‘Your beaver tastes great!’ A night with Asheville’s underground supper club

Jason Sandford

Jason Sandford is a reporter, writer, blogger and photographer interested in all things Asheville.

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Yeah, the beaver jokes were easy. But it was a dinner party. People were nervous, just settling in and getting to know one another. So if there’s literally beaver on the menu, why not go for it?

“I’m gonna eat your beaver.” “Your beaver tastes great.” “I had beaver tail once, and it was spectacular.”

Actually, the beaver jokes weren’t too over the top. After all, we were a cultured crowd. A restaurant owner, gallery director, dentist and nurse anesthetist were just a few of the great folks sitting around Table 1. Those are all easy boxes to put people in, and another way to break the ice. But really, I was surrounded by friends, lovers, philosophers, drinkers and empaths.

So the beaver jokes were light. And there was plenty more on the menu of the Blind Pig dinner, Asheville’s first speakeasy supper club, to have fun with. The snapping turtle – who doesn’t love a wild snapper? The nutria – yeah, think big rat. Wild boar – can’t go wrong with the swine.

Maybe it was the sensuously slick oyster that started off the night that got everybody in an easy mood. We all slurped the delicacy, doused in moonshine mignonette and served up with peach, cucumber and cilantro. Off and running.

Two other ingredients completed the scene: a sultry summer night and a glorious mountain setting. Up a windy dirt road near Warren Wilson College in the heart of Swannanoa, the landscape unfolded. Verdant rolling hills. Curvacious blue mountain horizon. The chirping, buzzing sound of nature that soothes, like the little warm fuzziness instilled by the contents of the mason jar that made its way from table to table fairly early on in the dinner.

There was a certain melancholy air, because we learned that the Craigfields property – 160 acres of nearly pristine mountain property – is up for sale. Passed down from generation to generation for 200 years, the current landowner had finally decided to sell. I ate and drank to forget.

On Bele Chere weekend in Asheville, there was no dodging the topic. The recent violent home invasions in West Asheville ate up a big chunk of conversation, with many of my table mates hailing from that great neighborhood.

And then the foodie talk started to fly. After the striped bass en escabeche, served with tomato, green beans and corn basil and near the start of the nutria and duck jambalya, folks started talking about their other memorable culinary experiences. We were well on our way to one helluva dinner, and we started comparing notes. I couldn’t really keep up. I appreciate fine food, but I’m no scholar of flavors, ingredients and the chemistry it takes to make it all work. I leave that to the artists. But I sure enjoyed listening.

The snapping turtle, served with amazing Anson Mill grits and oyster mushroom bacon, was perhaps my favorite as the meat and the plates piled up. Finally the beaver arrived, with san marzano tomato, gnocci and basil peccorino romano. No more beaver jokes. We were starting to get full. But someone did explain what it takes to make a Peruvian Bear Fucker. Next time you’re at the Prospect, as Phil to make you one.

The wild boar, with barbecue sauce corn, pickles and a super sweet slice of watermelon finished off the dinner. Drew and Elliott, chefs at The Admiral in West Asheville, and the Blind Pig organizers, had succeeded in sating us. I was hoping for more socializing, and maybe even a little dancing to the local band Ice Cream, which cranked up late. But most everyone hit the door after one last sip of wine and watermelon crunch. A few hung in for shots of brandy, a cigar and more fun talk with Mark and Bob and Ron, just a few of the icons of Asheville’s food scene who turned out. 

The summer night wore on. That little taste of melancholy lingered. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the space between another day gone and a new one coming. Maybe it was the carnivore in me paying a little respect to the table and what was just served. 

No matter. I felt the love of community and weight of a full belly and thought – I’m still the luckiest man.