A Marvelous Midpoint

When Cyprus Restaurant, which brought an international flavor to the Highlands restaurant scene, closed at the beginning of the year, it
left a hole.

Literally. That unique space, with its speakeasy-style pair of stairways and its remarkably indulgent patio overlooking Main Street, had become an essential part of downtown life. You could feel the energy of the place, even when you weren’t dining there. 

So there was always an element of sadness to witness the darkened stairways and the patio furniture stacked up in the wake of its abrupt closing. 

As testament to the robust nature of the Plateau’s restaurant community, a new place named Midpoint Highlands has sprung Phoenix-like from the ashes of Cyprus. And thanks to a compelling new menu and impeccable service, it makes a bold case for front-runner status.   

But before I get too lost in describing Midpoint and its lovely unhurried ambience and sweet front-house staff, before we dive into the menu, let me impart one unassailable truth that you as a diner must recognize – You have to order dessert.  

Of course, that’s usually implicit in every review I turn in, but sometimes I’ll get to talking about things like entrees and service and atmosphere, only to discover that I’ve blown the word count and and have three lines to mention the desserts and the restaurant’s contact information.  

Not this time. 

Perhaps you’re one of those people who just doesn’t like desserts. (And though it violates Laurel’s genial and community-friendly style, I have to ask, “What kind of American are you?”) 

You might be like one of those saints from long ago, panting after martyrdom, who, when the guard shows up to lead you to the lions, declares in a loud voice, “If you try to silence me, you’ll have to also silence all of my brothers and sisters.”  

Even though everyone else was hoping to get off with a simple lecture and a
stern warning.  

Although in this instance, you say to your dining companion, “Why don’t we just split a dessert?”  

How are they supposed to answer that one? (Although I’ll tell you how they want to answer: “Get you own damned dessert!”) 

Nope. Dessert at Midpoint Highlands is not to be missed. You owe it to yourself, and you owe it to your dining companions.  

Each is crafted by Pastry Chef Oksana and each is a work of breathtaking beauty. They’re arrayed in a glass case like a set of bijoux in a Tiffany’s window display, as irresistible as the legendary Night of Desirable Objects fishing lure.   

My dining companion ordered the Summer Breeze Petit Gateaux – Raspberry Compote, Lemon Curd, Dark Chocolate, and Mascarpone Cheese Mousse.  

For myself, it was the Pumpkin Patch Petit Gateaux – White Chocolate Creme, Blackcurrant Confit, Caramel, Milk Chocolate Mousse, and Vanilla Cake. (I’m writing this in September to you in October, can there be a sweeter celebration of the season than a pumpkin-shaped indulgence?) 

We both gazed at our selections for a charged second before sliding our forks through them, and I confess to the slightest pang of regret at ruining Oksana’s little jewel of a confection. Slightest. 

There’s a reason I’ve moved the dessert portion of this review to the top. You owe it to yourself to discover why I’ve made
this decision.  

Of course, this sweet, sweet end of the evening came after a full round of appetizers and entrees.  

My sweetie ordered the Summer Salad, which I hope remains on the menu through the autumn season. It’s a beguiling assemblage of Arugula, Frisée (that curly Endive that usually remains on the sidelines of salads or entrees), Blush Pink Pickled Beets (!), Goat Cheese, and a Lemongrass Dressing. If it’s still on the menu, try it and see if it doesn’t feel like a postcard from a friend on a lovely summer getaway.  

I chose an enormous bowl of Poutine – a divine mashup of hand-cut Potatoes, Cheese Curds, and Bacon. I had a college roommate from Quebec, and during long winter nights he’d go on and on about the extravagant comfort found in a serving of Poutine. I finally get it. This is something to carry with you as chilly October shades into bracing November.  

Tricia ordered Cambodian-Curried Sea Bass, perched atop a bed of Bok Choy and gently-scented Jasmine Rice. If her Summer Salad was an unabashed shout-out to the sunniest season, this entree is a reflection of autumn itself, subtle and nuanced and built upon a careful blending of sensation. This was clearly crafted with care and it deserves to be savored with attention and appreciation.  

Well, since I claimed no bit of subtlety with my order of Poutine, I continued the theme with the Prime Rib Eye, a mammoth slab of Kobe Beef served alongside Grilled Asparagus and a generous plop of Yukon Gold Mashed Potatoes. If you go with this route, make sure you ask for it Rare or Medium Rare – you don’t want this flensed of its natural flavoring, since the chef serves it up with a dusting of Gremolata (that unique blend of Parsley, Garlic and Lemon Zest).  

Which brings us back to the desserts, which work on so many levels. Do
not miss them! 

Midpoint Highlands is located at 332 Main Street. Reservations are a must  – (828) 526-2277 or through Open Table.    


The American Woody:The first generation of depot hacks boasted open bodies constructed of wagon-style solid planking. But by the mid-1910s, closed station wagon bodies became more common and lighter construction was required. The rib-and-panel style that is familiar today made its first appearance on these vehicles and allowed for the first partially enclosed wooden station wagons with side curtains, two or more rows of seats, and side doors. These new wagons could still be considered depot hacks, but were now called Suburbans, Combinations and Country Clubs. (Versions of these names still appear today.) The lower halves of these wagonette bodies resembled the earlier versions and were now combined with a flat roof. These designs found favor with non-commercial customers, and an increasing number of firms began building them. Major manufacturers such as Ford started offering woodies through dealerships, although independent body builders performed the actual construction. The Martin Truck and Body Corp. in York, Pennsylvania, made so many bodies for Ford, Dodge and others during the 1910s and 1920s that they billed themselves as "The Largest Commercial Car Builder in the World." The golden age of the custom wood body maker ended during the Depression, as many of the small independent firms went out of business. Some reorganized and diversified, like the Kentucky Wagon Manufacturing Company, which stopped making wood Ford Model T and Model A bodies (and its own line of automobiles as the Dixie Motor Car Company) and started manufacturing truck trailers. The company is still in business today as Kentucky Trailer. The major automobile manufacturers acquired many others at fire-sale prices during this time. The fortunes of Martin Truck and Body, who called themselves "The Largest Commercial Car Builder in the World," changed dramatically during the Depression. After merging with failed carmaker Parry in 1919, Martin Truck and Body was acquired by Chevrolet in 1930 and became its first in-house commercial truck body division. Ford, with its vast timber operations near Lake Superior, was gaining experience in woody manufacturing. That experience would be put into practice in 1936 when a plant opened at Iron Mountain that built complete wood wagon bodies that were then shipped to Ford plants around the country for final assembly. While Ford was the only manufacturer building woodies from the ground up, there were still coachbuilt versions available based on GM, Chrysler, Packard, Willys, Hupmobile, Graham, Hudson, Studebaker and even American Bantam chassis. The trend toward luxury continued through the 1930s, although woody amenities lagged far behind those in production automobiles. Pontiac, for instance, did not offer full glazing until 1939. As the country began to recover economically, woodies were increasingly perceived as upscale vehicles and sales rose accordingly. Ford easily maintained its dominance, selling almost 10,000 redesigned Standard and DeLuxe station wagons in 1940 alone. Chrysler introduced its first truly car-quality woody, the Town & Country, in March of the following year. It boasted an all-steel roof and a white ash and mahogany body by Pekin Wood Products of Helena, Arkansas. With Willys, Buick, Pontiac and Plymouth all getting serious about passenger comfort in their woodies, things were about to heat up when the manufacturers were told to cease production of passenger cars and contribute to the war effort. A trickle of cars continued for a brief time, but all domestic automobile production had ended by March of 1942. Ford continued to produce a small number of Ford and Mercury woody sedans and ambulances used during the war. We reach Crystal Cove and its landmark Shake Shack and pull in to switch drivers. Remembering the earlier starting difficulty, we leave the Ford idling while photographer Joseph Puhy shoots some images. Little do we know, the ethanol-laced modern gas blend is busy vaporizing in the fuel line, a common Ford flathead V-8 problem. It happens on the uphill leaving the Shake Shack, the woodie chugging slower and slower, until it can’t chug anymore. Now we’re stranded beside the Coast Highway, with Audis and Acuras zipping past at speed. Bad scene. With no luck re-firing the engine, I resort to bump-starting it backward downhill. This works, and the ’34 has just enough power to get us turned around and find safe haven in a nearby park. But the woodie’s day is over. “I think this has cured me of wanting an old car!” Dean says, laughing. Oddly enough, another “Surf City” lyric has portended our current situation: “And if my woodie breaks down on me somewhere on the surf route/Surf City, here we come/I’ll strap my board to my back and hitch a ride in my wetsuit.” With the photo and video teams close behind, our rescue isn’t quite that dramatic, and we all safely return to the museum in modern cars, leaving the generous McPherson and his beautiful ’34 awaiting Hagerty Plus Roadside Service. The last great year of the woody was, by some accounts, 1949. Handcrafting complicated and maintenance-intensive wood frames and panels was becoming very difficult to justify in the red-hot, new-car market. The epochal Chrysler Town & Country switched to Dinoc vinyl (still available in aftermarket "wallpaper woody" kits today) with ornamental ash framing, and the 1949 Ford used all-steel construction with experimental plywood-like panels that underwent a dramatically high rate of failure. General Motors abandoned wood framing after 1948, and from 1948 through 1951, Packard produced station wagons with window framing and ornamental wood door trim by Briggs Manufacturing. The few coachbuilders that survived the Depression and World War II were again in jeopardy during the 1950s. Despite efforts to make the transition to more modern products such as hearses and other steel bodies, the wood-body manufacturers, steeped in old-world hand craftsmanship, were almost all gone by the end of the decade. Car design and manufacture, as well as the tastes of the car-buying public, were undergoing radical changes and the woody, redolent of 1930s and 1940s country clubs, fell from favor. The Chrysler Town & Country was discontinued in 1951, and while Fords continued to sell well, they now increasingly used vinyl and paint instead of real wood. The 1953 Buick wagons were the last real woodies from any major American manufacturer. Various wallpaper woodies or "vinylies" are still offered by Detroit to this day, but the age of the real woody ended in 1953. Fiberglass would come to substitute for ash and Dinoc for mahogany. It was a slow death, and the last real wood exterior trim of any kind on an American vehicle appeared on the Dodge Adventurer 150 "Li'l Red Express Truck" option available in 1978 and 1979.By the time I had my summer epiphany in San Diego, woodies were already in their second incarnation as an American icon. Furniture makers constructed the first of them on truck frames in the late 1920s. The car replaced the horse-drawn vehicles–jitneys or hacks–that had hauled passengers from train depots to hotels. Woodies were, literally, “station wagons,” and you’ll see them turn up. In Southern California, the place to see any style in wood cars is the annual Wavecrest meeting, held every September at Moonlight Beach near San Diego. Trophies are given for Best 1960s Surfing Woodie and Best Hot Rod Woodie. There are big-money restorations and Model A’s with rotting wood, Buick Estate Wagons with fewer than 50,000 miles on the odometer and more Town and Country wagons than Pasadena’s Rose Parade. Lovely as these ghosts are, there’s nothing that can duplicate your first time. Nearly 40 years ago, on the afternoon when I saw that first woodie in a San Diego gas station, I was just way to my part-time job in a suit and tie. What I watched from across the street was a preview of another kind of life, one that was raw and vital, one where a whole world was spread out along the coast waiting to be discovered. It was a moment that changed my life–because that day I quit my job and started surfing.