The Farmer’s Diner, Chef Tod Murphy
Quechee Gorge Village
5573 Woodstock Road (Route 4)Quechee, VT
802.295.4600
Riding on the trendy but virtuous back of the green lifestyle phenomenon, The Farmer’s Diner in Quechee, Vermont, has been featured by everyone from NPR to Yankee Magazine; the folks at the Boston Globe to Grist Magazine can’t get enough of chef Tod Murphy’s locavore obsession. The diner sits nestled amongst the beautiful but tourist infested backdrop of Queeche Gorge Village, not far from the planned community of Queeche Lakes. Antique malls, Vermont gift shops and a campground are all within walking distance.
I had visited the diner several times before this mid-Fall excursion, but never with a focused interest on the overall package of food, décor and dogma. Even at 2pm on a dreary Monday afternoon, the diner car was completely full. Our party of five was thus relegated to the main building’s airier environs.
Inside, a chalkboard advertised nine and ten cent sodas while a Wurlitzer juke-box spun gleaming compact discs of past counter culture. Each set of silverware came wrapped in a different color bandanna, while ice water arrived in Mason jars. Items marked in red on the menu denoted dishes prepared with local ingredients, which made up roughly half of the already formidable list of options.
We ordered as best of a representation of the fare as possible, shooting for maximum locavority, and had no trouble doing so. A double order of Hushpuppies with corn meal and maple BBQ sauce (both local) was aptly named, as our conversation shifted from banality to a quiet appreciation of the dish’s tender-fried quality.
In the time between the Hushpuppies and our entrees, it was hard not to contemplate the Al Gore induced bubble we sat immersed in. Our friendly waitress spoke almost no English as we tried to ask her about The Diner’s new liquor license. My mug read “I prefer butter to margarine because I trust cows more than chemists.” On the walls and on our table sat a fusion of popular culture and environmental awareness that’s worked wonders to catch the media’s attention and keep the restaurant’s prices a few notches above diner-level.
It was difficult to really analyze this unusual cultural blend, and to label it either merely trendy or righteously inclined, until our food came. I don’t doubt that the fresh and local eggs, sauces, and meat would have been appreciated regardless of the redness on the menu telling us what to pay attention to.
My breakfast burrito was filled with expertly cooked eggs and moist potatoes. The “Sappy Squealer,” a pulled-pork sandwich, was balanced with a generous pile of pork. Local Vermont hot-sauce and jams thickened up golden toast, and the “Meatropolitan,” a traditional Reuben despite the name, had just the right amount of meat to keep the bread crispy.
With the level of acclaim The Diner has received recently, it’s especially admirable that the “homemade” quality hasn’t dropped. While our fries weren’t as hot as they might have been, and some eggs were cooked more carefully than others, the reasonable (albeit not “diner”) prices complimented the meticulously planned and executed dishes. Above all, The Diner has taken a concept venerable in theory and realized it as a legitimate and sustainable way of thinking, acting, and eating. Maybe the only serious issue with The Farmer’s Diner is that people keep driving from farther and farther away to sample the local fare.
By Benjamin Bernstein
