Local Roots Restaurant Review: Artistry Upon the Table

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David Hungate

Local Roots Cheese Plate

Fresh blueberries and a spice-crumb mixture anchor the cheese plate.

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David Hungate

Local Roots Bar

When one beer runs out, a different type replaces it, guaranteeing new choices.

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David Hungate

Local Roots Cheese Plate

The cheese plate offers a range of regional cheeses, from a soft herb-infused ricotta to a bold bleu.

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David Hungate

Local Roots Cheese Plate

Fresh blueberries and a spice-crumb mixture anchor the cheese plate.

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David Hungate

Local Roots Cheese Plate

The cheese plate offers a range of regional cheeses, from a soft herb-infused ricotta to a bold bleu.

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David Hungate

Local Roots Cheese Plate

The cheese plate offers a range of regional cheeses, from a soft herb-infused ricotta to a bold bleu.

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David Hungate

Local Roots Cheese Plate

The cheese plate offers a range of regional cheeses, from a soft herb-infused ricotta to a bold bleu.

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David Hungate

Local Roots pickled vegetables

Pickled vegetables sit on a shelf by the kitchen.

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David Hungate

Local Roots Bathroom Doors

Roosters and hens decorate the bathroom doors.

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David Hungate

Local Roots Wood-fired Oven

The wood-fired oven adds a unique flavor to many dishes.

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When I got the good news, I flew upstairs like a shot to tell my wife. It seemed my editor had finally decided to send me to a restaurant in one of our favorite neighborhoods: Roanoke’s Grandin Village.

“It’s about time!” she gasped. “The patty melt at the Community Inn is to die for!”

Alas, ‘twas not to be. The assignment was actually Local Roots, a restaurant that I’d passed on the way to the Grandin Theater any number of times, and always meant to check out. Local Roots is locally owned, and billing itself as a “farm-to-table restaurant,” it seemed to be the kind of place that would serve locally grown food. And since we like to do whatever we can to support the local guy, this seemed like a cool way to kill two delicious birds with one stone. So we set out for Grandin Road, and to her credit, she barely grumbled about missing out on the patty melt at all.

When we walked in, after passing a pair of happy-looking couples at café tables on the sidewalk (always a good sign), the manager greeted us like old friends, thanked us for coming in with a depth of sincerity that should have sounded sarcastic but didn’t, and led us to our table with a flourish of fully congenial hospitality.

It’s a warm-looking room, and it was abuzz with a good neighborhoody kind of activity. The building boasts gorgeous exposed brick and pressed-tin ceilings, and the bits of the room that aren’t made of reclaimed and lightly stained wood are painted in inviting earth tones. Along the half-wall leading past the kitchen, there’s a row of mason jars filled with sorghum, green beans, honey and pickled peppers, and above the bar, there’s a row of beer tap handles boasting of the array of craft beers that have graced the place. Wholesome food plus craft beer equals excited food guy.

At first, I’ll confess to having been a bit disappointed by the apparent dearth of selections on the menu that evening. Six items apiece on the appetizer and main-course menus. But trust me when I say that it started to make sense when it all got to the table. The complexity and creativity of the dishes more than made up for any paucity on the bill of fare.

Case in point: We had each ordered an appetizer, but also wanted to try the Artisanal Cheese Plate & Accompaniments. As we munched on a pair of dense, yeasty rolls that I could dine on every day forever, our waitress – a witty, generous, knowledgeable lady named Liz – asked us whether we’d prefer to have the cheese plate or the appetizers first. Being pretty easygoing diners, we told her that it would be fine to bring it all at once. “Hmm,” she replied, “I’ll bring the cheese first.”  

In my house, “Cheese & Accompaniments” means you get crackers with your cheese. If we’re really puttin’ on the dog, maybe toothpicks and cocktail napkins.

The thing Liz brought to our table looked like the palette used by the craziest painter in the world.

It was a World-Bank-Occupy-Farmville riot of colors, textures, and flavors on a great big plate. For each of the five cheeses presented to us, there were at least three other food items, each selected to pair with one of the cheeses. Crushed nuts, purees, sliced fruit… And a number of things which beggared belief or identification. A mound of black-with-a-hint-of-red cubes that looked for all the world like blushing obsidian turned out to be hibiscus gelatin.

This is as good a time as any to mention the bathroom thing. I’m not usually a big fan of the whole “clever gender restroom demarcation sign” thing. Gulls and Bouys, Molls and Gangsters… when I’m feeling an urgent call, I don’t think I should have to be decrypting anything. But this one was kinda fun.

I wandered back to the back of the restaurant and found a pair of doors, each with a painted fowl guardian. The first one was a chicken. The second one was also a chicken. I caught up with Liz:  “Hey, Liz, am I a chicken, or am I a chicken?” She looked at me with kind pity and said, “You’re a rooster. Go in that one.”

What am I, a botanist?

After my wife and I had marveled our way through the cheese plate like a couple of rubes in Cheesetown (“This has changed my whole worldview about pimento cheese,” she said), Liz brought our appetizers. My wife had opted for the Flavors of Spring Soup, a chilled blend of asparagus, broccoli, and whey. Liz poured it perfectly from a tureen over fennel and breadcrumbs in a stately soup ceremony worthy of an episode of “Downton Abbey.” The freshness of the vegetables sang forth out of the bowl, and my wife suggested that it would be a perfect lunch after a long walk on a hot day.

I had opted for the Town Dock Scallops, served with a bourbon glaze and plated with apple slices and Tennessee bacon. Because, hey, bourbon and bacon. I’m only human. They were even more amazing than the soup; the smokiness of the bacon was a sultry counterpoint to the sweetness of the scallops and the apples.

You hate to leave good company, but before long it was time to say goodbye to the starters and move along to the main event. My wife had continued her vegetarian (more or less) theme of the evening with the Spring Risotto, which featured chevre cheese from Curtin’s Dairy in Rocky Mount, slow-poached egg, peas and crimini mushrooms. So rich and warm-tasting, and leavened with a fine earthy flavor from the mushrooms.

My inner carnivore, always pretty close to the surface, compelled me to order the duck breast over steel-cut oats, preserved cherries, cucumbers and a sweet tea demi-glace. If eating oatmeal was always like this, we wouldn’t need Wilford Brimley to bully us into doing it. The tiny cucumbers had a juicy snap that contrasted nicely with the rich flavor of the duck (which had a generous layer of marbling to keep it moist and flavorful).

Though we tried our best, we couldn’t finish, and Liz was kind enough to box up our leftovers, keeping them safe in the kitchen so they wouldn’t be in our way during the Dessert Negotiations Summit. During these momentous talks, my wife and I had agreed in good faith that I would have the malted ice cream with chocolate and she would have the strawberry parfait with white chocolate. It was peace in our time. But when Liz explained that the ice cream had been replaced by the chef with what she described as a “deconstructed Snickers bar,” all diplomacy was off.

“I’ll have that,” my wife dictated. “My husband would love the parfait.” So it goes. It’s hard to bemoan my fate, though. First, she shares, and second, both were fantastic. We took our time, swapping plates back and forth and sipping coffee until it was time to take our leave.

A few days later, I ducked back in to chat with owner Diane Elliot, who bought the business from her son in 2009. Elliot brings an intense focus on the concept of sustainable, traditionally grown food from local sources to her restaurant, paired with a genuine ethic of hospitality. She is passionate about spreading the message of eating in a way that sustains the Earth, but tempers her enthusiasm with the understanding that to run a business the food has to be good to eat. And though she believes that we’re meant to eat food that’s grown where we live, she realizes that you can’t grow coffee on Bent Mountain.

She explains her philosophy in these terms: “I’m a product of the ‘60s. I wasn’t a hippie, but I took note of everything that was going on, ‘back-to-the-land,’ and I read a lot about it. It made sense to live organically.”

And for Elliot, it’s not just lip service. Local Roots has four local gardens to grow produce for the restaurant.

“You honor the Earth, and that honors all upon it,” she told me. If you can live up to that ethic and still cook food that tastes as good as a CI patty melt, you’re doing something right.