Lately, I’ve been yearning to find a truly sublime waffle in the worst way. Last weekend, I think I succeeded on both counts. That is, I discovered a waffle that fulfilled my dreams. And I attained it in the worst way possible, or the most unnecessarily difficult way, anyway.
If you’re among the very small percentage of Americans who ski or snowboard, you’ve no doubt seen one of the food trends that’s taken hold at ski areas over the past few decades: Belgian waffles sold slope-side out of rustic, playhouse-size shops. Waffle Cabin, the company behind these alluring little shops, originally began purveying the hand-held snacks out of a pushcart at Quincy Market in Boston before deciding to focus their efforts on ski resorts, where they’ve exploded in popularity. With production facilities in Rutland, Waffle Cabin now operates at 32 resorts in 12 states, including 12 resorts in Vermont and New Hampshire.
It’s a brilliant niche they’ve carved out for themselves, really. People crave not just great food but great food experiences, and the idea of skiing right up to one of these quaint cabins and then eating a sticky waffle out of a mittened hand in the mountain air is hard to resist.
I trace the genesis of my recent waffle cravings to seeing these cabins on ski trips with my daughter. But the more I thought about these waffles — and I thought about them too much — the more I realized what a tiny portion of the population had experienced them. Sure, anybody can go to a ski resort for a bite, but unless you love the ambiance of ski boots thudding on wood floors so much that you’re willing to pay twice the normal price for your chicken fingers and fries, it doesn’t make a ton of sense.
A slopeside waffle, though: that just might be worth the hassle. And when I found out that Mount Sunapee Resort had a Waffle Cabin on its summit as well as its base, I conceived of a different kind of waffle experience: one that anyone with a little grit and a few hours of free time could enjoy. I decided to hike to the summit and eat a waffle at the top while I luxuriated in my accomplishment and the marvelous views.
Sunday morning, I embarked on my journey, sending my daughter off with a lift ticket and then setting out to find the trail.
That turned out to be one of the trickiest parts of my mission. Despite having both a full trail map I’d printed from the Sunapee State Park website and a smaller map provided by guest services that showed where the trails connected with the ski area, I could find no sign of a trailhead for the Summit Trail, nor did anyone seem to know where it was.
After wandering around for a while, I found a parking lot attendant who knew where the trail began. “It’s hard to explain how to get there. I’ll drive you there,” he said.
Dropping me off beside a backhoe behind the learning center, the man pointed to a blue barrel and orange construction cone on the other side of one of the ski trails. If I started there, he said, I’d see the hiking trail. I obeyed, climbing over a crust of snow separating the ski trail from the woods and spotting a set of footprints and beyond them, a blaze of red on a tree.
Fortunately, the hike got easier from there — for a while. The 2-mile trail crisscrossed the mountain with a mostly gentle incline, and the small amount of snow cover was soft in most places. The woods sheltered me from the wind that my daughter had texted from the summit to warn me about, and the trail was well-marked in most places.
Entirely alone but close enough to the ski trails to feel secure, I started daydreaming about waffles as I enjoyed the light burn in my muscles and the quiet of the woods. In my mind, there are few things better than a morning of rigorous exercise followed by a deservedly rich repast.
About halfway up the trail, conditions got a little dicier. A couple passed me wearing crampons just about the time I started whining to myself about the patches of thick ice I’d begun to encounter, and I thought, duh. A colleague had lent me some snowshoes, which I’d tucked into my backpack, but they were too unwieldy to maneuver over the portions of the trail where I really needed traction. I’d have to manage by grabbing desperately onto trees.
Nearer to the top, the wind picked up and the ice patches grew larger and more numerous. Mostly I was able to skirt them, but I began scheming about how I might avoid hiking back down. That is, when I wasn’t thinking about the waffles.
Finally, I emerged from the trees and found myself among a slew of skiers, just a few hundred feet from the summit lodge.
Just inside the entrance of the lodge, I found the Waffle Cabin. But it looked deserted. It couldn’t be closed. My daughter had texted earlier to confirm it was open. As she met me in the lodge, we shared a puzzled look and then proceeded to the counter.
“Are you selling waffles?” I asked the lone teenager sitting behind the counter.
“No, sorry,” he said. “There’s something wrong with the equipment.”
“There’s something wrong with the equipment?” I repeated in a tone somewhere between incredulity and scorn, as though I suspected the poor kid of being in on some cruel scheme to thwart my plans.
Then, regaining my equanimity — a waffle iron malfunction can happen to anyone — I settled for a tray of french fries from the lodge’s cafe, reminding myself that I could still get a waffle at the base of the mountain, and enlisted my daughter in my scheme to avoid the downhill hike.
Though I’ll admit the temptation to fake a twisted ankle and bum a ride down on the lift was strong, I decided my waffle would taste much sweeter if I toughed it out.
A dignified descent it was not. Along with more desperate tree-grabbing, there were episodes of butt-sliding and sniveling. But within 30 minutes, I was back to more forgiving terrain, and the rest of the hike proceeded pleasantly enough.
Back at the base, my daughter and I spied a big “open” flag fluttering beside the window of the Waffle Cabin and reached our quarry at last.
Despite my anticipation, I began to harbor some skepticism when we got ready to place our order and realized that maple syrup was not on the menu. What? We settled for chocolate drizzle, which brought our total to $9 for two waffles (plus a 7-percent charge for using a debit card). My skepticism grew when I saw the size of the waffles the cashier handed us in little wax paper bundles — probably half the size of your traditional Belgian waffle.
But one messy bite won me over. If you think a waffle is a waffle is a waffle, you have not tried these waffles. Whereas most waffles function as a vehicle for toppings, these waffles have pure naked appeal. The sweetness — which comes from pearl sugar — is as smooth as the name suggests, and the texture is chewy with just a hint of crispness. Though the waffles hardly needed the chocolate drizzle we ordered, the excess just added to the fun. Sure, the price was steep, but no worse, and probably better, than most of what’s on offer at ski resorts.
Maybe it was my hiker’s appetite talking, but I don’t think so. These things were crazy good.
And speaking of crazy, if you’re ever looking for a ridiculous way to obtain an overpriced but exquisite waffle, I recommend Mount Sunapee’s Summit Trail. Just look for that blue barrel behind the backhoe, or find that bearded parking lot attendant and see if he can give you a ride. And be nice to the teenager at the top. Most likely he is not in on some sinister plan to make you hike back down the mountain before you get your waffle. And if he is, well, it kind of makes it all the more satisfying.
You can also order waffles from the Waffle Cabin website (wafflecabin.com) to be delivered right to your doorstep. But where’s the fun in that?
Sarah Earle can be reached at searle@vnews.com and 603-727-3268.