The apres ski team and what we eat

The Après-Ski Team and What We Eat

I have never been on the French Alps ski team. I have never represented a nation in giant slalom. I have never stood atop an Olympic podium.

Truth be told, I’m a snowboarder. Or at least I tried to be.But after a few runs at Bolton Valley, I am absolutely a member of what I consider the award-winning Après-Ski Team.

The uniform is simple: goggles pushed onto the helmet, jacket unzipped halfway, cheeks red from the cold, and an appetite capable of consuming a small village.

When I come off the mountain, I don’t dream about kale salads or protein shakes. I want a burger. Not a fancy burger. A proper burger.

The James Moore Tavern describes theirs as a “single beef patty pressed thin and seared crisp with American cheese, shredded lettuce, tomato, pickle mayonnaise, house-made ketchup, and yellow mustard on a potato bun with fries.”

Now we’re talking.

That burger arrives at the table looking like it has completed its own successful downhill run. The cheese is melting. The bun is holding on for dear life. The fries are golden and plentiful. Better yet, they’re crinkle-cut. There is something magical about a crinkle-cut fry after a morning on the mountain. Maybe it’s the crunch. Maybe it’s the extra surface area for yellow mustard. Whatever the reason, I stand by it. A few generous squeezes of mustard and suddenly the body’s energy reserves begin returning to operational levels.

Of course, before the burger arrives, there should be a martini.

Not just any martini.

A dirty vodka martini.

And it must be stirred, not shaken.

Take it from President Bartlet. James Bond was ordering a watered-down martini and being snooty about it.

Cold enough to hurt your teeth.

Salty enough to remind you that hydration is a complicated concept.

This is the ideal scenario I encounter every winter at Bolton Valley. Or at least it was.

Because this is Vermont, where the weather occasionally forgets what month, it is.

On May 29, 2026, parts of Vermont received snow. Snow. In May. And somehow it followed us into June. At that point winter isn’t a season anymore. It’s a personality trait.

Now, buffalo wings are certainly a contender for the perfect après-ski meal. The problem is logistics. Once the gloves come off, things get complicated. Eat a plate of wings and suddenly your fingers are covered in sauce. Then someone asks, “Want another run?”

Now you’re trying to squeeze ski gloves onto buffalo-coated hands while pretending everything is under control. It isn’t. And let’s not ignore the emotional component.

Every basket of wings comes with celery and carrots, which sounds harmless until the negotiations begin. Some people want all the carrots. Others insist celery is superior. But really though. Who are these people? Do they actually exist in the real world, or only in my polite imagination? Friendships have ended for less. The debate is real. Feelings get hurt.

Then again, maybe I skip the burger entirely. Maybe I lean into my roots. Maybe après-ski means bistec empanizado with arroz y frijoles. A thin breaded steak fried until golden and served with rice and beans. No mojito. Just vodka. You know, for my asthma relief. Simple. Direct. Effective.

The mountain may be in Vermont, but the plate can absolutely be somewhere else.

That’s one of the great things about food. A ski lodge table can become a Latin kitchen, a French bistro, your grandmother’s dining room, or your nonna’s kitchen depending entirely on what arrives from the kitchen. Food travels even when we don’t.

And then there is the final decision. Dessert. Or one last drink. A generous slice of chocolate cake appears. Or perhaps another cocktail finds its way onto the table.

At this point the possibility of returning to the slopes has completely disappeared.

The snowboard can stay in the rack. Just pour me a drink. Bring another fork if necessary.

The afternoon is over. The gluttony has won gold. And honestly? I’m perfectly fine with that.

Because the best part of skiing isn’t always the skiing.

Sometimes it’s sitting around a table afterward, replaying every run, exaggerating every near crash, arguing over who found the deepest powder, and sharing a meal that somehow tastes better because you earned it.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself while ordering the cake.