Southern comfort in Kentucky

By bbqandbourbon on Jul 17, 2010 in Featured, Kentucky Bourbon

This article titled “Southern comfort in Kentucky” was written by Tim Bryan, for The Guardian on Friday 2nd July 2010 23.05 UTC

It’s a thirsty, two-hour drive on wide empty roads, through the rolling bluegrass hills and horse farms around Lexington, through the genteel pioneer town of Harrodsburg, past the civil war battlefield of Perryville, then south-west to Mammoth Caves national park, home to the world’s biggest cave system. That’s where I’ve booked a clapboard cottage and I’m looking forward to a few beers, given that I’m here in the middle of a record 31C spring heatwave.

There’s a tiny problem. The state park doesn’t sell alcohol. It’s dry.

“Ah, where’s the nearest bar?”

“This whole county is dry, sir. But at Bowling Green, near the Tennessee border, there’s a liquor store.”

It’s 30 miles south, a long way at home but not in America. It’s different.

“Welcome to the south, sir,” smirks the man at the liquor store when I arrive. “Reckon a man can’t eat without a beer.”

Did I need my Kentucky Ale so badly? Yes, siree; I’m on holiday, on a 10-day tour, 1,000 miles of easy driving through the home of Colonel Sanders, of bourbon and horses, of bluegrass music and hillbillies; visiting battlefields and distilleries, chic hotels and B&Bs in old jails; and taking in the wonders: the Niagara of the south at Cumberland Falls, the catfish-filled lakes, the mountains and, surprisingly, the people.

Kentucky is full of surprises. It should be: it’s somewhat off the radar for foreign tourists, but it’s a great way to see the hidden, real America.

Bourbon is a major draw. About 95% of it is made in Kentucky, at distilleries such as the family-owned Heaven Hill, near Bardstown, the bourbon epicentre, open for tastings. Earlier in the week I was staying at the local Jailer’s Inn, a B&B in the old jail, with walls a foot thick and cells with barred doors for rooms. Breakfast is taken alfresco, by the old gallows.

Bardstown is also the home of the Chapeze House, where “Colonel” Masters and his wife, Margaret Sue, offer southern cooking lessons and bourbon tastings. The affable colonel – he’s more of an uncle type – is a TV regular, teaching Americans how to sniff bourbon or make a mint julep, drink of choice at the Kentucky Derby (sprig of mint, cane sugar, water, bourbon).

Lexington is the horse capital. Everyone seems to be in the industry: jockeys, trainers, vets, breeders. It’s also home to Keeneland, perhaps America’s Ascot – albeit without the hats – host to the world’s largest horse auctions, and spring and autumn race meetings. It’s a family affair, very child-friendly, although the same can’t be said for the plethora of bets: I get confused by “show” and “place”, and ignore “trifectas” and “superfectas”, but somehow still manage to win .

For a university city of nearly 300,000 people, Lexington has a very small downtown: a few skyscrapers surrounded by quaint Victorian brick-and-board homes, all with porches. The bars here, all within a block or two of my hotel, the Gratz Park Inn, are lots of fun on race weekends. The parties at Mia’s (120 South Upper Street; great for brunch), the Tap Room (135 North Broadway Road; think Cheers) or Molly Brooke’s (109 North Limestone Street; friendly Irish) go on till 2am, so I limber up with a sirloin patty burger and fries (.95) at the indie-aura Sidebar Grill (147 N Limestone).

The countryside around Lexington and the state capital, Frankfort, is stunning, making driving a joy, especially in spring. The undulating green hills are carved up by the horse farms, bounded by drystone walls or white picket fences, and dotted with old wooden barns, sentried by blossoming tulip trees, flowering cherry trees or red dogwoods. Enthroned in the middle of each are the mansions of the Kentucky colonels – titles bestowed for military service during the American Revolution – whose sweeping verandahs prompt some serious rubbernecking. Old Frankfort Pike is the best scenic drive, boasting Wallace Station, an organic diner in an old railway station that serves giant sandwiches using freshly baked bread, and local drinks such as Ale-8-One, a fruity ginger beer.

This rural idyll gradually meets urban chic a 90-minute drive west along the old Shelbyville road, past Valhalla golf club and some of the hugest houses I’ve ever seen: new condo-clusters with garages for six cars. I spot one named Notting Hill.

Louisville, a city of a million people abutting Indiana on the vast Ohio river, is fast regenerating and gaining a reputation for its art, restaurant and bar scene. It’s weird – in a good way. Low-key, laid back, with a smalltown feel and very friendly folk, it’s known for its chain-free centre and Victorian architecture.

I miss the two-minute Kentucky Derby (1 May) at the Churchill Downs track, and the two-week city-wide party it spawns, but I do get to stay at the 21C Museum Hotel, last year voted America’s best by readers of Condé Nast Traveller. Valet parking costs a night so I use the car park next door (). The hotel is modern, swanky and funky – full of contemporary photography, installations and paintings. Set on West Main Street, it’s right by Museum Row (once Whiskey Row, before prohibition) and the Muhammad Ali Centre, a must-visit shrine to the boxing legend.

Classic joints nearby include the five-diamond (think Michelin star) Seelbach Hotel, mentioned in The Great Gatsby, and where Al Capone ate (using a secret door to evade the cops).

Old Louisville hosts whole districts of beautiful Victorian townhouses and mansions, with more picturesque porched homes in the Highlands district. In less salubrious Butchertown and Germantown you’ll find small, detached “shotgun” homes built from the end of the American civil war up to the 20s. They comprise three or more rooms with no hallway, and the name derives from the idea that you could fire a shotgun through the letterbox into the garden without hitting a wall, as the front and back doors line up. There are also “camelbacks” (shotguns with a second storey at the rear of the house) and “double-barrel shotguns” (semi-detached).

Indie bookshops, bars and boutiques abound on the Bardstown Road and Barret Avenue, an alternative nexus. The best vintage store is Nitty Gritty (996 Barret Avenue), where I just manage to resist a light blue 70s prom tuxedo (). There’s also the Oprah-featured Leatherhead (1601 Bardstown Road), making leather goods and whips to order: Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp are customers, apparently.

Wherever you drive (it’s best to drive in Louisville; until the downtown fully blossoms, its attractions are rather scattered), strangers smile and say “hello”. It’s enjoyably unnerving, and also infectious.

Kentucky is where north meets south, a pleasant cross between northern sensibilities and southern hospitality. Historically and geographically, it isn’t quite either. It stretches 400 miles from east to west, a six-hour drive, bounded by Ohio, Indiana and Illinois to the north, Missouri, Tennessee and Virginia to the south. The locals prefer “gateway to the south” – Kentucky is more Sea Biscuit than Mississippi Burning, although it gets humid in summer, hence the porches.

Food is pretty southern, too: grits, fried catfish, smoked country ham, hickory barbecues, skillet-fried cornbread, burgoo stew (now with mutton rather than squirrel). And, yes, fried chicken, either the delicious homecooked version at Kurtz’s, in Bardstown, or KFC. Now, I’m no KFC fan, but when you pass the first ever link in the chain – still Sanders Cafe – near Cumberland Falls at Corbin, in the mountains, you have to pop in, at least to check out its small museum.

Kentucky’s other famous export is bluegrass – the foot-stomping, banjo and fiddle-led country offshoot – spawned by Scots-Irish ancestors who settled in the Appalachians, home of the “hillbillies”, where folk care less than the colonels about appearances and park rusting cars on their lawns. The town of Hazard (yes, the Dukes of Hazzard) is a short drive from the Falls. Bluegrass on the radio is the perfect soundtrack for driving here.

There’s one last thing you notice on the drive: the roadkill. Every few hundred yards there’s a victim. Sadly, you get used to it: squirrels, raccoons, possums, coyotes, deer. But look out for skunks, the stench of which will permeate the car for five malodorous minutes with windows and sunroof open. They alone are enough to drive you to drink.