The Ultimate Guide to Eating Along the 469 Miles of the Blue Ridge Parkway
As featured in Food & Wine
Road trip through North Carolina's scenic Appalachian Mountains with a longtime local and all the snacks.
When I was 19, I experienced my second real heartbreak. And in a kneejerk response, my dad drove me from my hometown of Charlotte, North Carolina, up to Asheville. We took the long route, driving the Blue Ridge Parkway, listening to moody Carolina-mountain music and meandering — by way of car — through western Carolina’s mountain towns.
My dad pulled off the parkway, heading toward Asheville’s River Arts District. There, we ate tacos, splitting an indulgent 10 or so, at White Duck Taco Shop, which five years later, would get devastated by Hurricane Helene. We stopped into Hole Doughnuts, taking hearty bites of warm, lightly glazed doughnuts, and watched the ritual of sweet dough submerging into oil, like a show in front of our eyes. We packed a few to-go and returned to the familiar hum of the parkway, with the blue-hued haze of the Appalachian Mountains ahead.
I suppose my Dad knew what I would come to learn myself and then implement for the rest of my life: The Blue Ridge Parkway — a 469-mile-long stretch of road connecting two of the American South’s greatest nature preserves — can reset and recalibrate something inside of me, fresh off a wounded heart.
Coined as “America's Favorite Drive,” the Blue Ridge Parkway connects Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, at milepost 0, with the Great Smoky Mountains that straddle the Tennessee–North Carolina border.
It’s not the sight or even the physical touch of nature that resets me, though. It’s the drive and the many mini-adventures (often, food-motivated) that branch off of the parkway. My low-grade road trip hunger acts as a travel guide of sorts, nudging me to meet bartenders, bakers, and farmers across Virginia and North Carolina.
Thanks to gateway towns with generations-old foraging histories, creaky country stores with brilliant sundaes, and culinary jewels with provocative menus, the parkway has become something to be savored, in both sight and taste. Like more things in life than I care to admit, the ride is better when savored slower. (And the modest pace is not so much of a choice because the max speed limit along the parkway is 45 mph).
As rolling hills make way to ridges, you’ll note the natural crescendo of the parkway, as miles tick upward and the road goes south. The terrain increases in drama and density, as does the availability of food and dining stops.
This guide, winding you through each of the four mountain regions of the parkway (Ridge, Plateau, Highlands, and Pisgah), can be followed like a religious text or a gossip column. Take what you want and leave what you don’t.
My biggest recommendation though: Ask questions. At the Western North Carolina Farmers Market, ask the local ramp forager about their most loyal ramp-buying chefs. In Little Switzerland’s Fowl Play Pub or Weaverville’s honky-tonk Eda’s Hideaway, get a cheap pint and ask the bartender what dive bar he hits after work. Also, don’t follow the rules. Start the parkway backwards. Start in the middle. Start with a broken heart or a full one. It’s a public parkway for your enjoyment; ride it as you will.
Road trip through North Carolina's scenic Appalachian Mountains with a longtime local and all the snacks.
When I was 19, I experienced my second real heartbreak. And in a kneejerk response, my dad drove me from my hometown of Charlotte, North Carolina, up to Asheville. We took the long route, driving the Blue Ridge Parkway, listening to moody Carolina-mountain music and meandering — by way of car — through western Carolina’s mountain towns.
My dad pulled off the parkway, heading toward Asheville’s River Arts District. There, we ate tacos, splitting an indulgent 10 or so, at White Duck Taco Shop, which five years later, would get devastated by Hurricane Helene. We stopped into Hole Doughnuts, taking hearty bites of warm, lightly glazed doughnuts, and watched the ritual of sweet dough submerging into oil, like a show in front of our eyes. We packed a few to-go and returned to the familiar hum of the parkway, with the blue-hued haze of the Appalachian Mountains ahead.
I suppose my Dad knew what I would come to learn myself and then implement for the rest of my life: The Blue Ridge Parkway — a 469-mile-long stretch of road connecting two of the American South’s greatest nature preserves — can reset and recalibrate something inside of me, fresh off a wounded heart.
Coined as “America's Favorite Drive,” the Blue Ridge Parkway connects Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, at milepost 0, with the Great Smoky Mountains that straddle the Tennessee–North Carolina border.
It’s not the sight or even the physical touch of nature that resets me, though. It’s the drive and the many mini-adventures (often, food-motivated) that branch off of the parkway. My low-grade road trip hunger acts as a travel guide of sorts, nudging me to meet bartenders, bakers, and farmers across Virginia and North Carolina.
Thanks to gateway towns with generations-old foraging histories, creaky country stores with brilliant sundaes, and culinary jewels with provocative menus, the parkway has become something to be savored, in both sight and taste. Like more things in life than I care to admit, the ride is better when savored slower. (And the modest pace is not so much of a choice because the max speed limit along the parkway is 45 mph).
As rolling hills make way to ridges, you’ll note the natural crescendo of the parkway, as miles tick upward and the road goes south. The terrain increases in drama and density, as does the availability of food and dining stops.
This guide, winding you through each of the four mountain regions of the parkway (Ridge, Plateau, Highlands, and Pisgah), can be followed like a religious text or a gossip column. Take what you want and leave what you don’t.
My biggest recommendation though: Ask questions. At the Western North Carolina Farmers Market, ask the local ramp forager about their most loyal ramp-buying chefs. In Little Switzerland’s Fowl Play Pub or Weaverville’s honky-tonk Eda’s Hideaway, get a cheap pint and ask the bartender what dive bar he hits after work. Also, don’t follow the rules. Start the parkway backwards. Start in the middle. Start with a broken heart or a full one. It’s a public parkway for your enjoyment; ride it as you will.