Home is where the Boondini’s is.
At least it was until I moved to downtown Wilmington in 2012, tucked myself into the Port City’s cozy culinary scene, and put roots in the ground via house and husband five years later. Up until making a permanent space for myself in Wilmington, Raleigh was home—and Boondini’s chicken salad sandwich was my living room. I wasn’t born in Raleigh, but I might as well have been. When my parents sold their famous brownie business (no, really—take a look) in 1989, our family landed on Koupela Drive off of Durant Road in north Raleigh. Several months later, I was enrolled at Ravenscroft School—where I spent the next fourteen years (pre-school to senior year) with my head in a sandbox daydreaming of someday moving to California.
When it came time to pick a college, I knew that I wanted two things: something within a twenty-minute drive to my parents’ oversized purple sofa, and a place where I wouldn’t get lost. The two small college options at my fingertips were Meredith and Peace. I started at Meredith, but after a year of feeling disconnected, decided to put school on the back burner for a while. Eighteen months later, I enrolled in Peace, came upon a best friend (who doubled as a roommate), a cat named Wilbur, and a Dean’s List honor thanks to finally finding a niche within education where I excelled. Spoiler alert: it was writing.
The point of this background history is to share with you that to me, Raleigh is not an unfamiliar city. In fact, it’s the place where I’ve spent well over more than half my life. I did end up making that trek to Hollywood—only to eventually realize that I was happiest on the east coast within a two-hour drive of my hometown.
Now, settled and satisfied in Wilmington—my husband and I regularly travel to north Raleigh to visit my parents and enjoy a crab cake dinner (following lunch from Boondini’s, of course) on that notoriously comfy purple sofa.
Though I lived in west Raleigh during my Peace College years, my recent jaunts to the area don’t often take me towards downtown. In an attempt to rekindle myself with the Raleigh scene—I connected with a local media agency who boasted a plethora of food and beverage clients. She generously suggested that if I wanted to swing by my old twenty-something-stomping grounds, she would provide a twenty-four-hour access pass to what’s happening in the current culinary climate.
Eat and drink my way through Raleigh for a full day for FREE? Okay, okay. Twist my arm.
My husband and I arrived to the Renaissance Raleigh North Hills Hotel mid-afternoon on a chilly Wednesday. I spent much of my youth at the original North Hills Mall—which was typically brimming with, well, no one. My fondest memories include visiting a small magazine stand with my friend Sarah Cook to pick up the latest copies of OK! Magazine. We would return to her parents’ house, tear open a bag of Doritos, and each wallpaper a corner of her room with the newest four-page pinups of NSYNC and Britney Spears. Today, the entire landscape of North Hills has changed. The Renaissance Hotel (newly renovated) is as vibrant as ever inside and out. The whimsically designed, modern interior is a perfect parallel of Midtown’s elegant, urban atmosphere. Inside our spacious suite, I was greeted by a personalized note, homemade pimento cheese, and an ice bucket of champagne just begging to be popped at 3 PM.
Okay, okay. Twist my arm.
We had made our habitual Boondini’s takeout stop on the way, so my husband and I washed down our chicken salad sandwiches with glorious sips of Mumm Napa’s Brut Prestige.
Is this heaven or North Hills?
Our room included an oversized living area (outfitted with a TV) that connected to the bedroom and a massive bathroom featuring one of the most magical showers I’ve ever witnessed. Who needs a duel header with mid-level sprays and an oversized jacuzzi just steps away? Raises hand.
We were due at the hotel’s rebranded restaurant, 41Hundred, just before dinnertime for drinks and a quick tour of their tapas. Being the bar nerds that we are, we scooted ourselves up and I asked for Melissa—who whipped around with a friendly smile and introduced herself. Though she had reserved a table for two, she had no problem accommodating us amidst the bar crowd. Talk about timing—we arrived just as the restaurant was preparing for a whiskey tasting. Yes, please. I scanned the scene and was immediately impressed. 41Hundred was casually sophisticated and light years above and beyond a “generic” hotel bar. There was specialty glassware for each unique brew style, house-aged whiskey, craft cocktails with fresh ingredients, topnotch service, and a menu full of shareable housemade plates. We were treated to a stellar local IPA on tap—Unknown’s Over the Edge—and Melissa told us to expect a sampler platter from Executive Chef Kevin Smith.
Enter: golden brown falafel fritters, smoky charred naan, and silky avocado hummus. Unexpectedly on deck: Pork Bao Buo. Picture: fluffy versions of mini pita bread folded around an unctuous pork belly nugget, tart cucumber, and peppery watermelon radish. I wanted to play the game, “how many of these can we fit in Fanny’s mouth,” but there were only two so my husband nixed that.
Armed with bellies full of bao and beer, we made our way to Martin Street’s Whiskey Kitchen, and were received with the same inviting vibe. I asked for a Manhattan over ice (rather than chilled and strained) and our bartender obliged. It was slightly sweet from the Vermouth and delightfully strong. My husband’s Old Fashioned was flawlessly balanced. As we sipped and slipped our way into whiskey heaven—we were greeted by co-owner Michael Thor who couldn’t have been kinder, and gave us a warm welcome to his establishment. From the open garage door entrance—though closed because, well, it was Raleigh in December—to the extensive craft draft and whiskey selection, I was already in my happy place.
We had done our pre-dinner stomach stretches at 41Hundred, so instead of a filling entrée and dessert—my husband and I opted for several appetizers and a brew. We just happened to pop in on Repeal Day (the official celebration for when prohibition was revoked) and the bar was bountiful with specials. We dove right in for the Oysters Rockefeller (bubbling and served alongside crusty toasts), creamy deviled eggs with salmon roe, and a jumbo shrimp cocktail with house cocktail sauce. Some days I’m not satisfied without pizza, and others I crave chilled seafood dunked in an acidic horseradish sauce showered with citrus. Yum.
The prosciutto-wrapped figs were calling my name, but they seemed like such an obvious choice (shameless cookbook plug here). Lucky for us, Chef sent them out anyway.
He even shared some signature Whiskey Kitchen secrets with us—like Lyle’s Golden Syrup that they use to give the cocktails a little giddyup.
The oversized fruits were snuggled inside crispy pork, popped on a skewer, and drizzled with tangy balsamic. Seven more, please. Naturally, full of food and booze, we found our way to the nearest Nintendo controller and classic, cheap American beer (waves to friends in the Midwest).
Fast forward to: about ten hours later.
After yawning and stretching my fuzzy-socked feet in our cozy king bed, my husband and I threw on our glasses and rode the elevator down to breakfast.
We were greeted once again at 41Hundred by the lovely Melissa who treated us to anything we could have imagined for our sunrise feast (as long as it was on the buffet or printed menu). I was ecstatic with the abundant and thoughtful options. My husband opted for all the eggs he could eat, and I was swayed by the French Toast that Melissa swore was a showstopper.
Indeed.
No wimpy slices of bread here. Each piece of unapologetically thick toast was generously battered in egg, and dolloped with caramelized bananas and pecans. Alongside—warm maple syrup. It’s not often I crave a sweet breakfast, but when I do, I go big or go home. I would call this big—no?
How could we possibly have left room for lunch, you ask? Maybe it was the post-French-Toast nap. Maybe it was a spin in the jacuzzi followed by a frolic in a cushy Renaissance Hotel robe. You’ll never know.
We were due for lunch at Morgan Street Food Hall (basically an uber hip, new age cafeteria) around 1 o’clock. The concept, “cross meal ordering”, on a larger scale could be compared to Chelsea Market in the Meatpacking District of NYC. Expect to find picnic tables surrounded by a plethora of modern cuisines, coffees, cocktails, and sweets. It’s the ideal place to take your family when not everyone wants noodle bowls, and the perfect pairing for a date night when you have a pepperoni problem but your husband needs hummus.
Speaking of—we arrived to Sasool Select and were promptly treated like royalty by its charming owner, Mounir Saleh. Mounir first asked for our preferences, and then slowly started feeding us enough food for fourteen people. To begin, a bowl of Babaganoush so velvety you’d think it was produced by a wizard; and second—an herby green jalapeno-cilantro hummus topped with fruity Greek olive oil and briny olives. Alongside, a circular collection of grape leaves. They were tart and tangy on the outside, and every mouthful was a juicy tangle of rice and herbs.
Hungry yet? Same.
Next came the falafel: herbaceous and creamy, speckled with toasted sesame seeds, and topped with tangy tahini dressing. I scooped every morsel of crushed chickpea in sight onto pieces of Sasool’s famous whole wheat pita and topped it with lemony tabbouleh.
Our last call was Raleigh Rolls, courtesy of owner Ramy Bahgat. I had heard of—but never experienced—this novel Thai dessert notion where ice cream is flattened onto a frozen surface, vigorously blended with fillings, and then rolled into thin cylinders. The in-person version of this description is wildly entertaining. It was December, after all, so my husband and I went for whatever peppermint-infused madness our ice cream artist was ready to whip up. We watched in awe as liquified cream was smoothed out into frozen chards. Next, mint sandwich cookies were chopped into submission, and then I’m fairly certain I blacked out because swirly twirly chocolate mint ice cream abruptly appeared under my nose.
It was dotted with chocolate chips and garnished with candy canes. Each cylinder’s thin tube offered an added texture, and now I can’t imagine a better way for toppings to become innards. That sounded weird. Just trust me.
With satisfied stomachs and happy hearts, we head back east towards Wilmington. For me, I was filled with not only Babaganoush and stuffed figs—but a new appreciation for the city I once called home. I’ll be back for you Raleigh, and your little deviled eggs too.