The Penny Path Cafe & Crepe Shop

Located at 104 East Martin Luther King Jr. Drive in downtown High Point, The Penny Path Café & Crepe Shop offers sweet and savory crepes and coffee drinks. The establishment is open Tuesday through Sunday.

Boasting an intriguing concept, colorful décor, and tasty food, The Penny Path could desperately benefit from a bigger location. This place is tiny, which wouldn’t be a problem if it were coffee-only. The scarcity of space, however, undercuts its appeal as a dine-in destination.

Fortunately that (and déclassé paper plates/plastic forks) is the only reason for complaint here. The staff are pleasant and were kind enough to let us come in a few minutes prior to the official opening time. The menu boasts plenty of options ranging from classic crepes (sugar, honey, Nutella, suzette) to more fanciful sweet (fruit cheesecake) and savory (pizza, red pepper) concoctions to the bold Kitchen Sink (a multi-cheese/spread/veggie behemoth). 

My wife and I went with the Mandarin Dreams (cream, mandarin oranges, Nutella, and shaved coconut) and the fruit cheesecake (cream, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, and honey with a chocolate drizzle). Both crepes were under $8, generously portioned and very, very good. The fruit cheesecake was sweet without being cloying, and the berries paired nicely with the chocolate and cream. I would not hesitate to reorder though the savory side of the menu merits exploration as well.

The twenty-person (or fewer) seating capacity combined with its popularity conspire to make frequenting The Penny Path a challenge, but if you are blessed with patience and/or stop by at an off hour, the crepes are worth it.

Furious Hours

Casey Cep’s first book is a true crime account with seemingly limitless amounts of intrigue. Divided into three sections, it focuses alternately on the Rev. Willie Maxwell, attorney Tom Radney, and Harper Lee and a series of crimes in 1970s Alabama that serves as a point of convergence. Maxwell, a rural black minister, acquires a sinister reputation after a succession of wives and other relatives die in mysterious “accidents” and he cashes in on multiple insurance policies. Never convicted, Maxwell is nonetheless the subject of ceaseless gossip up until he his gunned down at the funeral of one of his suspected victims. Radney, a politically connected liberal lawyer, represents Maxwell and helps him sue reluctant insurers. But after years of defending the sinister minister, he then becomes counsel for the reverend’s killer, Robert Burns. Lee, fame-averse and ambivalent about the smash success of To Kill a Mockingbird, travels from New York back to Alabama to get the story but finds tight-lipped locals and a disheartening amount of innuendo.

Blessed with lively prose, Furious Hours succeeds in mining its characters’ contradictions and complexities albeit sometimes at the expense of sustaining tension. Biographical detours into the pasts of Radney and Lee help frame them as tragic figures (Maxwell not so much), but in doing so, the book loses the central thread of the Burns trial. In Radney’s case, this fleshing-out shows the dichotomy between courtroom bully and a gracious gent run out of politics by Klan-aligned forces. In Lee’s case, it reveals a witty writer and skillful researcher embittered by taxes and a loss of privacy. The latter’s tale isn’t anything new to Lee devotees, but it still does her justice.

While Furious Hours will disappoint some by straying from Maxwell-related malfeasance and others by including Lee almost tangentially, the hybrid true crime/character sketch approach is, if nothing else, refreshing.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

By 1969, Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) is a former TV Western star turned failed film actor and alcoholic, reduced to taking villainous guest star roles that play on his former fame. He is supported by his best friend and erstwhile stunt double Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), a war veteran and alleged wife killer who works as Rick’s valet. When Rick learns that Roman Polanski (Rafal Zawierucha) and Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) have moved in next door, he begins plotting a comeback. Meanwhile, Cliff crosses paths with a young hippie woman (Margaret Qualley) whose “family” is staying out on an old movie ranch.

Excess has been a constant in Quentin Tarantino’s long and varied career, but the nature of that excess has changed considerably. In the 1990s, it was profanity and violence, but for the past decade, it has largely been character-building conversations. Whereas his previous outing, The Hateful Eight, was a tense though largely bloodless buildup to a gory final third, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is a loose, ambling, often comedic romp that saves its barbarity for a few scant, explosive moments toward the end.

A devotee of B-movies and genre entertainment, Tarantino could not have asked for more suitable subject matter, and from an aesthetic standpoint, he absolutely nails the setting. The cars, the clothes, and the music are obvious cues, but the film’s bright palette and even the title fonts all scream 1960s Hollywood. This makes the scenes that step outside of that bouncy, boozy milieu – a visit to the Manson Family-occupied Spahn Movie Ranch is singularly creepy – all the more jarring.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is also absolutely awash in trivia, in-jokes, and meta-references. Rick thumbs his nose at Italian-produced spaghetti westerns and their questionable production values, yet this movie owes a debt beyond its title to Sergio Leone. When Rick lands a guest starring spot on Lancer, who should appear as gunslinging series lead James Stacy but Timothy Olyphant, referencing his trigger-happy turns as Seth Bullock (Deadwood) and Raylan Givens (Justified). Kurt Russell (also the film’s narrator) and Zoe Bell show up as a husband and wife stunt coordinator team, a play on their opposing turns in Tarantino’s earlier Death Proof.

For the most part, the film is impeccably cast. DiCaprio can go from self-pitying to stone drunk to intensely determined at will, and though she isn’t given nearly as much material to work with, Robbie makes for a vivacious and (according to the slain actress’s sister) very convincing Tate. Newcomer child actress Julia Butters holds her own as a serious young thespian opposite Rick on Lancer while former child actress Dakota Fanning is unrecognizable – and unhinged – as Squeaky Fromme. The likes of Al Pacino, Bruce Dern, Luke Perry (in his final role) and others show up as well though the film is sorely missing a Samuel L. Jackson appearance, and Steven R. McQueen may have fared better as his namesake grandfather than Damian Lewis.

Stellar cast aside, some elements of characterization strike a false note. Bruce Lee (Mike Moh) is disrespectfully portrayed as a braggart while Tate’s friend/ex-boyfriend Jay Sebring (Emile Hirsch) comes across as an immature, opportunistic weasel despite being a Korean War vet and a very successful hair stylist. Perhaps the biggest question mark is Cliff, who is treated like a weird loser by nearly every character besides Rick despite being a very competent driver and fighter who looks like Brad Pitt.

Even more divisive, however, is the film’s ending, which focuses on an infamous August night on Cielo Drive. It is as gory as expected but definitely not in a way that is expected. Whether Tarantino is trying to write the history he would have wanted to see it happen or whether he is trying to make a statement about overt chaotic evil vs. entrenched yet concealed malevolence is anyone’s guess.

Some have speculated that Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is Tarantino’s reaction to a midlife crisis: a middle-aged white guy pushing back against notions of his own irrelevance. But one needn’t have any sympathy for Rick or Cliff or see in them any rectitude to find their misadventures, long and drawn out as they may be, thoroughly amusing.