What Dining Out Looks Like in a COVID-19 NC

Monday, March 16, 2020

It’s 7:30 a.m. and I’m sitting in Laguardia Airport. 

Bojo checks in via text message, telling me tales of an empty Lincoln Tunnel on her commute from Hoboken to Penn Station. I tell her it’s eerily quiet here in Terminal D — especially more so for a Monday at this hour. 

I had only been home in New York City for three full days, returning from California the Thursday prior. Having just been in Los Angeles, Napa, and San Francisco — coupled with a return flight with approximately 20 people on board, including crew — I knew I needed to flee the scene.

So I booked a flight to Raleigh — for a mere $150 round trip, mind you — where I would pick up my car from my folks and head due East to the North Carolina coast, thinking I would return home to a safer city in just two weeks. 

Tuesday, May 5, 2020

I’ve been living on the island for 50 days now with my comrade, BH. (He, too, fled New York on March 16, rerouting his flight from Savannah to Raleigh when he realized he couldn’t stay with his parents who were deemed at-risk.) 

Today would mark the first day in which we would participate in the very elusive curbside pickup. It’s Cinco de Mayo, so we opt for one of Wilmington’s local haunts, K38, located a short five miles down the road. My best friend and his wife would be in attendance as well — sans child — for a night of revelry, hair cutting, and piñata smashing. We order chips, guacamole, queso, salsa, quesadillas, and burritos. The food was good, albeit not as good as one would expect — the 15 minute transport left for a salad to get a bit soggy, and the queso was certainly not as melty as it would be from coming right out of the kitchen. 

Regardless, a merry time was had by all. (The same cannot be said for the piñata that was destroyed with a French rolling pin.) 

Wednesday, May 6, 2020

Thanks to my slight hangover, I wake up sad. 

I miss the act of dining in a restaurant.

I’m officially in a cooking rut. I’ve been eating kale salad grain bowls, various pastas, and pantry nachos for days and nights on end.

I’ve made pizza. Pulled pork. Risotto. Lentils. Soups of all types. Three batches of granola. Caesar dressing. Buffalo wing dip. Barbecue wing dip. (Both of those, twice.) Bolognese. Vegetarian Bolognese for BH. Mashed potatoes. Spiedies. Tomato galette, multiple times over. Shepherd’s pie. Bomb-ass eggplant Parmesan. (Making a note that I should do that again.) Gnocchi with brown butter and sage. Mac and cheese with jalapeños. 

I have no will to cook another meal — I now despise the thought of cooking. 

Saturday, May 9, 2020

I make the drive to Raleigh to surprise my mother for Mother’s Day. North Carolina is now in Phase 1, which means retail is open at 50 percent capacity, childcare is open, outdoor gatherings of 10 people or less are allowed, and state parks and trails are open to the masses. 

Excited to switch up my run game, I hit some trails in North Raleigh. My Garmin picks up zero satellites, but I don’t care — my legs are positively ecstatic by the change in terrain. When I see couples or families approaching, I dart off the trail, completely devoid of common sense regarding any snakes or ticks in the area. 

My seasonal allergies are on fire. I stop to wipe my eyes quite a few times so I can properly see through my Goodrs. 

I somehow miss an exposed root and completely eat shit. My hands catch my fall as I slide through the dirt and gravel. I notice that my watch, too, ate shit, and is now graced with a shattered face. I stand up and see that i have gashes in both of my knees. I catch my breath, grab any ounce of dignity I have left, and return to my car. 

What a shitty performance. 

There’s only one thing to do now: order my favorite nachos in all of the City of Oaks. 

So I head to Raleigh Times Bar on Hargett Street for curbside pickup. The nachos here are generously topped with Cheddar and jack cheeses, pico de gallo, sour cream, guacamole, jalapeños, and smoky pulled pork from their sister restaurant, The Pit. My food order is delivered to my car by a friendly server who carefully plops the bag onto my front seat. 

I’m now on my way to Knightdale to have an alfresco socially distant lunch with my pals, Corey and Lindsay. As I’ve had these nachos more times than I’d like to admit, I’m not too concerned with how they’ll fare after a 10-minute drive. We set up shop on the back deck. I’m now voraciously hungry and need immediate sustenance. Though my nachos are now lukewarm, they do the trick — the pulled pork is sublimely tender and the jalapeños are spicy enough to give me the hiccups, a new milestone for me. 

I bid my friends adieu and am on to my next and final destination for the evening, SB’s. Our quarantine slumber party plan was simple: partake in wine on the back deck, order curbside from Crawford & Son, and watch several hours of tv before falling asleep. True to form, we ordered several items off the curbside menu, including two salads, braised beef cheeks, whole grain risotto, and pork ribs with creamed corn.

When I call in my order, I’m asked for the model and year of my car. I’m pleasantly surprised and promptly say, “Smart.” At 6:15 p.m. on the nose, our order is ready. Due to popular demand, there are several cars awaiting their curbside orders out front. My crew and I make two loops around Person Street before finding a parking spot. Within moments of parking, a young gentleman walks up to my car with a mask on and asks for my name. All of our food arrives within one bag and it’s piping hot. Thankfully, we only have a one-mile drive back to SB’s.

My hopes for this meal are exceedingly high — I’ve had the pleasure of working with chef Crawford in the past and know his style of cuisine very well. We each make a plate sampling every item we ordered. I dove head first into the bibb salad with buttermilk dressing and take a sigh. I wonder when the last time I had a salad this good. 

“Y’all, that corn, though,” proclaims Kaitlyn. Completely excited, I take a heaping spoonful of creamed corn and a piece of the rib. For a brief moment, I’ve forgotten that I’m at a friend’s house. The flavors are spot on and I’m wondering what the hell we’re eating. Even the risotto — something that can take a gnarly turn if cooked too long — was nothing short of exceptional. 

Sunday, May 10, 2020

I wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and decide to hit the greenways of downtown Raleigh. During my five-mile jaunt, I contemplate what takeout I’m going to surprise my mother with for her special day. I arrive home and go over the menus with SB and weigh my options. We both agreed to get a smattering of dishes from one of my mom’s favorites, Taverna Agora. 

I call in my order and am instructed that everything will be ready in 20 minutes. When I arrive, there’s a table set up at the front door featuring menus, bottles of wine, hand sanitizer, and a sign that says a Taverna Agora employee will be assisting patrons. For whatever reason, my mind cuts to the scene in A Charlie Brown Christmas where Lucy plays psychiatrist. 

While I’m waiting, another customer strolled up behind me. He’s wearing a mask, politely waves, and stays a solid six feet away from me. We chat a bit, discussing Mother’s Day plans and “the weird times.” I think to myself why anyone in their right mind would be intentionally rude to strangers during COVID-19. 

My order is ready and I snag a bottle of Chardonnay — they’re selling for a reduced price, after all. I wave goodbye to my new friend and make the 15-minute trek to my folks’ house in Cary. I can smell lamb and oregano in my back seat, and hope that our food is just as fresh when it lands on our back deck table. 

I quietly park my car in the cul-de-sac, text my dad, walk around the house to the back deck, and start laying out the food. My mom walks out proud and happy, proclaiming that she knew I was coming when I hadn’t called her earlier that morning to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day. Though my surprise plan was foiled, I laid out our Greek feast of spanikopita, pastitsio, pork and gyro skewers, and a trio of spreads. The pita is still warm in its foil pouch, the spanikopita flaky, and the pastitsio surprisingly held up the journey from Raleigh to Cary. We call my brother and sister-in-law and put them on speaker phone for our COVID-style family lunch. Mom’s happy, even though times, they are a-changin’. 

Tuesday, May 19, 2020

North Carolina is now officially in Phase II, which means many local restaurants could finally reopen for dine-in service on Monday, May 25. 

Vivian Howard and the team at Benny’s Big Time announce they’re reopening for curbside pickup and thus slinging their glorious pies. 

Excitement grows. 

Thursday, May 28, 2020

BH and I are still not on the dine-in bandwagon, but we do finally order curbside from Benny’s. 

I parallel-park my car on Greenfield Street, and notice the group of young twenty-somethings at Block Taco across the way. They’re playing their cards safe, ordering with masks on and enjoying curbside adult beverages while staying several feet away from other bystanders. 

I call Benny’s to inform them of my arrival. 

No one picks up. 

I’m 20 minutes early, so I sit in my car and listen to music while aimlessly scrolling through Instagram. 

At promptly 6:00 p.m. — my destined pickup time — I receive a text. 

“Your Benny’s order is ready at the front. Please pick up your food inside the breezeway. Thank you!” 

I head to the entrance and notice a sign on the front door stating that only one customer is allowed to enter the vestibule at a time. Currently, there’s another patron waiting for his takeout order. He’s wearing a mask. He realizes that I’m the person picking up the to-go order sitting a few feet away from him and promptly exits the vestibule. He holds the door open for me. What a gentleman.

I grab my order and signal the man in the open kitchen making pies that I’m leaving a cash tip. He arrives — with a mask — and says that my tip is far too generous. I explain that it’s the very least I can do to help out the service industry in times like these. 

I make the 25-minute drive back home and throw the pizza in the oven for a quick reheat. BH and I enjoy our meal of fried Brussels sprouts and the “Baby Shroomer” pizza, which was heavily topped with shiitake, cremini, and oyster mushrooms, mozzarella, red pepper flakes, sage, garlic, and finished with Parmesan cream, on the front porch. 

The entire order is a satisfying success for two displaced New Yorkers in desperate need of a good slice. 

Friday, May 29, 2020

I daydream about ponying up to a bar, ordering a glass of wine, and chatting up the bartender. 

I grow depressed, realizing this is not happening anytime soon. 

Thursday, June 4, 2020

It’s been 79 days since we arrived to North Carolina. 

I now have a second roommate, Hutch, who finally fled Astoria just two days before. 

BH and I both hit a low point. It had become crystal clear — we needed to go to a restaurant. We needed the act of dining out. 

I laid out some options for my comrades, all of which had ample outdoor seating for social distancing. 

The choice had been made: we were to have our first dining out experience of quarantine at Wrightsville Beach Brewery. 

There’s a live music act performing in the beer garden. Though humid, it was a perfectly acceptable night for outdoor fun. 

My sister of sorts, Lexie, joins us on our quest. We meet her in the parking lot and make our way to the entrance. Prior to entering, we mask up. Aside from the employees at Wrightsville Beach Brewery, we are the only people partaking in proper precautions. 

There’s a Purell station at the front door. Bar stools have been removed and tables have been spaced out. Plexiglass lines the bar dotted with menus splayed out for diners. Fully delighted — albeit nervous as hell — my friends and I order a round of drinks. And then we order food. Hutch and I opt for shrimp po’boys with curly fries while Lexie orders the fried chicken sandwich and Brian a made-to-order pizza. We’re told to enjoy our round of drinks outdoors and check back on our food order in 20 minutes or so. 

We stand in a circle in the parking lot like we’re about to play a rousing game of hacky sack. I feel strange. 

Was this going to be our new norm? Drinking wine in a restaurant parking lot? 

Our food is ready. We get another round and head to the garden. There’s one last picnic table for the taking. Technically it’s not up for grabs as there’s an open rusty nail that’s been covered with a scrap piece of plywood. But we’re in COVID times, so who the fuck cares? 

The po’boy is huge — I give it the proper hearty smush it needs so I can get a proper first bite. The bread is reminiscent of the very best New Orleans has to offer, with a squishy interior and a slightly crunchy exterior, and the shrimp is super light and properly cooked. To be honest, I wish I had more remoulade. 

There is no stopping me — I house my po’boy. 

Dazed, we sit back and listen to the tunes of local artist, Mike Blair. He plays a cover of Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature.” He doesn’t hit the high notes we were hoping he would. 

But we successfully ate dinner out of the house. And even if this means that I’ll be ordering food and booze with a mask and eating out with the same people over and over for the foreseeable future, I’ll call it a win.