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During the first twenty-something years of my life in Starkville we certainly ate at restaurants from time to time. But there are not a lot of vivid taste memories from the first decade, particularly of dishes that were especially good. I guess that’s normal for a kid. Bad memories are few and far between as well, save that one oyster at Shoney’s and a spoiled carton of chocolate milk at the Ward Elementary cafeteria that still inspires full body shivers.

As I progressed through high school the scene began to change. Early prom dates were honored with the cafeteria trays of the Western Sizzlin’; later ones got treated to the original location of Harvey’s. (Thank you Mr. Bean. Thank you so much.) Aside from the mainstay of Starkville Café, other places with memorable food began to pop up – Oby’s, Little Dooey, Bulldog Deli – places that I looked forward to coming back to over the next two decades when I lived far, far away. Four years ago, when we moved back to Starkville the scene had changed again. We got chefs.

I know I’m probably going to get in some trouble saying this, so allow me this disclaimer. There were bound to be some chefs in Starkville in the seventies and eighties. Surely. But I wasn’t aware of them, and though good restaurants were discussed, individual chefs were not. Now, however, American culture has evolved from Julia Child and Yan Can Cook to the Food Network and Cooking Channel. Chefs have become celebrities and our taste buds are the beneficiaries.

Beyond the celebrity aspect, chefs have become competitors, and it’s not limited to Top Chef, Man Vs Food, or the Next Food Network Star. Since my return to Mississippi I have been involved as a judge, coordinator, describer or eater in at least seven different cooking competitions in Starkville alone. The most recent was the Starkville Area Arts Council’s Forks and Corks event at Magnolia Manor. And let me just say…we got chefs.

There were prizes, and I’ll tell you who won what as we go along. But for the sake of fairness, I’ll describe everything in the order in which we wandered.

The first dish we chose was the fig ice cream from Chef Paul Brasfield at BIN 612. Dessert first, you say? Oh yes we did. We are adults. And it didn’t ruin our dinner one little bit. (Kids, don’t try this at home.) Chef Paul won the Presentation medal for this one: local fig ice cream with caramel and candied pecans, served over lemon sponge cake and finished with a local berry coulis. I’m not sure I’ve ever had fig ice cream before, but by golly if I ever have a chance again I’m going for it. People were still talking about it the next day. Hopefully, if there is a next time, Chef Paul will let me bring my Jethro Bodine-sized ice cream bowl and fill ‘er up.

Chef Paul Brasfield and his BIN 612 Crew

Next up was the Veranda. Chef Jay Yates took a simple Southern staple and gave it serious pizzazz. The base was a thick slice of Lancaster Farms green tomato, battered and fried as God intended. On top of that was a little mound of king crab and avocado salad, adding a rich, creamy element to the tart crispiness of the tomato. Then on the sides were two different sauces: cilantro lime hollandaise and sriracha honey aioli. I’m the kind of person who likes having choices, but doesn’t particularly like choosing. So I appreciated having both sauces – with the salad on top, I could create all kinds of unique bites, all good. My comment to the wife was that this was something I would definitely order at the Veranda.

Veranda’s Fried Green Tomato with King Crab/Avocado Salad

On the other side of the room, Chef Matt Bronski was dishing out the Harvey’s interpretation of one of my favorite dishes of all time. They called it Mississippi Gulf Seafood and Low Country Cheese Grits, but even that long name doesn’t begin to describe the plate. The grits were simple, cheesy and creamy, topped with butter-poached shrimp and lump crabmeat. But there was also a touch of cherry tomato salad with cucumber and fennel, and a little baby spinach on the side – all that in a pool of tasso ham, andouille sausage, and bacon gravy. But wait! There’s more! The grits were surrounded by a ring of flaky phyllo dough with dill pressed between the layers. As The Wife noted, there was a lot happening on this plate, and it was all right up my alley.

Harvey’s Low-Country Seafood and Grits

Down the hall we found Chef John Fitzgerald of Restaurant Tyler, who won the Best of Forks and Corks (chosen by the guests) for his Smoked Catfish Tamale Cakes served over tomatillo salsa verde and topped with house-smoked bacon confit, herb crème fraiche and Vardaman sweet potato chips. I’m not a big tamale guy, but I could surely come to love them if they were all made like this. Bacon confit: French technique, meet Southern goodness.

The last savory dish was prepared by Chef Leon Jefferson from Central Station Grill, who won the medals for Best Taste and Originality. It was surf and turf like I’ve never seen before. Pan-seared bay scallops wrapped with smoked brisket, a balsamic-infused white barbecue sauce, and Florentine potatoes. I hate to say it, Bacon, but your days of monopolizing the scallop-wrapping business might be over. This worked.

We started with dessert; we ended with dessert. Chef Barbara Vasser from Aramark began with a base of sponge cake, added a thick layer of what she called cheesecake mousse, another layer of strawberry cheesecake mousse, and finished it with a drizzle of strawberry daiquiri sauce. Cool, creamy, and just right for the warm summer night.

We are Starkville. And we got chefs.

Next time I go to Baton Rouge, I hope I’m not in a big hurry. A few months ago I had a couple of days notice before I travelled – time enough to get a hotel reservation and pack my bucket lists. That one worked out just fine: thin-fried catfish, turtle soup, and some fresh boudin made for a memorable journey. On my return trip several weeks ago, I got word at two in the afternoon that I had an appointment at 9:15 the next morning. This was a little more challenging, but not to worry – I found something to eat.
On this second trip, though the departure was late, I had already checked in with Aunt and Uncle in Baton Rouge to make tentative housing arrangements. My arrival would be well past the normal dinner hour, but they very generously waited on me to eat – and I was very happy that they did. We dined on cashew-encrusted crappie that Uncle had caught himself. The original recipe called for macadamias, but after experimenting with various nuts they had settled on cashews. I ate more than my fair share, and would have surely kept going had the hour not been so late. I suppose a new tradition of eating fish the night before I have meetings in Baton Rouge has been set.
Around mid-morning, as I was completing my last business-related task, I ran across a little donut shop called Mary Lee Donuts. My kinfolk had provided breakfast for me, so it wasn’t like I was hungry, but I agree with comedian Jim Gaffigan: what does that have to do with anything when it comes to donuts? I could just tell myself they were for the road. Yeah, that works. I walked in and was faced with an unexpected choice. There were two apple fritters: one was baked and one was fried. Two thoughts came to mind. One: clearly these people didn’t know who they were dealing with. Though the baked pastry looked interesting (and huge), I’m choosing fried every time. And secondly, is it really a fritter if it isn’t “frite”? But I kept these thoughts to myself, smiled, and enjoyed my sweet, dense, fried fritter all the way home.
At that point, it was only about 10:30 and I was done with all I came to do (officially) in the capital city. But there was still some unofficial eating to be completed, and I wasn’t going to let a silly thing like the time of day hold me back. The night before, I had quizzed my kinfolk about where I could eat lunch. After my last trip, I had heard that Piccadilly cafeteria was known for having the best crawfish etouffee in town. They, too, were familiar with that story, but their son-in-law (which I suppose makes him my cousin-in-law) happens to be a chef, and on a previous visit had sought out a place called Bellue’s that was supposed to have great Cajun food. For this trip I chose cousin over cafeteria. I called to make sure they were open that early, and set my Gleaux-bal Positioning System towards the refinery.

Bellue’s Fine Cajun Cuisine, Baton Rouge, LA

I walked into Bellue’s Fine Cajun Cuisine to face an icebox full of sausage and other specialty foods ready to take home. (Thankfully, I have learned to keep a cooler in the car at all times for just such emergencies.) That would come later, but I made a mental note of a few things and turned to my left to study the menu. I make no claims to be an expert on Cajun food, so I asked the nice lady (who turned out to be a Mississippi native) what she recommended. One of the most popular dishes, and that day’s special, was the Crawfish Etouffee Supreme, described as rich, creamy gravy served on a bed of cornbread dressing topped with either fried shrimp or fried fish. The one other customer in the building assured me it was the right thing to do, adding also that I could count on getting at least two meals out of it. I was sold. And he was right on both counts. I found the combination of etouffee and cornbread dressing to be rather unique, the crunch of the fried shrimp adding even more flavor and texture to this Cajun comfort food. With the two sides (white beans with Tasso ham and smothered corn) plus a complimentary hush puppy while I waited, I didn’t even attempt to eat it all.

Crawfish Etouffee Supreme with Fried Shrimp

Since I was the only one around at the moment, I asked the nice lady from Mississippi about the restaurant’s history. Here’s the short version as I remember it: Mr. Bellue was a police officer who later opened a welding shop near the oil refinery, then began cooking for the refinery workers. Over time the food became so popular that Bellue’s turned into a full restaurant, catering service, and mail-order business. As I was winding down, Mr. Bellue showed up and brought out a piece of deep-fried boudin for me to try – a much better bite than any old boudin ball I’ve ever had. When I told him about my interest in all things edible, he invited me back to see his operation. While he made no claims to be a trained chef, he did admit to being a perfectionist. His recipes were precise. Much of his equipment was either invented by him or adjusted to fit his needs (i.e., made better) in his welding shop next door. His systems were set up for consistency and efficiency. I seriously think I could have walked in and been ready to work for him with a day or two of training. He told me that he did what he did out of love, and it showed in his food and his kitchen. I loved it, too.
Baton Rouge, I’ll be back.

Mr. Bellue and a Bunch of Boudin

For many years I was the traveler in the family.  My job overseas required a fair amount of international travel, and I didn’t mind that.  It was sometimes tiring and I would miss my family, but I still loved being able to say I had been to such-and-such a country, even if most of my time there was spent inside a meeting room.  Though I was in the air a good bit, most of the places I went were accessible in just a few hours and a couple of connections.

It was a different story for The Wife.  Travel was not her thing, but every now and then she took a turn.  But while I was flying next door (if you consider across the Red Sea to another continent “next door”), she would go places that took two days to get to, either because of distance (like Thailand) or bizarre flight schedules (like Cyprus, whose motto might as well be, “You can’t get here from there.”) This time she crossed the space-time continuum, lost a day in the process (but got it back later), and went to China, all just to bring me snacks.  What a woman.

Okay, she did see the Great Wall, Tiananmen Square, and a really big Apple Store.  But she didn’t bring any of that back home.  She did bring snacks.  To be fair, I also got a nice t-shirt that proved extra-large is not a universal size, a carved pig head on a string (for the barbecue lover in me), and a wire sculpture of a man playing a drum set.  All awesome.  And she brought snacks.

One of the things I learned in our years abroad (which you can also learn in the tasting room at the World of Coca-Cola) is that tastes vary from country to country.  The formula for Coca-Cola is not necessarily the same in Djibouti (and they drink a lot of it) as it is in Jamaica or Japan.  In the Middle East we got Mango Tang.  Not only does it taste delicious, it also rhymes.  Some of the fun stuff The Wife brought back from Beijing fits the same pattern: familiar name, unfamiliar flavor.  For instance, Daughter got a roll of grape-flavored Mentos.  Mine was called “Fresh Cola.”  That was a bit scary, given that a roll of minty Mentos dropped in a Diet Coke will produce an instant fountain.  (Kids, do try this at home, but only with adult supervision.)  What would happen in my mouth if the Mento and cola were already combined?

Same song, different verse for the Lay’s potato chips.  The barbecued steak flavor was very similar to our barbecue chips here.  The cucumber chips tasted pretty authentic.  The “Little Tomato” chips reminded me very much of the ketchup-flavored chips we used to get at the same store where we bought the Mango Tang.  Then there was the Cheese Lobster bag.  They were cheesy.  And lobstery.  Not awful.  And much better than the Fried Prawn chips.  Insert full body shiver here.

Fun F-Lay-vors

I also got a bag of something labeled “Hawthorn Pearls.”  The picture of the fruit on the bag looks something akin to a cherry.  The candy inside turned out to be a narrow fruit roll-up kind of thing.  The flavor was fruity – that’s all I could say – and according to the ingredient list it consists mostly of Hawthorn.  And my research assistant (we’ll just call her Siri) found out that the Chinese Hawthorn is very much like our Mayhaw, seen every now and then in jelly form.

The prize for most interesting, however, had to be the duck wings.  Yes, I got a bag of individually wrapped duck wings.  I opened the first one and took a small bite.  Not bad, but before taking another bite I rinsed off the gel in which it was encased.  If you are not familiar with this kind of gel, buy a cheap canned ham.  You’ll figure it out.  And after a few bites I realized, that’s what these duck wings taste like: cheap canned ham.

Duck Wings

I was really proud of The Wife for thinking so far outside the box with these souvenirs.  Then she began to tell me the tales of what she had eaten.  I admit that I was a bit jealous.  Let’s see if you are, too.

We didn’t get to talk a lot while she was gone, but when we did, we made it count.  Like the time she said, “I ate dog today.”  As the story goes, some of her traveling companions decided they wanted to try it and set out to find some.  It wasn’t easy, but they eventually found a place that served it.  She said it tasted like greasy roast.  And if you are wondering, these are not just random pooches hijacked from the street – they are raised for food.  That may not make you feel better, but it was worth a try.

I didn’t think she could possibly top that, but I was so, so wrong.  An American they met while there took them out to eat, and ordered a meat-filled dumpling.  They asked her not to reveal the type of meat it was until they’d finished it.  And it was donkey.  Donkey dumpling.  Nice ring to it.

She did a lot of shopping at outdoor markets, where she found just about anything in the world that can be found.  Apparently you can find just about anything edible the world has to offer as well.  She could have had starfish, but it was too expensive.  Not so for the scorpion on a stick.  Or the seahorse on a stick.  Those were more affordable, and didn’t taste too bad.  And you thought I would deep-fry anything.

It’s Father’s Week. Like birthdays, I am a believer in extending the celebration as long as possible, especially when the celebration is about me (he said, humbly.) I’ve got my reasons.
Father’s Day, this past Sunday, was actually very unique. I could tell others thought it unique as well, at least based on the looks The Wife and I got as we sat alone for brunch at Restaurant Tyler. Without my kids. Without my father. On Father’s Day. Ironically, my father was with my daughter in another state, celebrating with my brother. I am good with that. Daughter called me in the afternoon to deliver her greetings, and when the awkward silences began to ensue, I asked her to hand the phone to Doc. Two birds with one call. Son was gone most of the day to Scout camp, where he is actually earning his own money rather than spending mine, so that was a pretty good father moment, too.
As for my progressive Father’s Day meals, they began on Friday night with a dinner at Julep Restaurant in Jackson – deep fried pimento cheese, fried chicken glazed with honey and rosemary, catfish tacos, Portobello fries. Not a bad start. Saturday morning at the Community Market provided a chocolate chip scone with a mint lemonade to begin the morning, then a sampling from Chef Jay Yates’ demonstration of smoked duck hash followed by cannonball squash pasta. A mango-peach smoothie from the Book Mart Café cooled me down after one of our warmer market mornings. Son was on a weekend break from scout camp that day, so we did an Almost-Father’s-Day supper at CJ’s Pizza and I got to order what I wanted, no guilt. For brunch on Sunday I got Chef Ty’s daily special, the Fried Green Tomato Eggs Benedict Biscuit and the always creamy cheese grits. Dessert was a lemon cupcake at Granny’s 97th birthday party. With all that good stuff behind me, that means I’m back on the wagon the rest of the week; a beach trip is on the horizon and I fear the black swimsuit on my pale skin might prompt cries of “Free Willy” if I enjoy too many more weekends like this.

Fried Green Tomato Eggs Benedict from Restaurant Tyler

Chef Jay Yates from The Veranda Slinging Duck Hash

 
Another side effect of having a quieter house this week has been time for reflection, and with Father’s Day on the horizon I had some time to ponder how food and father memories have become intertwined over these forty-something years. Daddy brought us to Starkville in late 1967. I left for a little while, but The Parents have been a steady presence here. Most folks know Daddy as a teacher. If you taught at TSAT (The School Across Town) between 1967 and 2001 you probably ran into him; if you were a student and needed math (hello, everybody) in that period there’s a good chance you had him or knew someone who did; and if you were in the junior/senior boy’s Sunday School class at First Baptist in the late seventies/early eighties, he was there, too. I didn’t take my math at TSAT, but by all accounts he was both tough and beloved.
When it came to the kitchen, however, the lessons were few and far between. Mama was the cook in our house, but over the years a few meals acquired his signature, and when it came to those, Mama happily handed over the apron.
My earliest memory of Daddy’s cooking was his now-famous lasagna. I seem to recall that Mama was off on a handbell trip, leaving Daddy to fend for two boys. He found a recipe on the side of the Skinner lasagna box, a recipe that would eventually be praised and requested over a legion of dinner parties, university snow-skiing trips, and church functions. But the genius in this recipe was Daddy’s secret ingredient. He snuck in a layer of pepperoni, and that, my friends, made all the difference. Pepperoni: it does a lasagna good. It’s not just for breakfast anymore; it’s what’s for dinner.
He is also pretty handy on the grill. His current specialty is pork loin; in earlier days it was steak. When I get ready to grill something, I break out the marinades and let the meat soak for a day or so. The spice cabinet gets emptied for the latest rub recipe I’ve come across. I’m pretty sure Daddy used salt, pepper and Worcestershire sauce. And yes, his steaks kick mine in the butt roast. Ditto for his chicken, something else he’s cooked in mass quantities, using a simple recipe borrowed from Bo Haynes.
When the Crock-Pot made its way to our house, Daddy took it over as well. In one of my first columns I shared the recipe for his Crock-Pot Barbecue. (Check the SDN archives for October/November 2010.) Since those days I have become a bit of a barbecue purist – some might even say snob. I look for smoke and I look for wood and I like the sauce on the side. His meets none of those specs. But it’s still pork, it’s still slow-cooked, and it still makes my mouth water when I think about it. It works.
On the flip side, I appreciate the fact that he will try just about anything I put in front of him. When I made sweet corn cake and corn ice cream for my birthday last year, out of all the family members subjected to it, he was the most polite in declining seconds.
Many who know us both have said, “You sound just like Jerry Reed.” I take that as a compliment. He retired from teaching math a long time ago, but when it comes to fatherhood lessons, I am still a student. And these days – as my own kids can testify – he is a little less tough, but just as beloved.