A reminder that luxury, in the right hands, tastes like home.
Have you ever stood in front of a refrigerator, the light humming, and somehow cobbled together a meal so good you surprised yourself into making it again? Now imagine if that refrigerator wasn’t a box in your kitchen, but the mouth of the mighty Pamlico, with all of Eastern North Carolina’s briny bounty inside: fresh seafood, garden-warm produce, and if you’re lucky, collards are in season.
Throw in Jamie Davis, an innovative James Beard Award nominated chef who’s traded in combat boots for kitchen clogs, an Army vet with discipline honed in places far from home, but a heart that’s never strayed from the sound of crab pots rattling or collard fields waving. Here, fishermen and farmers aren’t just suppliers, they’re co-conspirators, eager to see their handiwork land in the hands of someone who polishes a sweet potato like it’s the Hope Diamond.
And what a setting: The Hackney, a palace of imported marble and old stone, built as a bank in 1922, a place designed to make folks feel small in the presence of big money, now transformed into a temple for locally grown luxury, where the only paper backdrop is your menu and the only wealth measured is in flavor.
Dinner is three courses, but you get to choose your own adventure. They only ask you to order it all at once, so the kitchen can choreograph the evening, plates arriving in careful procession, like debutantes on a ballroom floor.
It starts humbly, as all good things do: an amuse-bouche of Cornbread, reminding you that even though you’re dressed in your Sunday best, you’re still in the South. Corn, the grain that built us, is celebrated here, served with a saucy reduction and honey butter sweet enough to hush any doubts about this place knowing its roots.
We started with the thing that called our name: the famous Collard Green Salad. Fresh local collards, chopped and toasted in a mustard-apple cider vinaigrette, tart apples and candied pecans, and topped with honeycomb that makes a plate worth buzzing about.
Then there’s the White Sweet Potato Bisque, a bowl of pure Southern elegance. Creamy, but never heavy, with notes of sweet potato and fried oysters so perfect they almost made us forget our manners. Trout roe and saffron-pickled shallots float on top, like little gifts from the river, while hushpuppies stand guard, daring you to call this anything less than refined.
The Fried Heritage Pork Belly was the kind of dish that proves restraint is underrated. Too many folks go wild with pork belly, slather it, sugar it, spice it up until you forget what you’re eating. Here, the meat takes center stage, with a cider cream sauce and apple gremolata that let the pork’s true voice come through. It was, frankly, like tasting pork belly for the first time, with none of the usual noise.
And then, the test. The dish by which all Southern chefs must be judged: Shrimp and Grits. Simple, but so easy to mess up if you don’t respect the grain and the crustacean. Chef Jamie knows when to flex and when to stand back, letting the grits and shrimp shine brighter than the sauce. It’s a tribute to nature, restraint, and about years of local wisdom. In short: pinkies were properly popped, y’all, but the flavor’s all down-home.
The Filet Medallions perched over a bed of collards with just enough kick to make you remember you’re in North Carolina, and confit potatoes so good you could almost hear the angels humming “Carolina in My Mind.” High class with just a little heat, the kind of dish that shows you can walk the line between country and couture.
Of course, the seafood is what shines brightest here. In a town that practically kisses the water, you don’t overthink the Flounder. Roast it whole, give it a blanket of chanterelle cream sauce, let the delicate fish sing against the sweet mushrooms, and suddenly even the fanciest sauce is just a supporting act.
Corn & Caviar to finish the dance: scoops of sweet corn sorbet that could’ve passed for our Grannies corn pudding, but frozen, nestled in Lusty Monk caramel, dusted with cookie crumble, and finished with Marshallberg Caviar. The sweet, creamy base gives way to those salty pops up top. a wild, brilliant contrast that tastes like North Carolina showing off.
When the plates are cleared and the candles burn low, you realize The Hackney isn’t just a restaurant, it’s a love letter to where we’re from, signed by every farmer, fisherman, and chef who ever cared more about flavor than fame. This is the rare place where elegance isn’t a mask, but a way of honoring what’s good and local. It’s where a collard leaf can get a standing ovation and corn wears caviar like a crown.
You don’t just leave with a full belly; you walk out a little prouder, reminded that a town on the Pamlico can hold its own with the best of them, and that luxury, in the right hands, tastes like home.
Go for the food, but stay for the lesson: in North Carolina, greatness is grown, caught, and cooked by folks who still say thank you to the sun and the rain. It’s planted deep, pulled from the water, and served up with a quiet confidence that doesn’t need to shout.
At The Hackney, every bite is proof that you don’t have to choose between high-class and homegrown, you can have both, right here on the river, with a little cornbread on the side.
And that’s the beauty: you come hungry, you leave grateful, and for a while, you remember that the richest flavors are the ones that taste like where you’re from.
The Hackney
192 W Main St Suite A
Washington, NC 27889
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