In a land far, far away, where huge silver birds fly overhead and big-name chain restaurants, convenience stores, and gas stations line the highway that runs through the madness of the Mid Cities, lies Silver Fox. Okay, so it’s really not that far—it’s only Grapevine—and you can’t hear the planes landing at DFW. However, don’t let the cozy interior fool you. This restaurant is a prototype for a chain. Come to think of it, Silver Vixen might be more appropriate name, because this mid-priced steakhouse is a little sister to III Forks. But Silver Fox is a smaller, sleeker, and sexier version of her boisterous big brother. The ambience is clubby in a comfortably British way, with dimly lit corners, plenty of dark polished wood, and upholstered fabric on the walls.
In the compact, intimate dining room, we settled into a table in a railway-carriage-style private dining room where a large party was partying. Our waiter, sensing our overperusal of the wine list highlighted with the usual Jordan and Silver Oak Cabernets, sent over the wine manager, who steered us to a mid-priced ($55) Pinot Noir.
The III Forks salad remains one of the best in town, and Silver Fox’s version of the light, refreshingly chilled mixed-green salad with molasses vinaigrette, slices of crisp green apples, and a judicious sprinkling of Maytag Bleu is served, as all salads should be, on a cold plate. I prefer to forget the almost inedible beef croustade—small, overcooked, and terribly salty tenderloin bits on toast points—and remember the warm crunchy sourdough bread that I slathered with room-temperature sweet butter.
We were delighted to find on the list of wet-aged USDA Prime steaks a delicious, intensely flavorful end-cut sirloin that, with potatoes and sugar snap peas, ran only $18.50. We passed on ordering the 50-ounce (we’re not kidding!) portion of what we were told was fresh Australian lobster and settled for the more petite 12-ouncer. I ordered the crustacean split and grilled rather than steamed and broiled as is the convention with the frozen variety. It arrived steamed and broiled. Nonetheless it was tender, very sweet, and completely enjoyable. Side dishes were stellar—fresh spinach and hash browns in particular. We shared a Bananas Foxter—rich Kahlua- and butter-sautéed bananas in a cookie shell—and were then sent on our very merry way with the assistance of a generous glass of “The Juice,” a signature Irish cream post-dinner cocktail inspired by Mr. Steak himself, Dale Wamstad, the gentle giant (along with the rest of Consolidated Restaurant Co.) behind this concept. A nice touch for any neighborhood hangout. 1235 William D. Tate Ave., Grapevine. 817-329-6995. $$. —Robert Fox
Natchez, Mississippi
Discover Monmouth Plantation, one of the country’s most romantic B&Bs.
Just call me Scarlett for I have been seduced by the slow, Southern ways of Natchez, a tiny town perched high atop the steep Mississippi River bluffs. I was skeptical when I heard that one of the most romantic bed-and-breakfasts in the country—Monmouth Plantation—was in a state I once considered only a pit stop on the way to Destin, Fla.
But after a long, luxurious weekend at Monmouth, Destin is now the pit stop. My bewitchment began as I turned our car into the drive and gazed upon the huge trees dripping with moss in front of the main house. I knew we were headed into a different world, and the employees and accommodations at this real-life Tara confirmed it.
Monmouth dates back to 1818—one of more than 500 historic structures in Natchez—but it was remodeled in 1854 in the Greek Revival style that stands today. Current owners Ron and Lani Riches bought the house in 1978 and began the painstaking job of refurbishing and expanding the property, which now includes 30 guest rooms. The end result of their hard work is equal parts pretty and pure, from the wisteria-covered pergola in the elaborate garden to the 19th-century furniture attributed to Prudent Mallard to the two Baccarat gasoliers in the double parlor.
Our suite at Quitman’s Retreat was decked out in 19th-century finery, complete with two cream-colored love seats, a marble-topped coffee table, and a king-sized four-poster bed, where we curled up with a glass of champagne on our first night. But the bathroom was all 21st century, down to the Jacuzzi tub. We also had a private back porch perfect for sipping cocktails at sundown or reading a book on a sunny afternoon. For a tranquil oasis, head to the front of the property and lounge in the hammock overlooking the pond or play a lazy game of croquet in the garden.
The dining experience is also top-rate, thanks to Chef de Cuisine Regina Charboneau, a Natchez native. Dinner is served at 7:30 p.m. (during Spring Pilgrimage, it’s served at 6 and 8 p.m.), and cocktails and hors d’oeuvres are offered on the verandah one hour before dinner. The staff calls you by name and escorts you to the elegant dining room, where you can dine at a private table or at the main table set for six couples. We chose the latter and became fast friends with our dining companions, most of whom were from Louisiana.
A glorious sterling centerpiece full of stargazer lilies gave off the most heavenly fragrance as we dined on a five-course dinner: rich corn and crawfish bisque; delicate spinach topped with hard-boiled egg and mandarin orange; a main course of sea bass, prime rib, or pork (don’t pass on the pork if it’s on the menu du jour); and a truly Southern sweet potato crisp for dessert. The chef selects wine for you based on your main course, and your glass is never empty. By the time the meal is complete, you’ll be ready for a dip in the Jacuzzi tub and a good night’s sleep.
Early morning daylight brings an authentic Southern breakfast served in Ms. Marguerite’s Garden Room, complete with scrambled eggs, sugar-cured bacon and ham, stone-ground grits, and the most heavenly—and tiny—homemade biscuits.
As I pushed away from the table, I couldn’t help but wonder how Miss Scarlett kept her 18-inch waistline.
—Jennifer Chininis
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Santa Fe, New Mexico
The ultimate getaway for gallery lovers, shoppers, and dining enthusiasts.
If you’re like me, your favorite vacation activities, unless you’re lying on a beach with a frosty beverage in hand, are dining, shopping, and art appreciation. Lucky for us, Santa Fe, N.M., one of the coolest towns in the United States, is close enough for a weekend escape.
We took the scenic route to Santa Fe from the airport in Albuquerque, but the extra time on the road is worth a stop in Madrid, a town so small that if you blink, you will miss it. Grab a Border Mocha (with cinnamon, vanilla, and almond) at Java Junction and browse Primitiva for kitschy magnets or an armoire for your bedroom. Then stop by the Gifted Hands Gallery for Sharon Murphy Harrison’s handmade raku pottery. Our favorites were the funny face fish.
Back on the road we arrived at La Fonda in less than half an hour. Today there are plenty of glitzy hotels in town, but the La Fonda, once full of movie stars and oil barons, is conveniently located on the square and our sentimental choice. La Fonda is bustling with activity all day, thanks to its location, location, location, not to mention the bevy of shops inside the hotel lobby. If you’re taking the family, this is the place to stay. However, if you prefer something more romantic, book a room at the Inn of the Anasazi. You’ll get a four-poster bed and gas-lit fireplaces under a traditional ceiling of vigas and latillas.
After a quick lunch at La Plazuela, the lovely indoor courtyard restaurant in the La Fonda lobby, we set out to shop Santa Fe. First stop: Canyon Road. Even if you’re not in the market for, say, a larger-than-life-sized work of linear expressionist Jean-Claude Gaugy, Canyon Road is a must-see for shopaholics and art lovers alike. Don’t miss the whimsical, painted pine furniture at Panache or the vast collection of StoryPeople prints, cards, and sculpture by Brian Andreas at Off the Wall.
Our first night we dined in style at the Anasazi Restaurant. Complimentary sun-dried tomato toast spread with pesto was a lovely hint of what was to come: zesty, grilled corn tortilla and lime soup, organic field greens with citrus vinaigrette, and grilled salmon herbed buerre blanc with lemon mashed potatoes. Add to that two glasses of wine and we were ready for bed by 10 p.m.
The next morning we ate breakfast in La Fonda’s greatest asset: the French cafe, which sells the best pain aux raisins I’ve had since my last visit to Paris. We grabbed a café au lait to go, then headed to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. Even if you are not a fan of the prolific American artist, you will appreciate the intimate space, which houses the largest permanent collection of her work, as well as some amazing portraits of the artist.
Our last night, we dined at Cafe Pasqual’s, a tiny (read: 50 seats) restaurant festively decorated with hand-painted Mexican tiles and colorful murals. Though it’s famous for breakfast (try the chorizo burrito), dinner is unforgettable. Start with the hearts of romaine with Maytag blue cheese, beet, and roasted chile pecans, followed by the decadent tacos al diablo filled with tender beef, roasted jalapeño, and fresh guacamole. For an entrée, three of us feasted on the oven-roasted pork loin chop with cream gravy, fried green tomatoes, fresh corn torte, and sautéed spinach with raisins. On the way out, I bought a funky t-shirt. I wanted to remember this place. Much like Santa Fe.
—J.C.
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The remodeled Driskill Hotel is just
the spot for a romantic rendezvous.
Because my husband and I are childfree, we can whisk away for a romantic rendezvous without much fuss. In fact, we do so much “whisking” that it’s become an office joke that one of our hobbies is honeymooning.
We’ve always believed that the well-known, metropolitan escapes were predictable and overpriced options until a friend we trust recommended that we check out the newly refurbished Driskill Hotel in Austin. (When she mentioned that Jeff Trigger left the Mansion to manage the Driskill, we were convinced.)
I was skeptical that a century-old hotel located in the thick of Austin’s downtown clubs and restaurants could offer serenity and romance. But from the moment we entered the Driskill’s beautiful marble lobby with the opulent stained-glass dome ceiling, we were singing a different tune.
Our large and luxurious room—with a pillow-laden, king-sized bed and beautiful, black marble bathroom—was one of 66 historical guest rooms located in the original hotel building. Another 110 rooms were added when the Driskill Tower was built in 1929.
After freshening up, we headed to the famed Driskill Grill for a veritable feast. We opted to dress for dinner and celebrate our “honeymoon” by indulging in the chef’s sampling of the menu and extensive wine list.
From Executive Chef David Bull’s sea scallop starter to his specialty barbequed duck burritos to the caramelized bread pudding, the service was attentive but unobtrusive. And even though the room was full, we never felt as though we had an audience while we flirted with each other.
The next morning, after fortifying ourselves with Chef Bull’s take on biscuits and gravy, we explored Sixth Street. We popped in and out of bookstores, stationers, and funky art galleries. We slipped into Jazz for a quick and delicious Cajun lunch of po’ boys. But Sixth Street’s nightlife would have to wait because we had a date back at the hotel for an in-room massage for each of us, thanks to the suggestion of the concierge.
When we explained to our masseuse Cindy that we were on a second honeymoon of sorts, she pulled out all the stops, concocting a special blend of aromatic oils to stimulate romance and harmony. Whether it was Cindy’s choice of essential oils or the live jazz we enjoyed that evening at Speakeasy, we were definitely humming “I’m in the Mood for Love” on the way back to the hotel.
Late Sunday morning, we headed to Stubb’s Bar-B-Q for a little “Old Time Religion” in the form of a Gospel Brunch. We enjoyed the inspirational rhythm-and-blues music of the Sons of Christ. My husband noshed on huevos rancheros, breakfast tacos, and waffles, while I loaded up my plate with over-the-top barbequed chicken, beef, and supremely seasoned vegetables.
After the Gospel Brunch we felt full, happy, and uplifted. As we boarded our flight back to Dallas, we found ourselves humming “Oh Happy Day!”
—Jennifer Dodd
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Marfa, Texas
Art enthusiasts flock to this tiny West Texas ranch town, and for good reason.
Driving down from the Davis Mountains into the flat basin surrounded by the Davis, Guadalupe, and Chinati mountain ranges, Marfa first appears as a green patch on a horizon of brown scrub and blue sky. Then a few Lego-sized buildings start creeping up. When the town finally gets up to adult size, it seems like a typical Texas ranch town.
But the first shop you see on the main street through town is an art gallery. Inside they are exhibiting local artists and selling bumper stickers that read, “WWDJD?” I ask what that means. A pleasant person, who appears to be the gallery director, tells me that it means “What would Donald Judd do?” That sounds vaguely cultish to me, but that may be because I couldn’t care less about who Donald Judd is, much less what he would do.
The next stop across the street is the bookstore. This is not the kind of bookstore you find in a typical Texas ranching town. It is full of expensive, coffee-table art books, and it has a full-fledged coffee bar. I am wearing jeans and cowboy boots. I feel out of place, as if I have just somehow walked through a space warp into the Upper East Side of Manhattan. To confirm the weirdness, the woman at the cash register studiously ignores us and doesn’t smile when she’s forced to acknowledge she has customers. The only thing missing are Yellow Cabs on the streets.
We make up our minds quickly. Good travelers adapt. We call the Cibolo Creek Ranch a mere 32 miles away and make overnight reservations. Within minutes we are on the lonely road south.
But that night we feel guilty. My beloved cousin Rachel, the New York photographer, just bought a place in Marfa. Art lover friends from Chicago and LA have raved about the place. Obviously we missed something. So the next day we head back, and this time, coming up from the south, we spot the Chinati museum complex and, after some hesitation having to do with snotty art people who run bookstores in small Texas ranching towns, we decide to go in.
The Chinati is an old Army camp that is slowly being converted—barracks by barracks—into installations of contemporary art. A minimalist sculptor named Donald Judd discovered Marfa, arguably one of the most minimalist places on earth, at about the same time he got disgusted with the New York art scene. He bought the camp (having done very well, courtesy of the art scene he loathed) and started constructing works appropriate to the landscape around him. It may be fair to say that no works of art since the Renaissance in Florence have so perfectly suited the place where they were created. I was highly skeptical. Then I was stunned. I was moved. I was entranced.
With these bulky, shining aluminum boxes, and concrete pillboxes, and reflecting neon lights, and series of one-letter poems sealed under a glass display taking up one entire building, Judd and his artist-cohorts have taken the bare Texas scrubland and, in a way, sanctified it and made it holy. They have come close to seeing whatever it is that God saw when he first scraped this long plain out of the earth overthrown by volcanoes a billion years ago. A 30-minute tour became three hours. It could have been three days. We only left when we were politely informed they had to close the place.
We drove into town, parked at the bookstore, bought a copy of the New York Times, and sat down at the coffee bar. In Marfa, to be sitting in a coffee bar with the Times while your wife scans through art books and a dust storm blows through town seems perfectly natural. And ever since we came back from Marfa, I find myself asking, at the oddest moments, what would Donald Judd do?
—Wick Allison
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Lufkin, Texas
The best 18 holes in Texas are
just a short drive from Dallas.
The time it takes to drive to Lufkin is less than the time it takes to play a round of golf there. But because you have to drive back, you might as well play two. And because Crown Colony Country Club has about a dozen villas for out-of-town guests, you might as well stay the night and make it a golfing weekend.
The semiprivate country club opened in 1979 and may feel a bit dated, but the course is beautifully maintained and the villas are as comfortable as your friend’s lake house. Our villa was clean, quiet, and less than a nine-iron away from the clubhouse. Each villa has a television to stay in touch with the outside world if you want to, a kitchen to cook in if you feel like it, and a porch to enjoy the great outdoors if you’ve forgotten how.
But Crown Colony Country Club is about the golf, not the villas. For four out of the past five years, the Morning News has voted Crown Colony as the best golf course in Texas and rightly so. Architects Robert Von Hagge and Bruce Devlin designed a gorgeous track through thick trees and around well-placed water. The 6,692-yard course makes for a challenging round of golf, while still being enjoyable.
The course is as difficult mentally as it is physically. If you fly this bunker here, you’ll have a better approach shot to the well-protected green, but if you play it safe, there’s water to contend with. On some holes, the approach shot is key. On others the drive is more meddlesome. The greens are small and well-protected but not impossibly so, and the course really punishes you if—or in my case, when—you miss the green.
The panel of experts at the Morning News ranked the par-three 17th as one of the 18 toughest holes in Texas. No offense to them or their golf games, but I think they overlooked numbers 16, 6, and 3 or any hole where one’s ball might stray from the undulating fairways. The piney forest may be scenic from the tee box, but once your Titleist hooks towards the trees, you might as well grab another from your bag.
The history of East Texas is full of stories about the great timber boom that hit Lufkin from 1890 to 1920, but some golfers may wish the lumberjacks were still out their swinging axes, not five-irons. And while the same could be said of many golf courses, the beauty and tranquility of Crown Colony makes a bogey (or 10) more benign and a round of golf more enjoyable.
—Adam McGill
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