Suki Casanave
201 Bay Rd.
Newmarket, NH 03857
603-659-7154
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by Suki Casanave It's not two dollars a night any more, but at one of New England's last grand old hotels, you still pay one price and get "a novel and most gratifying experience." When the famous Balsams hotel went up for auction in 1954, nobody came. The setting was idyllic, shadowed by the rugged contours of Dixville Notch and insulated from the rest of the world by 15,000 acres of northern New Hampshire wilderness. But the building, lovely as it once had been, was so huge and dilapidated no one wanted it. Finally Neil Tillotson, an entrepreneur with family roots in the area, made an offer. He bid so low--under a million dollars--he was sure they'd refuse, but next thing he knew, he was owner of one of New England's last grand old hotels. For nearly a century the Balsams had provided genteel summers of fine dining, socializing, and exercise in the cool mountain air. Some families came for the whole season; many returned year after year. But by the 1950s more and more Americans were heeding Dinah Shore's advice to "see the USA in a Chevrolet" and staying in motels as they went. The Balsams staff back then used to have a saying about the guests: They were either newly wed or nearly dead. The future did not look bright. Then came the winter of 1966. Ultimately, Neil Tillotson's decision to operate the hotel year round would help save it, for the ski industry was booming. But that first season was catastrophic. "The place had its insides torn out," says Steve Barba, president and managing director of the Balsams. "Every pipe burst, every ceiling fell, every wall cracked, every floor separated, every rug shrunk, every bed got soaked, every piece of linen got stained. It just fell apart because it was never intended to be open in the winter." Somehow the building pulled through, and gradually winter at the Balsams began to work a magical change. For the first time in its history, the hotel had a year-round staff, people who lived in the area, who loved its beauty and its history, who understood that things needed to be fixed so they wouldn't have to be fixed again next year. "That first winter was a real turning point," says Steve. "There became a real North Country flair to the personality of the staff, and that began to sow its wonderful seeds of gentleness and genuineness and good feeling." Today, as the end of the 20th century draws near, the magic of the Balsams endures. Especially in winter. It begins the minute you round the bend and catch sight of the hotel's redroofed turrets, bright against the gray sky. Despite its size, the gigantic white building, like some confectioner's castle, seems dwarfed beneath the looming backdrop of Abeniki Ridge. In front of the hotel, across the expanse of Lake Gloriette, the jagged profiles of Table Rock and Sanguinary Ridge cut a deep "V" where the road disappears into the horizon. In the woods, along 50 kilometers of cross-country trails, there is only the whisper of skis and the occasional sound of distant voices. Tunnels of dark evergreens arch snow-laden limbs overhead. The tracks of a hare disappear into the trees. A moose antler lies abandoned at the edge of the trail. The staccato tapping of a woodpecker punctuates the silence. And each bend brings another view. One favorite route winds up Keysar Mountain to the Panorama Golf Course where the stone club house, its windows boarded over for the season, stands deserted on an open hill, and the wind lifts snow in swirling gusts from the frozen ground. The view, on a clear day, is dazzling white rolled out under a brilliant sky. The view from here is remarkable for another reason: there's not a condo in sight. And there are no plans to build any. When Steve Barba and his friend Warren Pearson, along with Chef Phil Learned and maintenance supervisor Raoul Jolin, took over management of the hotel in 1971, they did it because they loved the place, not because they loved the hotel business. Steve had gotten hooked on the Notch as a young golf caddie back in the '50s. Today he is passionate about preserving the Balsams and its setting as an "experience," not as a real estate venture. If you're coming here just for the great golf in the summer or for the skiing in the winter, you're missing the point. What it's all about, explains Steve, is values. Guests here can rediscover a way of being that many have forgotten in today's high-tech society of the quick fax and phone connection. "This is a place where people can be amongst themselves like they used to be able to be--comfortable, free, open, unthreatened. There is a community sense, a feeling of warmth and well-being. For many guests I think it's their only connection to those old feelings. It's their real neighborhood." When Steve welcomes new guests to the Balsams each Sunday night in the hotel living room, he explains the special atmosphere with stories of the past. He tells of early settlers who opened their homes to weary travelers passing through the Notch. These families offered room and board, plus good company and a beautiful setting--all for one price. So began the American Plan of hospitality, a disappearing tradition, which the Balsams carries on today. It costs more than $2 a night now, but guests still enjoy the same breathtaking natural beauty, the same opportunity for easy friendships, the same attention to courteous service, the same magical experience. In short, they still have what one early newspaper clipping called "a novel and gratifying experience." And the only time they need their wallets is when they check out. One guest describes it as "a place that caters to the soul, not to the pocketbook." Most guests are quick to admit, however, in rapturous hyperbole, that this place also caters to the palette. Some argue that the food alone is worth the price of admission. Baked scrod with hollandaise, sauteed jumbo shrimp, broiled stuffed quail, roasted pork loin, sauteed veal cutlet, poached Atlantic salmon, marinated broiled swordfish, baked onion pie, roasted duck breast--the choice of entrees goes on and on. So do the appetizers and desserts. And they're all displayed and labeled on a massive two-tiered table at the center of the dining room. Guests typically spend a few mouth-watering minutes before sitting down perusing the selections, which change each night. Some do several laps around the table, possibly making a last futile attempt to burn a few calories before they start feasting--as well as contemplating the hardest decision of the day: what to eat. There's more to this dining room than food, however. Eating here is an Experience that involves intricately folded linen napkins, live piano music, and, of course, jackets. (Once, back when jackets were suggested, not required, some guy showed up for dinner in a cut-off sweatshirt. That did it. These days blue blazers of all sizes are available at the front desk.) While guests dress for dinner, the dining room is a blur of activity: adjustments are made to the flowers, butter is brought out, water pitchers are readied, bow ties are straightened. Except for the surroundings--pale peach walls, white pillars, Victorian lighting, a grand piano--it feels like the locker room before a big game. In the kitchen, stacks of dinner plates warm in steamheated cabinets, a 65-gallon vat of beef stock bubbles in one corner, and an award-winning team of chefs and apprentices move with practiced speed among endless expanses of stainless steel. At precisely twenty minutes to six, while hungry guests line up outside the heavy wooden doors to the dining room, Chef Phil Learned, Executive Sous Chef Chuck Carroll, Pastry Chef Steve James, and the rest of the crew, emerge from the kitchen. The entire wait staff, impeccably dressed in black and white, snaps to attention around the display table. Menus in hand, they listen attentively, jotting notes as each chef explains the ingredients in every appetizer, salad, entree, and dessert. That way, when you ask, they'll be able to tell you that the bananas in one of the salads have been steeped in pineapple juice or that the zucchini in one dish was cooked with a bit of butter and garlic or that those are shitake mushrooms, spiced with tomato and chive sauce. As for the desserts, you may be interested in the ingredients in the raspberry pie or the chocolate pate or the apple cobbler. If you must, there is also no-fat frozen yogurt. But, as one waiter kindly reminded a guest, "This is no place for a diet." The wait staff, according to all accounts, is one of the best things about the dining room. Not quite as good as the food, mind you, but close. The formal service is unobtrusive, yet friendly. After a couple of days, they'll be remembering to bring your favorite tea before you ask. They can provide a "Happy Birthday" chorus if need be. And if you feel even slightly inadequate when confronted with 11 pieces of silverware lined up in glittering challenge before you, nobody will laugh if you ask for advice. "Lots of people do," says Gerda Aherns, a long-time dining room captain. Let's face it. In a world where busy families are lucky if they can sit down together for half an hour between work shifts, car pooling, and meetings; where most of us "dress for dinner" by kicking off shoes, loosening ties, and putting on sweaters; where we manage to make do with two or three pieces of silverware, dining at the Balsams is an elegant change. It is a return to another era and a tradition that is being maintained--and explained--to the visitors of today. "Look," said one father to his young son as they were leaving the game room still wearing ski sweaters and jeans, "Everyone gets dressed up." His son was making a convincing case for going straight to the dining room. "See those pretty girls playing ping pong in their party dresses?" the father countered. "They're all ready for dinner." Minutes later the seven-year-old was back downstairs in a white dress shirt, tie and jacket, the spitting three-foot image of his father, happily working on the Junior Gourmet selection of the evening, barbequed chicken with steak fries. It may be elegant, but the Balsams is anything but stiff. Half the fun of this place are the surprising contrasts: after navigating the trails all day, guests spend the evening manuevering through five-course meals. During school vacation weeks, especially, there are nearly as many high chairs in the dining room as bow ties. After dinner you can chat with the fellow you met during the downhill ski lesson, or you can head for your room and a hot bath. You can challenge your daughter to a round of pool or go watch a movie. Says one father, amazement in his voice, "My son is never bored here. At home, he's always bored." You can be on the go just about every minute if you choose, all day and into the night. In the lobby of the hotel a colorful collection of announcements reminds guests when and where to meet for the "Slowly We Go" ski clinic, the nature walk, the boggle game, the aerobics class, the magic show, the cooking demonstration, the history tour, the dancing. The list goes on and on. Of course there are also those overstuffed chairs by the fire-place, perfect for reading or dozing. Just before bed, if you have the energy, you can join a rowdy game of broomball on the small ice rink behind the hotel. Better yet, wait until midnight when most people are asleep. Borrow a pair of skates from the front desk, lace them up under the night sky, and then glide through the silence. Snow falls out the darkness, blades scrape against ice, and the air is cold and still. The shadowy bulk of the hotel is only yards away, its windows casting warm squares of light into the blackness. Part of the magic of this place is that it's big enough to accommodate about 400 guests, but it feels like home. "Everybody's family here," says maitre 'd John White. "Staff and guests alike." Indeed, many people plan their stay for the same time each year, and on opening day of a new ski week the halls are filled with shouts of recognition and reunion. In the room of returning guests a bottle of maple syrup, with a handlettered label, welcomes them back to the Notch. This is how success is measured up here--in bottles of maple syrup. In the number of people who come home each year to the Balsams. |