly light week I was sitting in the control room during the show with Jerry Don Birch. He was our director for oodles of years until his retirement. While Jerry Don called the show I’d take notes, check time and doodle.

Tom Brannon was going on about a possible “snow event” and making comments about how bread and milk would be flying off the shelf soon. He then went into the Bus Stop Forecast -- one of many specialized forecasts we had back then. And it hit me -- why not have a specialized forecast for a snow event?

I drew out three panels and was about done with them by the time the show had ended. It got a grin from Jerry Don and a couple of guffaws from the guys in the control room before I took it out to Tom to show him.

The three panels were of a bread aisle in a grocery store. The first one said “slight chance of snow” and the shelves were packed save a few loaves. The second said “moderate chance of snow” and about half the shelves were empty. The final one said “Tom sez it’s gonna SNOW!” and the shelves were bare except for a few crushed loaves at the bottom.

It may not have been genius, but it was funny. The graphics guys made up the panels into images that could be inserted into the “weather show” and we used them… once that year. Apparently my idea had come a little late in the season. The next winter we only used them a few times but when we did they were funny.

We went through a graphics package change in 2005 and somehow the panels got lost. But I kept that drawing in my drawer, fully intending to have new graphics made up at some point or another.

Of course, I left in September 2007 to begin this adventure. But it never fails -- when snow or ice threaten the weather, Paul and I look at each other and joke about whether it’s time to pull out the “bread-o-meter.”

I was thinking about that "breadcast" when I went to the store Thursday morning. My daughter Hunter is going through milk at the rate of half a gallon a day right now. I know that could change any day now (this seems to just be since we returned from vacation) but I figured getting an extra half-gallon would be a decent idea. Besides, she was running low on diapers.

I took my camera in, expecting to find denuded shelves in the bread aisle. Instead, I was quite pleased to not only find the shelves stocked but a stockman standing nearby with a full rack of bread. I glanced at him and took a photo of the bread.

“We learned our lesson,” he told me.

“It’s good to see y’all’r on top of things,” I answered, starting to move on.

“Yeah, we know to have plenty on-hand, thanks to the breadcast.”

I almost asked him where he came up with that word, wondering if the station had revived the practice or if maybe the word’s just sunk into the local vernacular. But it did make me smile.

The Ruins of Monte Ne.

The dreams of an American entrepreneur deteriorate by and under the waters of Beaver Lake

A monolith stands on the shore of Beaver Lake. The tower rises three stories above the shoreline, seemingly serene and calm from a distance. On closer approach, the colors shout out, obscenities and names and other graffiti spattered across the face of the structure. If the light hits it just right you can see the graffiti is apparent both inside and out. You can approach it from land or lake, walk right up and inside, where generations of paint have layered the walls in the name of art and defacement.

But why is the structure here? What caused it to be abandoned on the lakeshore? The answer lies between the waters of Beaver Lake and the dream of an entrepreneur with ideas about Utopia.

***

I have heard whispers of Monte Ne all my adult life, but mostly from people who had heard it from others. An old friend who scuba-dived said he had been meaning to get up there for years. An acquaintance told me there was a resort under Beaver Lake that was part sanitorium, part summer camp. It sounded like “The Road to Wellville,” the 1994 movie about a 1920s health resort. A little research and a personal visit would banish those myths and solidify what Monte Ne really was in my mind.

***

The tower is a prominent feature from the ruins of Monte Ne, a resort built just past the turn of the 20th Century, a vision of one William Hope “Coin” Harvey. The entrepreneur came to this area of the Ozarks to build the resort. He purchased 320 acres of what was then called Silver Springs and renamed it Monte Ne -- a name he conjured up from Spanish and Omaha Indian words for mountain and water.

He used some revolutionary ideas in the construction of his resort -- including the utilization of slabs of concrete in many of the structures on the site. He combined this with more traditional construction methods. The two hotels constructed at the resort that made it to completion were made from logs with tile roofs. These two structures called Oklahoma Row and Missouri Row were at the time the longest log cabins in the world.

He financed the building of the resort through the sale of his writings regarding free silver. His nickname, “Coin,” comes from his most popular work, Coin’s Financial School. He sunk $100,000 dollars (half his own, half from investors) into construction at the site. It wasn’t just about building the hotels. He had retaining walls built along the creek and lagoon and walkways constructed and even had a railroad assembled to run between the resort and Lowell to bring in guests. Those guests would disembark from the train and be escorted by gondola to the resort itself.

He built Arkansas’ first indoor pool in a bathhouse on Silver Creek across the lagoon from the resort. The downtown area he laid out had a livery stable, a bank (which used Harvey’s own scrip instead of American dollars), a grist mill, general store, and post office. His son Tom even ran a newspaper, the Monte Ne Herald, in the town.

The resort was something else in its heyday. I sat down with Shiloh Museum director Allyn Lord to talk about Monte Ne. She literally wrote the book on the subject; her Historical Monte Ne book came out a few years ago and is a great read with lots of photos from the old resort. “Monte Ne was a great destination back in its heyday. This was back before air conditioning. It was really cool down in the valley, even in the summertime.”

But some of Harvey’s ideas just didn’t take well with guests. He had a lights-out at 10 p.m. policy and reportedly wouldn’t allow sick children at the resort. He was a wiley sort. “He wasn’t crazy,” Lord told me. “Some folks think he was, but those were different times.”

It was a great dream, this nirvana in the Ozarks, but it was not to be. Harvey’s bank failed. The railroad went under. His son Hal died and his son Tom took off and left for good. Harvey tried unsuccessfully to run for Congress and his friend Williams Jennings Bryan wasn’t able to find a place for him in the Woodrow Wilson administration. These sort of things could turn anyone’s mind dark.

In February 1920, he published Common Sense, announcing his intention to leave a message for the future in the form of a pyramid. His plans called for a structure that would have been 130 feet high and which would have contained artifacts from the age preserved for the future -- a globe, newspapers, domestic items and things like record players and such. Harvey had a 165 foot retaining wall built, but that’s as far as he got on the structure.

He did, however, complete an unusually shaped amphitheater he planned to rent out to bring in more money for the pyramid’s construction. The twenty foot high, 140 foot long semi-circular structure was built without an architect. It was very irregular but could seat anywhere from 500 to 1000 people at a time.

The Great Depression pretty much ended Harvey’s pyramid dream. By that point he had sold off the hotels, which continued to do business under other operators. The Oklahoma and Missouri Rows spent time as the Ozark Industrial College and School of Theology until 1932.

Harvey wasn’t quite done yet, though. He formed The Liberty Party and gathered together a presidential convention at Monte Ne in 1932, the only presidential convention ever to be held in Arkansas. He expected 10,000 people -- he got just 786 delegates who nominated him as their presidential candidate. The party ended up merging with the Jobless Party and Harvey ended up running independent, coming in 6th in the election with just 800 votes.

He was done. He continued to write his newsletter, The Liberty Bell, until his death in 1936. He was entombed along with his son Hal (who had died in 1903) in a concrete structure, along with many of his books and papers.

The buildings were sold off and used for other purposes -- such as training facilities for the Arkansas Guard and facilities for a girls’ camp.

What truly took out Monte Ne, though, was the encroachment of Beaver Lake. The Corps of Engineers determined in 1960 that the lake would inundate Monte Ne and made moves to buy up the land all around there. The log structure portion of Oklahoma Row was purchased and moved north, where it can still be seen, sagging by the side of Highway 94.

However, the Corps expected Beaver Lake to cover all of the old resort. Those levels fell short, which is why you can view much of what’s left behind today.


***

So what’s left of Monte Ne today? I’d heard my share of rumors, from “it’s completely submerged” to “it’s not worth your time.” But curiosity got the better of me. I did my research, looked up the site on Google Maps and figured out how to get down to it off the highway.

Photographer Grav Weldon joined me for the journey to northwest Arkansas. We passed through Rogers and out Highway 94 to the community that is Monte Ne today. It’s not much -- a collection of houses and mobile homes clustered around the Monte Ne Inn Chicken Restaurant at the intersection of Highway 94 and the Highway 94 Spur -- though we did sight an old fashioned windmill on a lawn.

But where were the ruins of Monte Ne? We found what we thought might be the most accessible point as we came in view of Beaver Lake. With a severe drop-off from the asphalt and no discernible shoulder, Grav asked if I’d stand in the road and divert any traffic that might come around the corner as he went down the bank to capture shots of the tower he could see in the distance.

I was excited about that tower. Being able to see it so clearly meant we had a chance of getting something visual to go with our story. A quarter mile further we found a gravel parking area off to the right side of the road -- and several cars, too. Out we went, out down the most obvious path over a guard rail. There was a sign, undoubtedly something along the lines of “Keep Out” or “No Parking” or something, long painted over.

Usually this would be the point where I’d carefully stand by at said sign while Grav took the big camera and went about his job chronicling places he probably shouldn’t go… but not this time. There were half a dozen people scattered along the path ahead, the path that stretched on to the tower.

Footpaths have been forged in the grass for some time here… and more gives way to concrete, not a sidewalk or roadbed but what turned out to be the roof of the basement section of what was once Oklahoma Row. There was one hole I noticed, big enough to trip into but not wide enough to allow one to fall all the way through.

You can stand on a corner of the building, no guardrail or safety net in place, and potentially trip off and hit the rocks below. The vantage point overlooks what was once Silver Springs below. Now you see houses on the opposite bank, a boat dock and water.

I followed Grav out to the tower. The sun was heading towards a setting in the southwest, nearly behind the tower itself, very bright and blinding. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t see the graffiti until I got close.

There’s all sorts of tags on the outside of the building, mostly around the base of the structure but a few high up around the windows overhead. Daredevils must have taken great pleasure at pointing out how far they got from the portals when they managed to tag out at such precarious angles. It still didn’t prepare me for the inside.

It was like stepping into a kaleidoscope, paint in places a half inch thick where vandals had sprayed their thoughts on the wall. The ceiling, the floor, even the fireplaces had not been spared. Much of the interior was splattered with profanities and crude images -- in fact it took much work to find things to shoot that could be included in this magazine. Through the pane-less windows the far shores of Beaver Lake could be seen, populated with trees and homes. Water light echoes flickered on the ceiling in the front rooms.

There were no staircases -- but through a hole between floors I could see more paint above. Some taggers had obviously taken great joy in climbing up into the top of the structure. “Climbing is discouraged,” Shiloh Museum director Allyn Lord later told us. Yet I found several shots on the internet while compiling this story of people -- even church youth groups -- who see climbing up into the tower as a goal to achieve.

It’s a shame, really. The tower is on the National Historic Register, but there’s no money to restore it or even keep vandals out. “There have been efforts to have it made a state historic site, with no success,” Lord told me. We shared a similar notion, that it would be fantastic if the state could come in and take over the acres currently owned by the Corps of Engineers and make it into some sort of park.

After exploring the rooms inside the tower we walked around the base. It was apparent that people had crawled far under the structure, considering the proliferation of trash and the remnants of a sleeping bag. I would later learn that the old crawl space is usually inundated with water. I can’t imagine why anyone would be interested in crashing underneath.

Off to the west side of the point, we could look back and see what we had been standing on. With the water down we could actually walk right up to what was once the basement of Oklahoma Row.

We waited until a couple managed to come back up from their inspection, then took a look inside. The basement level rooms weren’t used for housing -- except for a small room on the north end of the structure. That room contained a fireplace, a small room with plumbing that had apparently once been a bathroom, and much rubble all over the floor. We’d later discover that access to that section was usually unavailable.

After that exploration we walked back along the shoreline to the east, passing the tower and following a long pipe that I assumed had once been underground. Time and erosion had washed away the dirt around it.

We came upon an inlet, and while Grav darted down to shoot what was left of the base of the wall I walked back into the woods and found what I assume was once the fireplace for Missouri row. It and a few short staircases are all that remain of the row. You can tell by looking at it how the different mantles sat, all at different angles and all, I assume, with their own conduit through the chimney. This structure too has been tagged with spray paint, though not to the extent of the Oklahoma Row tower.

And next to this remnant in time? A boat ramp into the lake. There were another half-dozen people along the landing, fishing or talking to people who were fishing.

We’d discover later on that we missed one important sight -- that of the tomb of William Harvey and his son Robert, sitting on private land on the opposite side of the boat ramp. The tomb itself is cracked, apparently from being moved when the lake was created to avoid being inundated.

The problem with the location of the ruins is that it’s impossible to shoot them well from the land. Grav and I set off to see if we could find out way around to the other side of the inlet so he could get a better shot.

We doubled back along the highway until we came to a side road. It took us up a decently steep hill on a narrow band of asphalt. The first view through the trees came at a house hanging onto the land above the lake bank. Grav jumped out, went and knocked on the door and asked permission to shoot.

The light was starting to fade, and there were lots of branches in the way, so we looked for another spot to try our luck again. We drove further along and found a side road that ran close to the lakeside. But there still wasn’t a good shot.

Finally Grav asked me to stop -- he’d seen something unusual way out on what appeared to be a peninsula. I sat with the car, watching the neighborhood dogs smell at the wheels and give friendly barks while he jogged through a yard and down a good ways. I caught sight of him later almost a half-mile away right on the edge of the water.

Turns out the little peninsula he was on is usually an island, and if the water was lower you could actually see the top of what was the amphitheater. However, the Corps of Engineers rarely lets the lake get even as low as on that particular day, and there was not much for him to shoot in the fading light of the afternoon.

But what he was able to capture was the vision of the remaining tower, standing on its own in the pinkish glow of the sunset on the point, a final reminder of what Harvey tried to accomplish. It’s not a resort, but it is a remnant of a different time. Will it be saved? That’s a question only more time will answer.

***

Tip: The water levels for Beaver Lake on the day Grav photographed the ruins were at 1120 feet. The top of the amphitheater is clearly visible at 1113 feet. In December, the Army Corps of Engineers issued a notice of low water levels, and those levels fell to 1113 feet the week of Christmas. If you’re interested in viewing the amphitheater and would like to monitor the water levels, you can review a daily water level report here.

***

The Rogers Historical Museum has both an exhibit on Monte Ne at its facility and an on-line exhibit to peruse. Tour “Buried Dreams: ‘Coin Harvey’ and Monte Ne” at the museum, open 10 a.m.-5 p.m. Monday-Saturday at 301 W. Chestnut in Rogers. Call (479) 621-1117. You can find the online article here.

***

Read this story and much more, including The Birds, in the February 2011 issue of Arkansas Wild.

Fuelin' change.

You can tell a lot about a person’s age by talking about gasoline -- not just the prices but how getting gas has changed over the years.

Did you know that at one point in time, Little Rock was home to the largest gas station in the world? No? Neither did I until the other day, when I discovered a postcard from the 1950s of 555 Inc., a block-sized service station near what was then the big Arkansas River Bridge.


In Steven and Ray Hanley’s book “Little Rock,” “The 555 Inc. Auto Center at the intersection of four major highways, billed itself as ‘The World’s Largest Service Station.’ Since it took up an entire block at Third and Broadway Streets, the claim may have been factual.” The building, which stood catty-corner from Robinson Auditorium, had what was considered the largest dance floor in the city, called the Rainbow Garden, in the 1940s. The building was torn down in the 1960s for an insurance office.

Of course, that was before my time. While I have no recollection of sitting in a gas line in the 70s, I do remember how different the process was back then. I remember going with my godmother to the full service station -- how you didn’t even have to get out of your car for a fill-up. There was an imprint board the attendant would give the driver to fill out as gas was delivered to the tank, the windshields were washed and the hood was popped so the attendant could check out the fluids. She’d always hand back the board with a five dollar bill.

There wasn’t much inside the average service station. The little office was just the tiniest waiting area, a couple of seats usually, with a counter for the clerk and maybe a cigarette or Coke machine. It was rare to find anything more than a rack with gum and mints as far as food goes.

That had all changed by the time I hit the road at 16. Gas was 69 cents a gallon, though it was about to skyrocket to 89 cents a gallon a short time later with the war in the Persian Gulf. There were convenience stores by that point, selling everything from cola to bait and tackle, and you did your own pumping.

Still, you had to go inside to take care of your business, which is why I think convenience stores prospered. After all, if you have to walk in to pay your bill, you might as well grab a drink or a candy bar while you were at it.

Pay-at-the-pump is probably the biggest difference I’ve seen since I started driving. Now you don’t even have to worry about going inside, just stick a card in and pump and go. There are now completely automated stations where nary a soul will greet you. In some cases, it’s a good idea… but when you’re out in the middle of nowhere and need assistance, it kinda sucks.

I’ve watched gas quadruple and even quintuple in price in 20 years. I recall it was just 99 cents a gallon any time I filled up during the 90s when I lived up in Jonesboro, and what a scandal it was when gas prices hit $2 a gallon after 9-11. Of course, I saw the $4 a gallon gas there a few summers ago -- the most expensive gas I’ve put in my vehicle was $3.99 a gallon and I winced with every gallon I purchased. Like most of the rest of the nation I breathed a sigh of relief when prices sank again.

I got to thinking about the changes in our gassed-up lives the other afternoon. I was waiting for a chance to pull into a pump at the Conway Kroger store so I could use my grocery-induced 10 cent discount. Gas is back up again… even with my discount it’s $2.81. The sun was setting, there was a short line at every pump and I shared a small piece of chocolate with my daughter Hunter as I waited while my tank was filled. You know, in all that time I don’t think the pumps have sped up a lick.

And I was thinking -- you know, I don’t really want to be rich and there’s nothing I’m just dying to have. But if there were any amazing, unbeatable present anyone could ever bestow on my family, it’d be a card that granted unlimited gasoline. Or a way to get around ever having to pull up to the pump again.

Petit Bistro, Jewel of North(west) Arkansas.

There’s a little jewel of a restaurant in the far northwest corner of the state. It’s a diminutive little restaurant on a large plot of land, and it’s offering up a lot of big ideas and dishes.

The place? Petit Bistro, open since April 2010 on Walton Boulevard on the north side of Bentonville. 30-year old executive chef Dane Main of Winfield, KS is creating dishes for just about every budget.

Photographer Grav Weldon and I sat down with Chef Dane on a blustery Friday evening to discover what makes the guy tick. We talked over iced tea and the fabulous dip of the night, a honey mustard garlic dip strong on fresh garlic, served up with crispy shards of breadsticks.

Main has been shining his culinary star since his college days. He progressed through culinary school in Charleston, SC and on through the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, NY. Main did some time at Big Guy’s Subs and Bakery before this break. Owner Dario Amini asked Main if he’d be interested in a new operation, and in April 2010 the two opened up Petit Bistro on Walton Boulevard north of Bentonville’s downtown district.

The house itself dates back to 1903. Before life as Petit Bistro, it was a smokehouse joint. The Bistro sits in the front of the nearly eight acres of the property. Out back there’s a patio bordered by a spring that originates on the property, that’s 52 degrees year-round. During the summer months smooth jazz and laid back tunes grace the open space. It’s a creative use for this little property, a creativity that matches up well with Main’s funky mix of cuisines and cultures.

“It’s really eclectical, a mix of French dishes, food that resembles Mediterranean cuisine, an Asian influence,” says Main. “We’re not pinned down to one sort of idea.”

Part of Main’s ability to keep such a fresh and inventive menu going comes from the boss, who’s allowed him to shape his own sort of menu. “I have 100 percent creative control over the menu. But I still take suggestions.”

One of those suggestions came from Amini, who came up with Petit Burgers -- three adorable Kobe beef burgers seasoned with mint, salt and pepper served up on diminutive custom Brioche buns with Bleu cheese and caramelized onions, topped with cherry tomatoes and tiny dills. They’re one of the menu items that will stay; Main plans to change the menu four times a year, with just a few items remaining from one season to the next.

That’s not to say that Main sticks strictly with the menu. He’s been known to dilly-dally with impromptu specials. The complimentary dip he serves up with breadsticks changes almost every night -- some nights it’s an olive tapenade, other nights a red pepper coulis, still others a fruit compote. He also has a great time with desserts.

“A lot of the operation is in the show, and a lot of it is instinct,” says Main. “If the night is perfect and the group is right, I’ll come out with my Bananas Flambé. The bananas in flame, the sugar sparking, that’s the sort of thing people remember when they leave. It’s not just good food, it’s the presentation.”

It’s one thing to be given creative control in a big city kitchen. But the kitchen at Petit Bistro is smaller than many home kitchens. Main and his sous chefs operate in a space that’s absolutely claustrophobic; a well choreographed ballet between the chefs combined with a fastidiously organized workspace that extends upwards through the use of multiple shelves is all that’s keeping the kitchen symphony from disintegrating into cacophony. Still, the chefs managed to allow Grav and I a chance to experience the constant motion of the tiny space without a single collision.

And what you’ll find in that kitchen… while we were standing there, we noticed mussels, shrimp and pasta being sautéed and flipped gently at the stove. Tiny Kobe beef patties were charbroiling on the tiny elevated grill. One chef put his touches on the tightly composed mountain of Steak au Poivre before sending it out.

Chef Main has been very interested in the locavore movement, reaching out to suppliers and searching out items to bring into Petit Bistro. “We try hard to use local products and our Farmers’ Market. We’re hoping to start our own herb and vegetable garden. Imagine vegetables picked and cooked on the same day.”

Grav continued to watch and shoot while Chef Main and I sat to chat some more. We shared notes about our children; he has two daughters, eight year old Aliya and two year old Jaelyn. Main came to the area after his culinary education to rejoin his family, who had moved from Kansas to northwest Arkansas in the intervening years. He brought with him his childhood sweetheart, Melinda, who he dated from the age of 16.
But Main’s interests haven’t just been in the culinary arts. He’s had a country band, which he describes as “red dirt” --- and a couple of years ago he performed in front of 16,000 people during semi-final rounds of American Idol. “Two years ago I decided to give it a shot. I was 28 -- that’s the cut-off age -- and it was something I’d always wanted to do.” Main actually made it through the second round of judging.

He has a pipe dream. “I’d love to be able to head in the direction of Nashville in five years with my music.” Main’s band was quite active before Petit Bistro started up, but the busy life of a restaurant’s executive chef has kept him from performing these past few months.

For now, it’s all about the restaurant. Petit Bistro recently added lunch. Main says he has a great team of chefs and bartenders who have been with him since the start of the endeavor. They seem comfortable and friendly not just with the clientele but with each other.

Grav caught one of the girls making up the restaurant’s signature cocktail -- a Basil, Mint and Rosemary Martini full of lime juice. The levels of green are pretty on their own below the sugar-encrusted glass rim; one is first struck with the fresh flavors of basil before the bite of rosemary becomes apparent. The vodka based martini finishes cleanly.

Main says he loves having musical acts come in on the weekends. There’s a patio out back perfect for basking in a sunset during the summer months with a nice smooth jazz trio or quartet. Main says he and his boss have fiddled around with the idea of getting a jam group together for the holidays. I can see that; the team the two have put together flows well in the tiny space.

I noticed something while we were there… over the two hours of our interview, customers flowed into the space… and stayed. There’s no rush to clear tables for new seatings at Petit Bistro. In fact, a group of eight were already into their cups when we arrived and stayed until the eatery closed much later in the evening, the constituents rambling and laughing together over small plates and drinks, obviously enjoying themselves. I asked the chef about this. “We’re casual here. This is a place for people to come and enjoy themselves. We’re not concerned with getting them in and out in an hour.”

You’ll find all sorts of folks inside the restaurant -- couples enjoying a romantic dinner, friends out for a drink, executives from northwest Arkansas’ power companies breaking bread together. The wine list accommodates them all -- from the $19 a bottle LaVielle Ferme Rose to the $883 Chateau Margaux-Bordeaux 1998 Premiere Grand Cru. Main confirms the Chateau’s not a red herring; it’s purchased on a pretty regular basis.

Menu options are similarly varied in price. We sampled a few of the chef’s dishes -- a Caprese Salad ($9) generous on the Mozzarella was an early favorite. The Escolar Puttanesca ($19) was a surprisingly hearty whitefish dish; the firm and buttery escolar held well against a bed of cilantro-enhanced Basmati Jasmine rice, paired with roasted asparagus and topped with a sautéed mélange of grape tomatoes, sliced garlic cloves and capers.

But our favorite dish, hands down, was the simple yet beautifully composed Spinach Pear Salad ($9), a salad inspired by a popular dish from the now defunct The Sanctuary Restaurant. It’s a sliced pear poached in a fantastic aged Madeira with cinnamon and nutmeg, served on a bed of baby spinach with candied walnuts, fine Bleu cheese and dried cranberries drizzled with a Chambord vinaigrette. Chef Main specifically designed this dish as a challenge to strike balance with all flavors -- sweet, sour, savory, salty. This dish has it all. That pear alone is the most fantastic thing I’ve put in my mouth in a long time.