"One of the secrets of life is to keep our intellectual curiosity acute." ~ William Lyon Phelps
Flashing pigs dance along the eave of the cinderblock building as the sun slowly drops behind the water tower on the horizon. Pinks and blues color the distant western sky as well as the prancing neon porkers in the foreground nearer to us. The sign, by far the most costly addition to this establishment, flickers to life.
Greeting us as we step through the entryway a portly man directs us past the register stand. Our host conveys us to a hostess that directs our party to a table along the wall. Our party finds the table and four obviously mismatched chairs to our liking. As we seat ourselves through a layer of polyurethane, faces gaze up from a collection of photographs and sports cards. Mixed among these images are ticket stubs from concerts and sporting events. One aging purple stub, several years old, grabs my attention, the New Orleans Jazz Festival. Closer examination of the tickets yield a much more eclectic mix than first impression, minor league baseball, college football, hockey, Reba McIntyre, B.B. King, festivals, fests, and cook-offs.
Over my shoulder, an alto voice asks a familiar question of the South, “Will that be four sweet teas?” No assumption of soft drinks, water or beer, we are below the Mason-Dixon if any one had wanted otherwise they would need to speak now or forever hold their peace. Speak up now or receive the “Elixir of Dixie”.
Photographs of local heroes and personalities adorn the walls, with images of regional landmarks thrown in occasionally. Scattered among those Kodak candid shots and Polaroid pretties are antique artifacts, each telling an individual story of a checkered past. One could spend hours soaking in all the clutter, or culture, depending on your point of view. This environment reminds us of days gone and lives spent. History is a fuller and richer experience outside the pages of some book you remember from golden rule days.
“What’ll y’all have?” chimes the waitress gliding up next to me. I have not even glanced at the bill of fare to sort out the choice of side items. While my companions select their respective feasts, I closely examine the menu. Nothing to be found there unusual or life altering. However, the marinated coleslaw looks interesting. Not everyone dishes up baked beans that tickle my fancy. Sometimes, less really is more. My decision is to opt for fries and the coleslaw to accompany my large barbecue plate.
Over the din of kitchen noise and conversation my ears detect the strains of BB King and Eric Clapton playing through the sound system. This is becoming a truly positive experience. Smoked meat and Delta Blues are made to be enjoyed with the same breath. As the notes drift from table to table, patron to patron, the beat tantalizes and amuses as it aids in passing the time from order to delivery. An establishment such as this will tease and tempt all of your senses. Hickory and pecan woods each have a distinct aroma when used as fuel for a slow cooking pit. Years of smoking meat in that pit permeate the boards, bricks, mortar and shingles of the building. Along the sensual scale, my eyes and ears slip far below my overloaded olfactories. I hope that these temptations brought on by my sense of smell will be rewarded by my taste buds.
Anticipation builds as we await our meals. Absorbing every moment of this anticipation prepares me for my feast. Other diners do not even suspect as I gaze and evaluate their plates attempting to determine what triggered their decision. They are oblivious to my espionage.
Suddenly, I hear the sound of tinkling of ice as the waitress refills our drinks and utters and apology, “I’m sorry for the wait, but Friday nights are a real ‘booger’”.
I spy a weathered Frostie Root Beer sign, with the characteristic elf, next to an autographed baseball. My curiosity drives me to examine it closer, checking it for authenticity. Aging relics are used to create a measure of ambiance. Americans crave atmosphere, an experience, an event or a happening. Corporate America and its simulation of this experience are endangering these authentic locations. They are planting cookie cutter imitations of real “joints” delivering sterile versions of this atmosphere to society. Spotlessly clean simulations of old joints, shacks, roadhouses attempt to give young Republicans a taste of the forbidden. Without leaving the safety of suburbia or the mesmerizing malls of America, you cannot truly experience this joy, this satisfaction, this atmosphere. Corporations continue to strive to imitate this feeling by using flea market purchases and reproductions placed strategically to create the level of ambiance.
Dining is one of the rites of humanity, not just protein for survival. Not just nourishment, but socialization with each other. An interaction between human beings. I imagine ideas can be idealized, tales told, flirtations can also be felt, and egos be entertained at any dinner table. However, these “homey hold outs” are our oasis from the sameness of those corporate giants. Just how different is TGI Friday from Ruby Tuesday or Applebee’s? Don’t expect sameness if your choice is between Johnny’s Barbecue and the Top Hat. Each experience can and should be an adventure.
Over the years, being flung around the country I’ve pleasured and experienced many local color establishments that really tickled my fancy. Uniqueness, for its own sake has not been squandered on me. When I sit in remembrance of these places, I enjoy them over again and share them with those I know. Hot links in Louisiana, Chuy’s Tex-Mex in Texas, Schnitzel in Kentucky, Tenderloin and Milkshakes in Tennessee, Catfish in Mississippi, Seafood in South Alabama or Pomme Frites with Anthony Quinn in NYC. Each place has a special place and special memories.
The aroma of plated barbecue disturbs the air as the server hefts the oversize platters onto our table. I envy the choices of my tablemates. Baked beans never looked or smelled as tempting as those across the table do tonight. A quick prayer of thanks is then offered for the bounty before us. A little polite conversation breaks the anticipation and the feast is on. Neither the aroma nor wait has been in vain. The food has lived up to its aromatic billing. The ambiance and atmosphere converted the short wait into a pleasant adventure.
After what seems to be hours later I rise with my friends to leave and pass the weathered glass showcase. A mixture of Clorets, Certs, and Wrigley’s gum join t-shirts and bottled sauce on the shelves of the showcase. Hanging above and behind the cash register, on a makeshift clothesline are samples of the t-shirts in the showcase. America’s contribution to the fashion world, the t-shirt comes in many styles and colors. These proclaim the prominence of the barbecue from this business. Some are humorous. Some are serious. Some are just colorful.
Greeting us as we step through the entryway a portly man directs us past the register stand. Our host conveys us to a hostess that directs our party to a table along the wall. Our party finds the table and four obviously mismatched chairs to our liking. As we seat ourselves through a layer of polyurethane, faces gaze up from a collection of photographs and sports cards. Mixed among these images are ticket stubs from concerts and sporting events. One aging purple stub, several years old, grabs my attention, the New Orleans Jazz Festival. Closer examination of the tickets yield a much more eclectic mix than first impression, minor league baseball, college football, hockey, Reba McIntyre, B.B. King, festivals, fests, and cook-offs.
Over my shoulder, an alto voice asks a familiar question of the South, “Will that be four sweet teas?” No assumption of soft drinks, water or beer, we are below the Mason-Dixon if any one had wanted otherwise they would need to speak now or forever hold their peace. Speak up now or receive the “Elixir of Dixie”.
Photographs of local heroes and personalities adorn the walls, with images of regional landmarks thrown in occasionally. Scattered among those Kodak candid shots and Polaroid pretties are antique artifacts, each telling an individual story of a checkered past. One could spend hours soaking in all the clutter, or culture, depending on your point of view. This environment reminds us of days gone and lives spent. History is a fuller and richer experience outside the pages of some book you remember from golden rule days.
“What’ll y’all have?” chimes the waitress gliding up next to me. I have not even glanced at the bill of fare to sort out the choice of side items. While my companions select their respective feasts, I closely examine the menu. Nothing to be found there unusual or life altering. However, the marinated coleslaw looks interesting. Not everyone dishes up baked beans that tickle my fancy. Sometimes, less really is more. My decision is to opt for fries and the coleslaw to accompany my large barbecue plate.
Over the din of kitchen noise and conversation my ears detect the strains of BB King and Eric Clapton playing through the sound system. This is becoming a truly positive experience. Smoked meat and Delta Blues are made to be enjoyed with the same breath. As the notes drift from table to table, patron to patron, the beat tantalizes and amuses as it aids in passing the time from order to delivery. An establishment such as this will tease and tempt all of your senses. Hickory and pecan woods each have a distinct aroma when used as fuel for a slow cooking pit. Years of smoking meat in that pit permeate the boards, bricks, mortar and shingles of the building. Along the sensual scale, my eyes and ears slip far below my overloaded olfactories. I hope that these temptations brought on by my sense of smell will be rewarded by my taste buds.
Anticipation builds as we await our meals. Absorbing every moment of this anticipation prepares me for my feast. Other diners do not even suspect as I gaze and evaluate their plates attempting to determine what triggered their decision. They are oblivious to my espionage.
Suddenly, I hear the sound of tinkling of ice as the waitress refills our drinks and utters and apology, “I’m sorry for the wait, but Friday nights are a real ‘booger’”.
I spy a weathered Frostie Root Beer sign, with the characteristic elf, next to an autographed baseball. My curiosity drives me to examine it closer, checking it for authenticity. Aging relics are used to create a measure of ambiance. Americans crave atmosphere, an experience, an event or a happening. Corporate America and its simulation of this experience are endangering these authentic locations. They are planting cookie cutter imitations of real “joints” delivering sterile versions of this atmosphere to society. Spotlessly clean simulations of old joints, shacks, roadhouses attempt to give young Republicans a taste of the forbidden. Without leaving the safety of suburbia or the mesmerizing malls of America, you cannot truly experience this joy, this satisfaction, this atmosphere. Corporations continue to strive to imitate this feeling by using flea market purchases and reproductions placed strategically to create the level of ambiance.
Dining is one of the rites of humanity, not just protein for survival. Not just nourishment, but socialization with each other. An interaction between human beings. I imagine ideas can be idealized, tales told, flirtations can also be felt, and egos be entertained at any dinner table. However, these “homey hold outs” are our oasis from the sameness of those corporate giants. Just how different is TGI Friday from Ruby Tuesday or Applebee’s? Don’t expect sameness if your choice is between Johnny’s Barbecue and the Top Hat. Each experience can and should be an adventure.
Over the years, being flung around the country I’ve pleasured and experienced many local color establishments that really tickled my fancy. Uniqueness, for its own sake has not been squandered on me. When I sit in remembrance of these places, I enjoy them over again and share them with those I know. Hot links in Louisiana, Chuy’s Tex-Mex in Texas, Schnitzel in Kentucky, Tenderloin and Milkshakes in Tennessee, Catfish in Mississippi, Seafood in South Alabama or Pomme Frites with Anthony Quinn in NYC. Each place has a special place and special memories.
The aroma of plated barbecue disturbs the air as the server hefts the oversize platters onto our table. I envy the choices of my tablemates. Baked beans never looked or smelled as tempting as those across the table do tonight. A quick prayer of thanks is then offered for the bounty before us. A little polite conversation breaks the anticipation and the feast is on. Neither the aroma nor wait has been in vain. The food has lived up to its aromatic billing. The ambiance and atmosphere converted the short wait into a pleasant adventure.
After what seems to be hours later I rise with my friends to leave and pass the weathered glass showcase. A mixture of Clorets, Certs, and Wrigley’s gum join t-shirts and bottled sauce on the shelves of the showcase. Hanging above and behind the cash register, on a makeshift clothesline are samples of the t-shirts in the showcase. America’s contribution to the fashion world, the t-shirt comes in many styles and colors. These proclaim the prominence of the barbecue from this business. Some are humorous. Some are serious. Some are just colorful.
Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble comes out of the sound system as we exit the door into the parking lot. Just an exclamation point on a near perfect evening! It really does not matter whether its barbecue, hot links, fried chicken, catfish, soul food, seafood, or your favorite ethnic place, a little food and music between friends is perfect. Oh, If you recognize the place from the story, let me know where it is, ‘cause I would like to try it.
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