Perhaps you’ve noticed: It seems you can’t turn a corner in the Commonwealth these days without stumbling over a craft brewery, tripping against a small-batch coffee roastery, stubbing your toe on an artisanal cheesemaker, or staggering into a closet-sized restaurant featuring reinterpreted biscuits and gravy and a bearded chef in a trucker’s hat.
Virginia, a food movement is afoot in our state.
Where once reigned Sunday dinners of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and sweet tea, we find ourselves among brunch spreads of duck hash and trout roe and $12 cocktails crafted from microdistillery gin. In the land where once we simmered a green bean long past the point of surrender, we have freshly harvested vegetables you’ve never heard of artfully arranged against a bright gesture of saffron remoulade. Our grits are heirloom. Our pork is pastured. We do food trucks. We flock farmers’ markets. We Sriracha.