Redneck's lasagne, Killington, Vermont, February 2012

We chose the best weekend to go to Pico Mountain Resort. It was as dry as a bone and there was more snow in my freezer than at Pico Mountain, and I had spent 3 or 4 good hours in the back of a Subaru listening to contemporary American chitter chatter. At some point on this ski weekend we would have to reward our efforts carving across ice and mud with some good hearty food.

The owner/clown at the desk was a living breathing caricature of an American. He was as loud as a fart during mass in a Baptist Church, as brash as a New York policeman with a can of pepper spray, as uncouth as a neanderthal in an England shirt, but strangely endearing. He recommended an 'Italian' restaurant, The Pasta Pot, just across the road from the lodge. How convenient.

Bonjour. Je suis le Dark Shadow. Eh eh eh...

After making a reservation (recommended or maybe bullied by Mr. America) we passed away some time playing Uno with sticky Uno cards, courtesy of The Black Shadow. When it was time to make our treacherous way to The Pasta Pot we were greeted at the bar and shown to our table. Good thing we listened to Captain America and reserved a table because I had to fight my way past the raucous crowd of invisible men having an enormous epicurean symposium of gluttony. The interior was what I expected from this neck of the woods. There was nothing Italian about this place. Not even the real (not battery-operated) candles stuck in bottles made it feel Mediterranean. The menus were printed on what resembled sick bags you get on flights. It was a strange touch - a combination of original but wacky. We arrived just for the Hunter's Lasagne, recommended to us by Uncle Sam's beelzebub at the lodge. Hunter's Lasagne for me please, Asia. So Asia was the name of our waitress. I have never been served by a continent before, especially a caucasian Asian continent.

To tickle our alpine bellies we had some garlic bread that was soaked in a lot of butter saturated in a lot of garlic. I would be safe from Dracula that night. My Hunter's Lasagne finally came piping hot. Apparently it was made from a medley of meat - elk, moose, venison, veal?, beef? (it must have also been 100 % unkosher so had to have some pork floating around in it too) topped with a ferocious layer of nondescript cheese. It was a vegan's nightmare and utterly bizarre like a Newt Gingrinch plan to build a Walmart on the moon but not as bizarre as the cheers and whooping the proposal received from his flock of sheep. And bizarrely it worked although I did not know if there were any layers of pasta. Bizarre. The only solid I could taste was melted plastic cheese and minced meat of some sort. The saving grace of this dish was the sauce that ravished this dish. It was very rich and had more character than Rory Bremner. In fact, there was something very English country pub derived cottage/shepherd's pie-esque about the sauce. Amongst all this, however, I could not differentiate my moose from my venison, nor my elk from the other minced stuff. The sauce complemented the meat like Salieri complemented Mozart. It was all very excessive and should be palatably incorrect. Somehow, the destroy-all-ask-questions-later attitude of this Hunter's Lasagne worked.

The Ho Down says: Gastronomic alchemy. It was bastardisation of Italian food to the extreme and strangely, it worked.