Helene was historic. On that, everyone agrees. But there’s been less consensus on which bygone era best matches up with the wretched living conditions that western North Carolinians have been forced to endure since the storm.
Is it medieval? That’s what North Carolina journalist Jeremy Markovich concluded after seeing an image of Black Mountain residents gathering in the town square. They’d come to get their news from a series of public officials who climbed up on a picnic table to cry out updates.
Is it the western frontier all over again? It might seem that way to the mules. They’ve been tasked with carrying food and medicine to mountaineers trapped by downed trees and washed-out roads.
From the vantage point of my desk in the opposite corner of the Carolinas, it looked like we’d been flung back to the 1930s. None of The Food Section’s correspondents had reliable wi-fi service, so the normal process of filing copy, receiving edits, and submitting revisions was impossible. Instead, for Jim Barton, who authored Monday’s story about how Asheville’s food-and-beverage community is coping with the crisis, it made more sense to give me access to a Google Doc he was constantly updating.
In other words, his dispatch reached me as though it was being spit out by a Teletype machine.
Plenty of those passages didn’t appear in the final draft, including observations on long lines for gas, and digressions about the days when Jim and I rode the same West Asheville bus. As he wrote, we “formed a friendship over our shared public transit advocacy. And when I say friend, I don’t mean that I know her husband’s name or her birthday—Asheville is a network of ‘friends’ who are warmer than acquaintances, even if they aren’t quite friends.”
Jim’s exactly right that Asheville in the 2000s was a place where shared values mattered more than personal details, and acceptance was the rule. It was special then, and special right up until the storm hit: The unanswered question is what becomes of that energy now. Some longtime Asheville loyalists are so certain that the city’s spirit has been blotted out that they’ve vowed they won’t go back.
At this distance, it’s hard to predict what will happen at the cultural level. But the physical destruction is staggering.
Like many Buncombe County residents, I had lots of jobs when I lived there. Several of them involved the region’s rivers. I led mountain bike trips out of a shop in Swannanoa, which doubled as home for my first few weeks in town. Sometimes, I’d sit by the nearby Swannanoa River with a paperback book and can of tuna fish from the outfitter’s supply closet. Later, I’d guide float trips down the French Broad.
Mostly, though, I worked food service. Over the years, I waited tables at the Inn on Biltmore Estate, Jack of the Wood, The Lobster Trap, and a family dining restaurant on Patton Avenue that opened and closed in the span of two months.
It never occurred to me that Asheville’s natural splendors and hospitality sector would ever collide, beyond kayakers grabbing beers at Westville Pub or a fly fisherman picking up a Don’t Be a Jerk burrito at Lucky Otter. Certainly, I couldn’t have envisioned such a violent crossing.
One of the truths about traumatic events is you never know what’s going to make you cry over them. I’m not much of a crier, so I would have put my money on nothing, but it was a GoFundMe page created by Asaka Japanese Cuisine that got me.
Formal name aside, Asaka is a hibachi takeout, located just down the hill from a gym where I taught fitness classes. Until I came across the fundraising page, I didn’t know its owner’s name. I couldn’t have told you much about its food, except the sliced carrots were sweet and the white sauce was sweeter. But seeing the restaurant reduced to a rampart for tree branches and telephone poles was surprisingly upsetting. I guess it was an Asheville friend.
Speaking of Asheville friends, I’ve been checking in with the Western North Carolina residents who’ve appeared in The Food Section. I still haven’t heard back from everybody I messaged—again, cell and wi-fi service are spotty on the best days—but wanted to share some of their Helene experiences:
Danielle Keeter was among the former No Evil Foods workers quoted in a story about the Asheville company’s trajectory. Now co-owner of Mighty Gnome Market Garden in Waynesville, Keeter reports that her farm was spared any serious or lasting damage.
Along with other local farmers who didn’t lose their crops, she’s working with Haywood Christian Ministries to redirect produce to food pantries. The warehouse at MANNA FoodBank, which serves 16 western North Carolina counties, was destroyed by the storm, leaving hunger relief agencies without enough food to distribute.
“It’s been one small source of hope seeing HCM work so hard to feed as many people as possible, and knowing we are able to contribute to that effort,” Keeter e-mailed.
Zeb Smathers was among the Fatz Café fans quoted in an oral history of the beloved upstate South Carolina restaurant chain. As mayor of Canton, he’s steering his hometown through disaster just three years after Tropical Storm Fred tore up its business district and high school football field. His leadership has taken the form of lobbying politicians for tangible support, and alerting people across the country to the seriousness of the situation.
“No matter your hometown, your cove, your community, you’ve been affected by this,” Smathers told Fox News’ Neil Cavuto, adding that he plans to keep advocating for everyone to “get the resources [and] respect you deserve.”
Brian Sonoskus was the longtime chef at Tupelo Honey Café, a downtown Asheville restaurant that grew into a national empire, an expansion chronicled by The Food Section. Sonoskus eventually left the company, opening his own restaurant in Marshall in 2017.
Star Diner was wrecked by Helene, which sent floodwaters surging through Marshall’s streets, plucking up train cars and houses in its path.
“I’m worried about our staff and how they’re going to make their next rent & mortgage & car payments & buy groceries,” Kate Sonoskus wrote on the restaurant’s GoFundMe page. “I cannot call this a ‘rebuild’ fund: I just don’t know what’s next.”
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