Tennessee Pedal-Pusher
A recovering food writer and a photographer head south in search of women chefs with stories to tell, traditions to share, and meals to cook
Day 6 & 7: Atlanta, G.A., Chattanooga & Memphis, T.N.
Heading out on a short run, just looking for someone: an eighty-seven year-old woman in Chattanooga who they say serves up a mean pile of onion rings.
That’s how our weekend begins, after we’ve gotten our caffeine fix. By now, both Melanie and I are back on the real stuff. My daily matchas are a thing of the past; Melanie has crossed over to the dark side and abandoned her decaf-drinking ways. Once again, I put out the Twitter call for Atlanta recs, and the kind espresso-loving people chime in. Empire State South is the first responders’ top choice; the restaurant appears to take its coffee program very seriously. What we don’t realize is that neither the restaurant nor its joe-to-go window is open at lunch time on Saturday. As luck would have it, we don’t have to figure this out because a flock of fellows has co-opted the courtyard outside the place (and seems to be borrowing its kitchen) for an impromptu party. They’re selling coffee and cooking up things in cast-iron skillets. While pork belly with butter beans and greens in a hot heavy pan won’t travel well, cookies will, and I pick up a chocolate chip and a malted vanilla for the road. (Even if the pork belly dish had been packed up in a picnic basket, if you’ve learned anything from following this travelogue, you know I was still going to opt for cookies.)
We suck down our iced liquid octane and head for the highway. It’s a good four-hour haul to Chattanooga, and when we step out of the car at 4 p.m., we are unprepared for the brutal heat that greets us. This is a blinding, assaulting sky; my pale-skinned Northern self feels a pang of sympathy for the vampire. Despite the boiling conditions, the door to the diner whose octogenarian owner we’re here to see is open. Fit as a fiddle, she’s perched at the counter of her establishment in a white blouse and khaki pants. She apologizes and tells us this is not the ideal photo op for her diner; most of the fifty-year-old (or older) jukeboxes that sit on every table have been sent out for repairs and the ventilation system broke down (that explains the open door). As we take in the scene, we realize we’re in a true mom-n-pop diner; it feels like a relic from the 1950s — a living time capsule.
Chef Number Seven isn’t really a “chef” in the traditional sense of that word, since she doesn’t cook professionally (never has), but this restaurant has her fingerprints all over it. Most menu additions are her idea, and, because this is a place whose staying power and appeal derive from an unfailing consistency and family involvement — that family extends past the immediate relatives and includes neighbors like the sisters who have run the designated breading station for twenty-seven years, or the waitress, who has been there for twenty-eight — what makes this restaurant what it is are the people who work there (most of all this feisty woman in front of us, who is on the premises every day).
At 4 p.m., all the round tables and booths are full, and they’re flanked by local families. I hear one mother telling her daughter she shouldn’t mind the kids in school who make fun of her for sticking to her Christian values, even if her older brother was given a hard time for being devout. At another table, a young couple is on a date. And walking through the door are two pairs of young parents with their assorted kids. They’re all white, I notice. You get the sense they’re all regulars. And Number Seven recognizes many of them. She’s losing her voice after a long day, but she sits with me and tells me the story of this diner, and how she and her husband came to own and run it. She was born within two blocks of it, and “played all over these hills,” she says as she points her finger around her to indicate the surrounding yonder.
She refuses to let us get back in the car without having tried the onion rings and fried shrimp on which the diner’s reputation is built. We have dinner plans, but we’re not about to hurt her feelings or leave before understanding the reason the folks waiting to sit down keep coming back. First thing, I’m nuts about the cocktail sauce that’s served with the seafood. It’s made, like everything else, from scratch, and they don’t play it safe with the horseradish; stuff is sharp, just the way I like it.
The tower of giant onion rings seems like it’d be an insurmountable mound to get through. After trying one, I see how easy it could be. The onion is sweet, and hasn’t gotten all dried out. Those sisters know what they’re doing, too. It’s a perfect batter. None of this fancy tempura we see nowadays, but also not that thick, bready tubing that weighs what should be a crispy, golden halo down. These have a certain lightness of fried being. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting such excellence. Should have had more faith.
We check into our hotel at around six. Meanwhile, with some help from my concierge, Twitter, I’ve figured out dinner. When I tweeted out a query about where to eat between Atlanta and Chattanooga (in case we needed a snack along the way), one @robmalexander, who had already weighed in on the morning’s coffee stop, said he didn’t know of anything en route, but that Chattanooga was his hometown and he was happy to provide dining tips accordingly. “Yes, please!” I replied, curious, although I’d made a reservation at Meeting Place, the more casual sister of its neighbor, St. John.
Ah ha, St. John’s! I’m feeling that much more confident in my decision.Once we’re seated at one of James Beard-nominated chef Daniel Lindley’s tables, with a bottle of wine ordered and a hunk of warm bread and whipped sorghum butter landed, I know I’ve made the right call. Lord almighty, is this Chattanooga’s answer to manna? The butter, is so soft, airy and muskily sweet; it melts on contact with the tongue. Then the loaf’s crust leaves just a hint of salt behind as its parting gift. The Niman Ranch pork is, possibly, even better, especially the belly, with its lacquered top, wobbly middle of fat, and tender-as-can-be bottom layer of flesh. It comes with a hill of miso-flavored rice atop which a fried egg rests. If you know anything at all, you know that yolk is meant to be burst, so it gushes. Then, you use your fork to drag the meat through the thick, yellow liquid, exploit that sticky substance to catch some rice, and before lifting the bite into your mouth, make sure you gently dip it into the sesame aioli — the chef put it there for a reason. If you run out of rice, you can always take some of that bread to sop up whatever mix of egg, doped-up mayo, and roasted pork remants is left.
When my new Twitter pal typed, “With any luck, maybe I’ll see you there…,” I assumed this meant he was in the area and thought it’d be fun to meet him in person, thank him for steering us so ably, and swap food stories. Alas, he is “out in Hixson,” but suggests we walk the Walnut Street bridge after dinner. After that meal, a stroll sounds grand. We pass on dessert, or, I should say, we put it off. We’ve heard tell of a place called The Ice Cream Show that, if you love soft serve and custom mix-ins, will probably sound like an act you want to catch. This sweet spot is on the other side of the aforementioned bridge. Well aware of Melanie’s fondness for Dairy Queen, I figure she’s going to go for my hike-n-reward scheme. Yup.
And off we march into the night. It’s cooler now, and we’re able to appreciate the city, and its bridges. Once again, Rob was right. Soonish, we get to the Show. I’m going to level with you all right here and now: I prefer hard-packed ice cream. Always. Frozen yogurt, though, I like all swirly and aerated. Melanie gets so many items mixed into her vanilla (dipped) cone-ful, that, when she offers me a taste, all I can discern is a lot of crunch and something minty. I try the coffee fro-yo and add cake batter and oreos. Truth: I’d rather be eating hot milk cake.
That night, after being kept up by a screaming baby in the room next door, I’ll dream that robot-zombies invade. They keep morphing from one movie star into another — as her eyes roll into the back of her head, Julia Roberts turns into Daniel Day Lewis, and then his eyes roll up there too. It’s all very confusing and scary. At one point, my mother’s eyes go white and I know she’s next. That’s when I’ll wake up.
Next day, the itinerary is as follows: Drive from Chattanooga to Brownsville and, after meeting Chef Number Eight, from Brownsville to Memphis. That’s a lot of mileage. If you look at a map, you’d think it’s a clean, straight line. Unfortunately, as Melanie, the force behind the wheel, explains, the way the roads are built, you have to follow a more triangular route, which takes longer than it should and necessitates a Nashville drive-by. I’ve never been to Nashville. Melanie keeps telling me how rad it is. And now — how cruel — we’re going to pass right by it.
Back to Sunday morning in Chattanooga, where it’s yet another hangover at a painfully early hour (it’s not like we’re going to Church for Chrissake). Ms. Dunea revs the engine, and we’re off. The path is peppered by signs advertising fireworks, and, every so often, guns. Not long after we’ve started, Melanie notices the gas gauge is low. We decide to pull into the next station. A few minutes later, our car starts to beep, and an orange light next to the glove compartment flashes. Wow, we must have less gas than we think. As soon as we see a truck stop, we turn off the road. Melanie begins to fill ‘er up, and my phone makes its text-message noise. I check it. I look up to see Melanie’s checking hers too. We’ve both received texts at the same time. And that’s when it all makes sense. That orange light, it wasn’t about gas. It was, as our phones are now telling us, an Amber Alert, which is what’s blasted when a child has gone missing — a six-year-old named Ryan. A shivering silence passes. There’s also a moment of twisted appreciation for technology. It’s brief.
Sobered, we get back on the road, and acknowledge that we need some kind of pick-me-up — okay, not “some.” We know our heads are pounding, limbs skittishly humming for coffee; we’re just ashamed of the dependency. Am I thinking what Melanie’s thinking? Is Melanie thinking what I’m thinking? Yes. Let’s get coffee in Nashville. Do we dare? You betcha. Not only that, there’s a pastry chef I’ve heard about in Nashville, whom, if by some chance, we could meet and, at record speed, interview and photograph for this project, it’d be quite the coup. Why not try? We’ve come so far, and, we’ve stayed on schedule the whole way through. Why not push it a little, tempt fate? I type out two tweets, one, to the masses, to find out where to get our caffeine, and another, to this chef, who neither of us knows. Since it is Sunday morning and most folks are probably still languishing in bed, or maybe seated in a pew, I do some google re-con on the coffee front. Crema is the clear favorite, and Melanie remembers it from her previous visits to Nashville. That’s one question answered. A few moments later, the phone signals a new message. Guess who has seen my tweet and has the day off? The pastry chef is who. But can she meet us, and within a half an hour, at Crema? Indeed, she can.
Crema’s iced coffee is so good, we both order seconds. I grab a few cookies, as always. She Who Is Now Chef Number Eight shows up and, voice recorder on, we have ourselves a chat. If we want to make it to Brownsville in time to meet She Who Is Now Chef Number Nine, there’s no time for lollygagging or gossip. Melanie needs to get her shot, and the best option on this Sunday morning is the chef’s house. We get into our respective cars, and, led by the biscuit champ, arrive at her home in record timing. That lady can drive, fast.
Melanie can shoot, fast; as quickly as we turned up, we’re out of there. And now, pedal to the metal, we’re zooming towards Brownsville. The better part of the day is spent like this, zipping along the freeway. I’m kind of thinking we’re badasses for having pulled off a last-minute addition to the roster, but, more than that, I, with my expired learner’s permit, can’t believe Melanie has been able to do all of this driving.
We get to Brownsville in the nick. If I thought Chattanooga was hot, I had another thing coming. The sun is ablaze and its effect stagnating. Lunch service is over, and our chef is winding down, sitting with her family, in the back of the restaurant. Thank goodness. I’d worried she might have forgotten or, worse, decided we weren’t worth her time. She didn’t sound all so very thrilled when I’d called a few hours back to remind her we were on our way. She seemed to have no recollection of our phone conversation a couple of weeks prior. After figuring out who I was (maybe) and what the hell I was talking about (maybe), she told me it was her birthday. Noted. Back at Crema, I have picked up a few bars of Asknosie chocolate with which I’m all probably too familiar (you ought to order some for yourself).
When we walk into the birthday girl’s restaurant, the first words out of our mouths are “Happy Birthday!” and, out of hers, “I greet everyone with a hug.” I get a big hug,and she, chocolate bars, and I know everything’s going to be just fine.
What I realize, as I interview her, is that she’s afraid to get too hopeful. The economy has slumped, and it hasn’t been easy for anyone, especially a restaurant owner. She has a steady customer base, true, but it’s not as though Brownsville is hopping; at 3 p.m., Melanie and I note that it resembles a ghost town. Plus, this chef’s not getting any younger (I’d guess she’s about sixty), and she dreams of retiring (or her version thereof — which involves her opening a bake shop where she sells her niece’s cakes). At this point, she has practically given up on getting recognition for her work, but, sure, she’d be pleased as punch to get some press, on someone’s radar.
I’m grateful to Helen Turner for sending me here, to this family restaurant, which is as good an example of one of those as yesterday’s Chattanooga diner. The difference is in the kind of food served, and the family involved. In Brownsville, we’ve missed a menu-less feast of fried, baked or dressed chicken, green beans, mac-n-cheese, pigs’ feet, neck bones,meat loaf, black-eyed peas, hog maws and yams. I would have given anything to taste any of it. It’s not that I don’t like onion rings or fried shrimp, but I can get decent versions of that stuff at home. And those onion rings and shrimp are being made with care and pride; I know that. The difference is the sense of place, and of passed-down traditions that I might have tasted, if we’d gotten to Brownsville before lunch was over.
Chef Number Nine is cooking the same food she had as a child, and that she prepared and brought out to her mother to eat when the latter was working in a cotton field. Does race come into play here? Maybe. Yes, No. Nine is an African American, and she has lots of black customers. But she has some white ones too (even if, as she notes, not a whole lot of them order the pig feet). And there are white people who grew up in the South eating pigs’ feet, and who have gone on to cook them. The Chattanooga restaurant-owner wasn’t one of these people, is all.
While the Brownsville chef gets her picture taken, I talk to her family — mostly women; her two sisters are there with their daughters, and one grandson, and they patiently answer my random questions (like, what kind of birthday cake are you baking?) while making fun of each other.
Then it’s time to go. Melanie and I get two more hugs, and it’s back in the car. When we finally arrive in Memphis, we’re exhausted. I try to get some work done in the hotel, while Melanie takes a walk over to the Peabody for a much-deserved whiskey. Dinner’s mostly unmemorable — not bad, but nothing to post about. (Maybe I was just too sleepy to pay attention.) We should have gone to Hog & Hominy, which Melanie loves (it was twenty-five minutes away), or from the same chefs, Andrew Michael Italian Kitchen (closed Sundays), or else, maybe Central (BBQ felt like a lot to stomach in that state of extreme, over-heated fatigue). That’s where you should go, and where I’ll go next time I’m in Memphis, after I’ve stopped in Brownsville for a hug and a heaping plateful.
