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Graham’s Grille/ The Trading Post
November 17, 2008
By Steve Fox/Lynn Robinson
 Graham’s Grille Sizzles into 2nd Year
While leading lights on the Taos dining scene have changed hands or cut back their operations, Peter and Lesley Fay’s Graham’s Grille is steaming into its second year with food and service as delectable as ever. Having survived six months without a beer and wine license, and then barred from serving liquor outside on their people-watching patio, Graham’s finally got it going with the help of Rep. Bobby Gonzales and Sen. Carlos Cisneros. They kept the loyalty of their early customers and gained a fresh stream of new ones. “Our summer and early Fall have been huge,” said Lesley last week as she talked to me and good friend (to both of us) Seymour Wheelock. One of the most genial and fun-loving dining companions I know, he spent a career in Denver as child-advocate lawyer and now does woodwork in Taos. We had gone early to avoid the dinner rush, but even so, Lesley was in perpetual motion among the tables, greeting old friends and hawking the special, which was turkey tenderloin that night.
Seymour and I sat in the back by the kitchen, hoping for some peace and quiet in which to savor and analyze our meal. “You better give me some good quotes,” I warned him. “Never had anything but good when I’ve eaten here,” he said.
Lesley, who is the chef at Graham’s as well as co-owner, informed us, and all surrounding tables, “The turkey tenderloin is fabulous! I just tasted it!” I waited to let Seymour choose it if he wanted, but secretly exulted when he chose the Lamb Loin with extra mint sauce. While our entrées were prepared, we had some of those tasty fried wheat tortilla chips with red chile dusting. I had a glass of house Chardonnay while Seymour stuck with water. Even in the far west tables by the kitchen, Graham’s has a nice vibe, with its purple and salmon walls and Lesley’s breezy attentiveness. We did move once, due to a spotlight that hit us right in the eyes, which a staffer immediately fixed.
We split a Tijuana Caesar salad with plenty of Romaine hearts covered in grated Parmesan for both of us. I gave my anchovie to Seymour, who loves fish. In fact, we couldn’t finish the salad, and had to have our waiter take away three stalks of Romaine apiece when our entrées came.
The olfactory hit of our dinners was even more titillating than the plate presentations, which were straightforward and classy. The turkey tenderloin was marinated in an apple sauce, brown sugar, and allspice brine overnight, then fire-grilled quickly. The sauce for it was Cranberry Mojo, a name which, in this case, speaks for itself. Where’d Lesley get it? “Oh, just threw it together this evening. It’s lime juice, cinnamon, allspice, jalapeños…let’s see…oh, and cocoa powder.” My all-purpose word for sauces like this is “killer.” The fresh veggies for that night were lightly grilled, smoky asparagus spears that still snapped when you bit them, with beet slices that were dark, naturally sweet not cloying, and still had some firm texture.
Seymour had the same veggies, and the aroma of his extra mint sauce was heady. It was like a light spearmint gravy, not a bit like the tangy and sugary mint jelly my familia used with lamb. We exchanged bites and agreed that both entrées were terrific. His grilled lamb loin slices were tender and pink.
“So, the quotes!” I said.
“Don’t worry,” said Seymour. “Dessert here always unhinges my tongue.” Josh, our waiter, brought the dessert menus. Seymour said, “Without looking I can tell you that Lesley’s Coconut-Mango Cake is a super-killer.” But then his eyes hit the Key Lime Pie and he wavered. “Oh…no…wait…I’m a Key Lime aficionado. An addict. I’ve got to have the Key Lime Pie.” So I ordered the Caramelized Pecan Tort with Bourbon Caramel Sauce and Vanilla Bean Ice Cream. “This Key Lime is creamy, not too sweet, not gelatinous,” he offered. “It’s really superb.” I had run out of superlatives and didn’t have a thesaurus with me, so I just summarized the Caramel orgy with, “God. This is great.” It had so many pecans in and around it that I didn’t want to waste time counting them. For a Type-Two diabetic, the protein in them canceled out some of the sugar. I had to estimate that there were two fistfuls of pecans in that tart. Peter came by and said, “We have enough of those pecans—or acorns—to store for a winter slowdown. But we’ve been in the black since our 13th month. Lots of obstacles this first year, but we thank Taos!”
In past visits to Graham’s, Seymour reports greatly loving the Oyster Nachitos (fried oysters on corn tortilla chips topped with avocado salsa and cotija cheese, $9) and the Creole Crab Cakes with green chile rémoulade, $10. I recalled enjoying their posole with chicken and green chile, their Triple C club sandwich for lunch (chopped chicken, cilantro mayo, and green chile), their Shrimp Diablo Cubano (I usually don’t eat shrimp), and their Flatiron Steak with crispy onion rings. All in all, my impression is that their food fits their motto quite nicely: “honest, creative, not fussy food for a good price with great friendly service in a hip fun place.”
Our bill came to $63.33, perfectly reasonable for such great service, such delectable entrées, two killer desserts, and a glass of wine. No wonder their business hasn’t slowed down. —S.F.
The Trading Post
I was joined for lunch at the Trading Post by two women friends earlier this month. One visiting from out of town is my best friend (BF), whom I have known since our early teens in South Africa. Both of us have lived in the States for thirty-odd years. She’s a citizen and can vote. I merely hold a Green Card, Social Security number, and am considered a permanent resident. The other friend is a former American Ambassador’s wife who lives here.
Conversation turned to the Election as we ordered a glass of wine and looked over the menu. All of us had been staunch Hillary Clinton supporters and were still processing our emotional response to her accomplishments and her stunning, seemingly unfair loss to the equally inspiring Obama.
“I’m fed up with the bloody boys’ club,” I announced. “We need more women in power.”
“Yes, that’s true,” responded the Ambassador’s wife. “But we have got to elect Obama. We can’t afford four more years of the Republicans!”
The BF chimed in with her opinion and soon a lively debate was in progress. As usual, I played the devil’s advocate. Hope, my mollusk.
Our wine arrived and we ordered bowls of steamed mussels and nibbled on the bread.
“Look, I don’t begrudge America her ‘Mandela Moment’” I announced. “It’s exciting to watch a country break through old barriers.” I took another bite of bread dipped in olive oil. “But can America really afford Obama’s tax plans while her economy tanks like never before?”
Silence from my companions allowed me to continue my rant. “And what if he is merely a groomed suit, fronting a more sinister, global takeover?”
“Nonsense,” retorted the Ambassador’s wife. “What we can’t afford are four more years of the same, plus that, that… woman from Alaska!”
“Chew on that,” exclaimed the BF. She too had voted for Mandela in 1992. All South Africans were high on our triumph over Fascism. She was excited to be voting for the first time in America.
Thankfully the bowls of steaming mussels arrived and the conversation abated. We forked the juicy mollusks from their shells and sopped up the garlicky broth with bread.
“Remember,” said the Ambassador’s wife to my BF, as we parted ways, “this is the most important election ever; don’t squander your vote. And you, stop stirring the pot, you naughty thing.” She hugged me goodbye.
Like all my close friends, the BF and the Ambassador’s wife both know I question everything, take nothing for granted, and will do all I can to shake up the status quo.
The BF and I stopped for a coffee and a bar of chocolate at the World Cup Café. My daughter, Genevieve, was behind the counter. I looked at her and remembered all I dreamed when I was her age. She was born into a changing world where walls were beginning to come down and freedom for Mandela was, at long last, in sight. Today I am grateful she, her sister, and brother were born and came of age here in America: to vote in this historic election for this candidate, our new President-Elect. My granddaughters will grow up knowing that anything is possible, even running for the highest office in the land.
And I will continue my love affair with the country of my father; this great nation that has provided five generations of my family (Liberal Democrats all!) with sanctuary, opportunity and a cornucopia of diverse, affordable cuisine!
Next Month: Sabroso, I promise. —L.R.
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