When the red-faced teen tore my ticket in half and called me "milord," I tried to hide a grimace. What is it about the people who work and volunteer at Renaissance festivals that embarrasses me? It could be the mismatched outfits, torn from the dregs of high school drama programs, misassembled by amateur tailors, or purchased from one of the many patchouli-scented vendors scattered around the grounds. Maybe it's the unselfconsciously needy desire to entertain, causing participants to harangue passersby to participate in their little street theater bits. Maybe it's the fact that everything at a Ren fest, especially the widely varied hirsute vernacular, has as much to do with late-night Dungeons & Dragons games and Costner's Robin Hood as it does with historical accuracy.
"Nope, it's simpler than all that," mused Writer Rick, when I explained my anxiety. "We have to feel embarrassed for them, because they are obviously unable to feel it for themselves."
There's a little more to it, though, especially for us. The sad truth is that both Writer Rick and I were once on the other side of this stage — linen tunics, red tights, blunt swords and all. When I look into the faces of these people all I can see is my pimply 16-year-old face, earnestly talking about the Baron's prospects in the upcoming match, proclaiming my desire to defeat the unruly forces of the king. Sigh.
So why the hell did I show up again, 20 years later? Well, as is often the case with me, it's about the food. Renaissance festivals combine typical fair food with an unabashed love of fried meat — two things I cannot get enough of. In the olden days, smoked turkey legs and "dragon" wings, gooey cinnamon buns dripping with sweet icing, and bread bowls filled with hearty soups and stews were primarily sold by independent vendors, most of whom make their livings traveling a circuit of fairs, like carnie folk but with leather corsets. Well, more leather corsets.
Food made solely by traveling nomadic tribes results in hit or miss fare, as anyone who's followed the Grateful Dead can attest. These days, many of the big Ren fests across the country are run by corporations like Mid-America Festivals, the organizer of the Bay Area Renaissance Festival. Seeing the potential profit, Mid-America has consolidated most of the concessions into their own facilities, long rambling facades emblazoned with hand-painted signs listing all manner of handheld treats, all hiding modern outdoor kitchens and secret culinary assembly lines. I'm usually against Wal-Mart style consolidation, but in this case it works. The food from this corporate teat is some of the best I've had at a Ren fest.
Even though there was a surfeit of breading on the rather dense cod, the fish and chips were both crisp and salty ($4.50). Sweet, plump and juicy corn on the cob ($2) was coated in butter and wrapped in foil, the steaming ear too hot to eat minutes after unwrapping. Bread bowls ($4.75) were uniformly disappointing, small and stale and filled with meager amounts of mediocre soup.
If you've never had a Scotch egg, you haven't lived. If you eat them all the time, you won't live long. Take a hardboiled egg, surround it in a thick layer of pork sausage, coat it in breadcrumbs and drop it in a deep fryer. The ones at the Ren fest ($4) are essentially breakfast balls, portable and tasty, something McDonald's should have picked up a long time ago. If only they could figure out a way to inject them with cheese and maple syrup …
Brats and sausages ($4) were grilled until blistered, glistening with delicious pork fat, juices percolating just under the skin, covered in sautéed onions and peppers cooked until sweet and darkly caramelized, all of it piled into a surprisingly thick and hearty bun. Damn good brat.
The benchmark of any self-respecting Ren fest (oops, can I say self-respect and Ren fest in the same breath?) is the smoked turkey leg. These are often gigantic, stringy, barely smoked, and cooked and stored in mysterious conditions that might be one of the only authentic historic practices still visible at a typical fair. At the Bay Area Ren Fest, though, the exterior was colored a mottled dark brown, the fat rendered, the skin caramelized, with bits of bright pink meat peeking through. It was intensely smoky, covered in thick pockets of still-juicy meat, and one of the best "dragon" legs I've had ($5).
Writer Rick had vowed to only eat food that might actually have been available in the Middle Ages or early Renaissance, but that only lasted until we ran across the fried Oreo booth. A nice Canadian couple ran it, with the freshly washed look of people working the grand tour of festivals for the first time. They served fine funnel cakes and excellent doughnut holes, but how can you pass up an Oreo coated in sweet batter and deep-fried ($3)? Both the cookie and the delicious lard filling become gooey, seeping into the luscious, crispy breading and spreading heady, chocolaty perfume throughout.
There were a few other independent tents. You could get a baked potato filled with veggies, neon-colored bacon bits and cheese sauce, or a better sweet potato packed with butter and cinnamon sugar. The lady hawking samples of hot cinnamon and sugar pecans had such a good shtick, she made me break my vow not to get involved with anyone wearing a costume. "Eat my nuts!" Don't mind if I do, sweetheart.
It might be that all of the Rennies stopped reading after my mild ridicule in the first few paragraphs, but this is actually a great Renaissance festival. Set amongst shade trees, loaded with vendors hawking swords and crystals and clothes and candles and New Age-y crap, packed with events and stages, it will undoubtedly provide hours of entertainment for people who get into this sort of thing. Or, you can do what I did and keep your mouth filled and your hands full to avoid contact with the natives.
Brian Ries is a former restaurant general manager with an advanced diploma from the Court of Master Sommeliers. He can be reached at brian.ries@weeklyplanet.com. Planet food critics dine anonymously, and the paper pays for the meals. Restaurants chosen for review are not related to advertising.
This article appears in Mar 15-21, 2006.
