It seemed like a delightful idea -- a Christmas home tour and progressive dinner in historic Madison, Indiana. You could smell the pine and cider in the air last spring as we discussed taking the "
Nights and Nibbles Express" tour that was being promoted by the
Madison Area Convention and Visitors Bureau during
our annual trek to Madison in Bloom. Given that the spring tour is a highlight for us each year, we decided that surely the Christmas tour would also be a delight.
So the wife and inlaws boarded Big Whitey, and we drove down to Madison last night with tickets in hand. We felt fortunate, at first, because the weather was unseasonably warm despite the rain. We figured that we would be going in and out of houses and restaurants, so the rain would only be of temporary discomfort. Our first stop was at the Madison visitor's center to pickup our reservation. We were told to meet at the
Madison Table Works at 3:00pm for our tour departure. It was only 2:00, so we wandered about for a bit, anxiously awaiting the evenings festivities.
Madison Table Works is housed in a building that is the former site of an old wagon and carriage company. The current occupants hand craft beautiful custom tables and chairs, and we enjoyed checking out their wares -- for the first 15 minutes. There were cheeses, crackers, and a small sampling of salamis available for the taking, so I crafted a quarter pounder out of cold cuts to keep myself entertained while avoiding mingling with the others present for the tour. My father-in-law made quick friends with one of the ladies who had helped organize the tour, and my wife and mother-in-law made quick friends with the ladies serving glasses of wine.
After 45 minutes or so, they called for the first group to depart. This was a group of senior citizens from Columbus, Indiana, and it seemed fair for them to go first, given that by 6:00pm they would need to be tucked soundly in their sheets. (Actually, this hold true for my mother-in-law as well, but alas.) The rest of us continued or assault on the deli trays and awaited the next carriage to arrive, which it did around 15 minutes later. Our names were, again, not called, so we continued to snack and anti-mingle. My inlaws contemplated how to steal additional glasses of wine, but their son-in-law, a beacon of moral virtuosity, intervened and prevented such an act. Finally, around 3:30pm, our names were called in the final group, and we headed out to our carriage.
Now having seen the departures of the first two carriages, we immediately noted that we'd gotten the proverbial shaft on the transport. The first two carriages were essentially buses used by the city to give guided tours. Our carriage was of the open-air tour carriage variety and featured no windows. This is well and good during an 85 degree summer afternoon, but when it's 45 out with a chance of showers, this does not bode well. Luckily the rain was holding off as we made our way to the first display house.
We arrived at the first house (the Flanigan House in
this photo of tour sites), and already the three groups were bunched up. We had to wait to get in, and at the end of the tour, we had to wait to board our carriage. The house itself was picturesque enough, situated on a bluff overlooking old Madison. It was recently renovated, and while the decorating did nothing for me personally (because I'm a good judge of such things), much care had obviously been taken. Toward the end of the tour, I saw a gentlemen with long, flowing blond Fabio-ready hair, bedazzled with many a sparklin' jewel, cowboy boots, and some of them ultra-trendy jeans with the holes built in. He also had a giant jewel encrusted belt buckle declaring some sort of Texan allegiance. He clearly was not from Madison, Indiana. As it turns out, he was the owner and decorator of the house, and he works as an interior designer in Los Angeles. (We later discovered that he's got a second career as a country music star, hence the jingle janglin' spurs.) We overheard him explaining that this was merely a weekend home and that he was looking to host weddings and parties in the house, which seemed like a good notion given that the house didn't feel very "homey" to any of our party.
After waiting for the old people from Columbus to stow their canes and reboard their bus, we began to lineup for our carriage ride to the next eating location. By this time, our open air bus had begun to function as more of a rain guage than a transportation device, and as we reboarded, we were confronted by soaking wet seats and a steady downpour within the vehicle. The tour organizers had generiously begun wrapping the open windows with cellophane to stop the flood, but it was of little use. My inlaws chose a particularly damp seat and ended up riding with an umbrella over their heads.
One of the gentlemen who was on the tour with us provided much comic relief throughout the evening, whether we wanted it or not. He was the kind of guy who couldn't just "make a funny" to his wife and accompanying friends, rather he had to share each and every line with the entire bus, waiting at the end of each delivery for the applause and guffaws that would surely follow. His first act was "Man, did you see the guy that owned that last house. CUCKOO!" We all sort of chuckled, and then he continued. "He did NOT belong in Indiana. I guess he was from California" and here's where he served up the old mixed company chestnut. "And you KNOW what they say about California? It's like a box of granola. It's full of fruits and nuts and whatever is left is flakes."
I know my wife well, and I quickly realized that her Los Angeles upbringing would not allow this to go unnoticed, so she served up a quick "Ouch...that hurts" to the guy and then explained that she was from California. Instead of apologizing and shutting his trap like a decent human being, the incident seemed to fuel his comedic fervor. He quickly responded that he'd now only offended a couple of people on the tour and that surely more would follow. Delightful.
The second stop on our progressive dinner was supposed to be for soup, but apparently the aged ones from Columbus couldn't eat a quarter cup of beef barley in under 45 minutes, so we were diverted to a mercantile on the main drag through old Madison. Since our first stop was in the newer part of Madison overlooking the old town, we began our descent down the cliff in our rain soaked bus.
Apparently the woman driving the carriage was not accustomed to driving the vehicle, because she drove as if she were piloting a Honda Civic and not a tour bus full of soaking wet, increasingly agitated, tour patrons. Coupled with the fact that the descent into Madison is on a very windy road, soaking wet from the thunderstorm, and you can understand the terror developing in Erin and me. Our seats for this part of the ride were directly across from the door, if one had been present. Part of the open air charm of our ride was that it had no door, so we were able to watch as we descended the hill on wet roads at 60 miles per hour. I thought perhaps we were just overreacting as people not accustomed to this particular road, until the woman guiding our tour leaned over to us and said, "Geez, did you see how close we came to hitting that guardrail?"
Upon arriving at the mercantile, we gathered ourselves up and began looking at their wares. By this point we were sopping wet, hungry, and generally not enjoying ourselves. My father-in-law saw a tewnty minute demonstration of a coffee machine that primarly consisted of the owner reading the manual trying to figure out why it wouldn't produce coffee. Finally it came time to reboard our soaking bus and get our soup.
The soup restaurant was a lovely little lunch place on the edge of town called the Red Pepper Deli and Cafe. We've frequently discussed stopping at this place for lunch, so we were glad to get to sample something warm from their kitchen. Upon arriving, the owners promptly made an excellent decision and handed each of us another glass of wine. About the only thing holding our hopes up for the tour at this point was alcohol. We were then served a cup of beef barley soup which had been written up in the Louisville newspapers for it's fine flavor. Perhaps it was just the mood, but none of us were terribly shaken by the soup, although the owners seemed like genuinely delightful people.
We reboarded the Titanic (a quip I've lifted from my previously discussed comedic friend) and headed for our next tour stop, a condo overlooking the Ohio River. The condo was pretty enough, but there was nothing particularly special about it other than it's view of the river. By this point, all of us would have gladly traded this stop for a quicker trek to our main dinner course. We reboarded the bus and headed for the salad station in the progressive dinner.
The salads were prepared by a local bakery and were served, rather strangely, in the basement of the local Christian church. The church itself was in no way decorated for Christmas, so it felt rather like we were merely breaking and entering as we descended into the basement for salads. We discovered upon entering the dining area that we'd again caught up with the Columbus Octogenarian Track Team and were forced to wait.
After being afforded twenty minutes to drip dry, we were served a lovely salad with crusted pecans and other salad-esque thingeys. We sat at a table a few feet from Robin Williams Lite, and the longer I listened to the guy, the more ignorant he got. I finally just put my head down and barreled through my salad. At some point, my father-in-law asked, "What time is it? Is it still the same day?" It did, indeed, feel as though we'd been touring for days on end. I remarked that it felt as though we were being punished, rather than having paid for this outing.
The next home on the tour (the Garber Courtney home in
the picture) was lovely, and it was one of the few stops that was both a lovely home and beautifully decorated for Christmas. A soaking "hats off" to the family that hosted this stop on the tour. They apparently got the memo.
Fearing that our friends from Columbus had not yet started, let alone finished the main dining course, we next proceeded to another home. We were startled to find that at some point, we had been given a new tour bus, and this one actually featured windows and a door. Why you would allow patrons to soak for two solid hours before handing them a proverbial towel is beyond me, but I wasn't going to complain.
This next home was a renovated duplex along the Ohio River. The owner had rescued the house from demolition, and despite being very small, it was very warm and inviting. Actually, it was about 95 degrees given the roaring fire, 800 square feet, and outside temperature of 55. The owner was very nice and obviously very talented, given the work that had been done on the home. After departing his side of the duplex, we were shuffled into the other side of the home which he rents out.
The difference on the northern side was immediately noticeable. There was none of the historical ambiance that the other side contained. We walked into a somewhat dated looking kitchen that flowed into a bedroom. The bedroom contained a fascinating collection of Matchbox cars. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of little cars. There was also a wide array of firearms mounted about the room, as well as a large collection of marbles in a large jar. I could see in my wife's eyes that the lack of "Christmasiness" was distressing to her, let alone the look on the owner's face which screamed, "Please, whatever you do, do NOT open THAT closet.") In hindsight, I'm not sure why this side of the duplex was included on the tour, as the renter appeared to be somewhat distressed by all of these snooty people rummaging past his various collections of racing and hunting memoribilia. He did have a rather delightful set of deer hooves donning a Santa hat holding up another rifle in the front room, and alas, more marbles, but this did little to raise our spirits.
Upon exiting, we boarded our new, dry bus and headed for yet ANOTHER house. I was crafting a continual stream of jokes about the elderly patrons from Columbus in my head by this point, but I was beaten to every punch by our onboard comedian who chose to make the jokes out loud. It was like nails to the brain listening to this guy all night. And to add insult to injury, he was from a town just down the road from our home. We could only be so fortunate!
The last house (or last holdup before I get my stinking dinner), was a recently renovated bed and breakfast. Upon entering, we were whisked into a lovely parlour featuring a billiards table and many old photos. The one prominently displayed next to the pool table featured several men in lab coats looking over a decomposing body. I kid you not. It wasn't a pile of bones. It wasn't a guy on his way over from the funeral home. It was a dude who had been restfully rotting for some time, laying on a lab table with his shoes and pants hanging off of him like the Incredible Hulk, while a bunch of guys in lab coats stared at his grizzly visage. The scene was made that much stranger when the guide announced that one of the upright men in the photo was the owner's grandfather, who had helped ROB THIS GUY FROM THE GRAVE for use in a medical class of some sort. Let me tell you. Nothing says "Merry Christmas" like a decomposing corpse, but some how, it felt right in place on this outing.
Finally done with the home tour, we headed to a local winery for the main course of the dinner. It was about 7:30pm, and we were all tired, a little damp, and generally road weary. It literally felt like we'd been touring for days. Noting the name of the tour, my wife inquired as to when we'd be seeing the "express" portion. When we arrived at the winery, the other groups were occupying all of the dinner tables, so we were seated at some small cocktail sized tables. I thought that perhaps this was a temporary positioning, but the next thing you know, the bread was served, and it was apparent that we were seated for dinner.
Glasses of wine were served (and for the most part, immediately depleted), and the chef soon emerged with plastic plates laden with our dinner. There was no room on the tables for them, so we were left holding the plates which contained rice and what looked like pork barbeque minus the barbeque. I immediately began eating and discovered that my initial assessment was mostly correct. It was slow cooked pork and rice with very little flavor. I would have killed for some barbeque sauce. Or a towel. Or a muzzle for our standup comic.
The chef eventually came over and announced that we had been served two dishes. The first was slow cooked pork rubbed with a number of spices. (It needed more rubbing with some more exotic spices...like salt...) The second was a rice recipe he claimed he'd acquired from an old plantation in the south. I leaned over to Erin and told her that I thought he'd gotten the recipe from his uncle...Uncle Ben. The meal was truly nothing special, not even average, given the progression of the evening.
Despondent, tired, and fighting a headache from wine drunk too hastily, we reboarded the bus for our final stop. The dessert station for the evening was at our favorite restaurant in Madison, The Downtowner. We stop every year in the spring for their wonderful sandwiches and desserts, so I was dreading being served something potentially awful which might wreck my high opinion of the place. The waitress came by and announced that we had three choices -- Double Chocolate Cake, Red Velvet Cake, or Italian Cream Cake. She then explained that Italian Creme Cake was a sort of white cake with nuts. I quickly ordered my fix of chocolate, and Erin ordered the same. Now it was my father-in-law's turn.
It's understandable after the evening we had all had that he might have been flustered by the dessert options, so some level of confusion is forgiven. At first he wanted to visually see the options, but the waitress had no way of making that happen in short order with 40 people waiting. Then he asked about the ice cream, and she told him there wasn't ice cream. Then he asked about the Italian Cream thing, and she re-explained that. Then he asked what Red Velvet was, and did it feature ice cream? My mother-in-law was only slightly more skilled in her ordering, only momentarily adrift in the sea of three cake options.
In the end one ordered Italian Cream Cake and the other Red Velvet Cake, but I think it was mostly out of frustration. By the end of the ordeal, I considered ordering them both some thickened apple sauce and a sippy cup full of ice chips. I wasn't sure we were ever getting out of there.
Luckily, the desserts were the best part of the evening, and my opinion of The Downtowner remains high. We made a beeline for our car and drove home at high speed in a driving wind, arriving around 10:30pm. In the end, we all agreed that next year we will take the home tour on our own and simply have dinner at The Downtowner. It was worth trying the "Nights and Nibbles Express" tour once, but without some intense retooling, I suspect this will be our last ride on that bus.
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