Going Dutch

Dining My Way through Pennsylvania Dutch Country

Native Philadelphians love pretzels. We put away 20 pounds per person per year—ten times the national average.

But to get the real deal you have to drive an hour west of the city into Lancaster County, the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch Country (800-324-1518; www.padutchcontry.com), to a little town called Lititz (www.lititizpa.com) where the first American pretzel was baked in the 1850s by a hobo looking for a place to crash.

Our hobo hero jumped off a train in this whistle-stop town and found a kindly local baker to provide a hot meal and a bed. The traveler repaid this hospitality with the only thing he had to offer: the recipe for his native Bavaria's favorite snack, the Bretzlern, a twisted ring of dough dipped in lye then baked and salted.

The baker's apprentice, William Sturgis, started the Sturgis Pretzel House (219 East Main St., 717-626-4354, www.sturgispretzel.com), cranking out their claim to fame since 1861.

I learned this (probably apocryphal) origin myth during a $2 tour of the factory while trying—and largely failing—to roll, twist, and flip a lump of dough into a presentable pretzel in the historic kitchens.

"They say the pretzel began as a reward for children who learned their Bible stories," said our guide as I balled up my misshapen tangle of dough and tried again. "The twist represented arms folded in prayer, the three holes the Holy Trinity."

Mmmm. Chocolate.

Eventually I gave up on perfecting my baked-goods-as-Bible-lesson and headed across town to the Wilbur Chocolate Factory (48 North Broad St., 888-294-5287, www.wilberbuds.com), where all the hard work was done by a squadron of women in white aprons behind a glass wall.

I suppose the wall was for sanitary reasons, but it also served to keep visitors (OK, me) from rushing the tables in a chocolate frenzy, gobbling the peanut butter meltaways, heavenly hash, mint drizzle, almond butter crunch, and other confectionary wonders the women were carefully dipping in chocolate and painting with icing.

Luckily, the museum-cum-shop provided free Wilbur Buds, which never became as famous as the nearly identical "kisses" introduced 13 years later (1907) by a rival confectioner a few miles away in Hershey.

Lancaster lunch

Overloaded on snacks, I headed to downtown Lancaster (www.cityoflancasterpa.com)—a bustling mercantile center and county seat—for some real food. Isaac's Deli (25 North Queen St., 717-394-5544, www.isaacsdeli.com) provided a welcome bowl of real chicken stock rich with chicken and farm-fresh vegetables.

Up the block, where Queen St. crosses King St., sits a lovely brick structure housing Central Market, the nation's oldest farmers' market (est. 1730s, open Tues, Fri, and Sat). Perusing the stalls, I caved in and bought an old-fashioned whoopie pie (devil's food cake sandwiching thick cream) from a shy Mennonite girl with a crepe wimple and a beatific smile.

It was a rookie mistake, because in my culinary marathon through Lancaster County, I'd forgotten one thing: dinner.

Dinner in Dutch Country

Dinner in Dutch Country could qualify as an Olympic event. Most folks in these parts are farmers of the old stock. They work the land with their muscle and sweat, and fuel their engines with gargantuan meals harking back to their Germanic ancestors (the "Dutch" in Pennsylvania Dutch is a corruption of Deutsch, German for "German").

Overcrowded Route 30, the area's main artery, is packed with widely advertised, overpriced, "tour buses welcome" smorgasbords.

I learned long ago to skip those in favor of home-cooked meals in a genuine farm setting like Amish-run Stoltzfus Farm in Intercourse (Rte. 772, 717-768-8156, www.stoltzfusmeats.com; Closed Sun, Nov open only Fri-Sat, Dec-Mar closed).

[NOTE: Sadly, Atoltzfus Farm closed in 2013, but I retain the description below so you can at least read about what once was.]

As soon as I sat down at one of its long communal tables, I was served apple butter and bread still warm from the oven, peppery coleslaw, and a chunky vegetable relish called Chow Chow. Soon I was surrounded by fresh sausages, a pile of chicken, thick slabs of ham loaf, candied sweet potatoes, sweet dried corn, egg noodles oiled in brown butter, string beans, and potato stuffing with gravy.

With the aid of endless iced tea and lemonade, I'd managed to plow my way through most of it, including what I estimated to be half a chicken, when my waitress asked if I'd like seconds. I stared for a moment, waiting for the laugh, but she was serious. When I politely declined, she actually looked hurt.

"OK, I'll just bring out the dessert then," she said, and was gone before I could stop her. Two minutes later, she returned with pie—and when I say " pie," I mean one slice each of apple crumb, cherry crumb, and shoofly (a gooey molasses concoction that always makes me worry about the level of tooth decay in Dutch Country), plus some carrot cake, German chocolate cake, and—just so I wouldn't go home hungry—ice cream and tapioca.

Before she could return with, I dunno, a vat of hot fudge sauce, I took a few bites of the apple crumb (heavenly) and the shoofly (sticky), then quickly waddled up to the cash register by the entrance to see how much I owed for my feast: $15.75, tax included.

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