Big Chimney Woe

The other day I learned that Chef Matt is now cooking at the Inn at Cedar Falls. I'm glad that he's moved on from the fire that sadly claimed the Hocking Hills Dining Lodge a few years ago, but seeing his interview put me in mind of lazy summer days in Appalachia and my favorite but now long-gone Saturday morning haunt. In a former life, Matt had been the proprietor, baker, and permanently-in-a-good-mood greeter at the Big Chimney Baking Company.

Big Chimney was not very big … the bakery that is, not the chimney. The chimney was HUGE, standing sixteen stories tall, a leftover from the coal mining era of making dough. It sat twenty yards or more behind the bakery, a rust-colored tower among the hardwoods. The Big Chimney bakery was, in contrast, quite small. Inside, just three or four tables crowded a deli case and assorted bread racks. On Saturdays, the racks overflowed with round, hard-crusted loaves. The aroma hit you as soon as you cracked the door—cranberry walnut, feta spinach dill, potato rosemary, Greek olive with sweet roasted peppers, sourdough, multigrain, pain du levan. On rare occasions, you’d find a bronze apricot jalapeño loaf, but Matt didn't make it too often. I got hooked on it once. He made it on Wednesdays, the same day that my physical therapy sessions took me near the bakery on the way to town. I wouldn’t say that it sped my recovery, but I didn’t miss any sessions.

The patio outside was where the real action took place. On Saturday mornings we'd arrive in carloads, rambling up the narrow drive barely wide enough for two cars to pass without someone straying into the ditch. Big Chimney sat at the end of a dead-end road in the woods at the edge of town. No one just happened by. No through traffic. Everyone here meant to come. Car tires crunched gray stones as we rolled up into the overgrown parking lot. Early arrivals snagged shady spots under thick, gnarly oaks with a stern gargoyle standing watch. 

The brick patio had a grid of about a dozen octagonal, hunter green umbrellas mounted above square weathered wood tables. We'd sit in the shade and munch bread and cheese, scones, croissants, plate-size cinnamon rolls and oozing chocolate éclairs. The cheese was rich, creamy, and smelly, the summer sausage spicy, and the coffee roasted, dark, and steaming.

Athenians lined up to buy Matt’s creations on summer Saturday mornings, either before or after a trip to the farmers market. Like sparrows they'd flutter from one to the other. We'd take our culinary treasures out to the patio to eat and talk. Ohio University draws a diverse crowd to our hippy skippy Appalachian town. We're a small but affluent community in the middle of Ohio's poorest county. You'd run across a wide cross-section out on the patio. Visiting professors, medical school interns, foreign exchange students, and a healthy assortment of what I call the "hill country long hairs"—folks that went to OU in the '70s and never quite managed to leave Athens. They stuck around and became a random assortment of carpenters, roofers, potters, plumbers, social workers, teachers, one or two doctors and lawyers, some self-styled entrepreneurs, a few architects, and more than a fair number of part-time musicians,. Some had actually gone to school for the career they would pursue. Most just sort of fell into something and then felt their way along, faking it until they made it. By 11:00 their cars would line the grass along the drive. It was very much a family affair, geezers to toddlers, and even the occasional shaggy, hopeful dog, trailing behind whatever kid still had food in his or her hand. 

Newcomers eyed available tables as they waited in a line that often extended out the door. They begged unused chairs or improvised seating along the low stone wall bordering the patio. Patrons relaxed in sandals, shorts, and sunglasses. They meandered from table to table catching up, making chit chat and sampling goodies. The patio would swell and then several tables would depart and the pace would soften until the next flurry. From about eight until noon, Saturdays, all summer long, the sparrows fluttered from farmers market to Big Chimney. Even when it rained, which it does a lot here in the summer, you could still take refuge under the green octagons.

September was my favorite time to be out there. By then, I was pretty sick of whatever we still had growing in the garden. You could begin to see some space in the canopy as the woods gradually began to dry and thin. In a few weeks the trees would be glorious. Appalachian autumns rock! But in early September, it was still warm, too warm without shade. The kids would be back in school, so the weekdays were full, fuller, and fullest. But Saturday mornings were still semi-sacred (after soccer practice). Out at the patio, you'd hear snippets of conversation as people got reacquainted. Who had been away at what beach? Who went to China? Who did an artist-in-residence? Who just deposited their college freshman in some faraway school? Who had to get a colonoscopy or an MRI? Who just got married? Who had a baby?

These were pre-cell phone days. No one was talking into space with an earpiece. No one was texting. No one was listening to music on earbuds. No one was looking anything up. If someone couldn't think of the name of the actor who was in that movie with the guy and the thing, they'd just have to figure it out later. People came with books, magazines, and folded newspapers that they intended to read or ... maybe they were just using them for cover, as an excuse to linger a little longer.

I have this memory of one fine Saturday morning. We’d come a bit late, missing the farmers market crowd. Matt's wife was just returning in their VW van-converted bread mobile. She returned with mostly empty baskets, never any feta spinach dill—those loaves got snatched up minutes after they dinged the starting bell. Occasionally she'd have some ten-grain, but usually not even that.

As we entered Matt barked merrily from behind the counter, "You're late!" We were among the leftovers, but the patio was still half full. In the corner, a couple of young lovers huddled over their coffee mugs. They looked like they'd just managed to crawl out of bed after a late Friday night on Court Street, Next to them, a large African man with a deep voice sat talking with his adult son. On the other side, a pudgy, divorced dad served two middle schoolers. I recognized him from geezer basketball. The kids fretted over a bee buzzing the table.

We sat next to a large Indian family who'd pushed two tables together to accommodate their numbers. They'd ordered two servings of focaccia with fresh tomatoes, basil, black olives, roasted yellow peppers, garlic, and bittersweet Gorgonzola. The kids turned up their noses at the Gorgonzola and held out for a big honking cinnamon roll, its football-size swirl encasing what I always imagined was at least a stick of melted butter. One of the kids played on my son’s soccer team. He was still wearing his lime green jersey from their early morning practice.

My wife was reading her book of the week while I sat, sipped, and idly eyed a red and black Honda motorcycle parked at the top of the driveway with a FOR SALE sign leaning against the gargoyle. I think it was Matt's. She chided me but I didn't really have much interest. I had a book that I was then reading for work, but that particular volume didn't get cracked open that day. Instead, I just leaned back, put my feet up on an empty chair, eased my sunglasses into place, and reached for another section of the dark chocolate brownie Diane had just finished slicing. Our kids? I don't recall where they were on that particular Saturday, probably some birthday/sleepover hoohah with friends. We had the afternoon to ourselves. It was delicious and I don't remember feeling a bit guilty. We weren't mining coal, you know.

P.S. Best of luck to Matt at the Inn at Cedar Falls. Yet another reason to venture out into the Hocking Hills!