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MY
potted bougainvilleas are still languishing in the
condominium building’s gardens, waiting to be brought
back up to my terrace. I’ve since unpacked my suitcases,
but I still have to settle back into my routine,
distracted by the memories that persist in lingering,
like the heat that follows me around like a throbbing
headache. I have just returned from a four-week trip to
Atlanta, and the sights and smells and tastes are still
fresh in my head.
Atlanta
basks in the glow of the famous enterprises it is home
to, ranking third behind New York and Houston in the
number of Fortune 500 companies headquartered within its
boundaries. The Coca-Cola Co., Home Depot and United
Parcel Service (UPS) are here. So are AT&T Mobility, the
largest mobile-service provider in the US, and Newell
Rubbermaid, set to move its headquarters soon to
Sandy Springs just outside the city, near UPS. The city’s highrises
are clustered in Buckhead, Downtown and Midtown—and
still the construction proceeds at boom levels with over
60 new high-rise or mid-rise buildings under
construction or proposed as of April 2006.
Despite
the rush of development,
Atlanta
is known as a “city of trees,” as woodlands begin just
on the fringes of the business districts, the canopy of
trees growing denser as it fans out into the suburbs. In
Sandy Springs, for example, the “city in a forest” theme
is much in effect. Here, the headquarters of UPS lie
nestled in a pocket of green, the buildings gleaming
above a skirting of flowering trees. And just beyond,
past the posh neighborhood lined with still more trees
lies Rumi’s Kitchen on busy
Roswell Street.
Yes, Atlanta’s suburbs have their own cache of culinary
treasures and it was the “locals” who led me to them. My
brother and sister-in-law, lontime Alpharetta residents
and both avowed foodies (with excellent noses for
sniffing out the duds from the truly delicious), led me
from one eating and drinking adventure to the other—from
the storied holes-in-the wall, comfort food places and
trendy restaurants to the wine selections and fresh
produce at the specialty shops and supermarkets.
There is
Jason’s, the neighborhood deli dishing out their
bestselling, hefty corned beef sandwiches amid a setting
of formica-topped tables, red banquettes—and
black-and-white framed photographs of Paris. At Satay
House, Frido, the Indonesian maitre d’, knew by heart
what my brother and sister-in-law would regularly order:
roti prata, beef rendang and catfish curry, all seasoned
and spiced with a fine hand. The popular chain
restaurants had their own offerings—cheesecakes at the
Cheesecake Factory, spicy buttermilk fried chicken at
Popeye’s, thin-crust pizza at Ledo’s, pho and the
ethereal breaded shrimp at Phoenix Noodle House, the
Cajun/Louisiana buffet at Papadeaux, and the outstanding
Angus double cheeseburger at Hardees. We joined the
queue of the after-church crowd on Easter Sunday at the
celebrated Flying Biscuit Café (rated by Zagats, Bon
Appétit, Good-Morning America and Rachel Ray, among
others) for its all-day breakfasts that come with its
centerpiece and namesake—the enormous, fluffy,
sugar-sprinkled biscuit that “fly” out the door because
of their incredible goodness. And then there is Rumi’s
Kitchen. Named after Jelaluddin Rumi, a poet of the
ancient Persian empire, the restaurant offers the
traditional cuisine of the
Middle East in surroundings that echo the exoticism of its origins.
Wrought iron and wood. Hanging lamps and flickering
candles. Fresh roses and stone fountains. Specialties
here include dolmeh, grapevine leaves stuffed with
minced ground beef, rice and herbs; mast khiyar, diced
cucumbers, yogurt, raisins, walnuts and fresh herbs;
charbroiled kabob; slow-cooked lamb shank, falling off
the bone into the Basmati rice studded with fava beans;
and a traditional Persian flatbread baked fresh in a
woodstone oven, akin to the tanoor, the old-fashioned
oven of Iran.
I
remember ending that meal with delicate rose-petal tea
sweetened with saffron-sugar. And another meal with a
2005 trockenbeerenauslese made from Ortega, a crossing
of Müller-Thurgau and Siegerrebe. Still there is the
memory of the Batasiolo 2001 Barolo and the 1999 Oremus
Tokaji Aszú—too precious to end up in the spittoon, so I
drank them up, despite the wine instructor’s admonition
to spit because the class had just begun.
The
faint wine stains on a favorite shirt are all that
remain of this recent adventure. All too soon, they will
be wiped out after a trip to the cleaner’s. But the
memories will remain, hoarded like precious rainwater in
the reservoir of the heart. It is true...memories are
mostly made of tastes and smells. |
