Screaming Yellow Zonkers II



A few weeks ago I wrote a column about one of my all-time favorite snack foods Screaming Yellow Zonkers.

Until then, I thought that Screaming Yellow Zonkers had been relinquished to the junk-food trash heap of history. I hadn’t seen them on supermarket shelves in years and had resigned myself to living a Zonker-free existence for the remainder of my days.

Then I came upon a magazine article that sang the praises of Screaming Yellow Zonkers. I Googled them immediately and found a company in Upstate New York that would ship them to me for $6 per box, plus shipping.

Six bucks, what a bargain, I thought. I hadn’t had a bite of one of the elusive butter and caramel coated popcorn snacks in 30 years. I ordered six boxes and planned to ration the allotment— only letting a few, extremely close friends try the product— to make sure that they lasted a long time. There was no guarantee that I would ever have the chance to eat a Screaming Yellow Zonker, ever again.

The column ran and the e-mails poured in.

I would have expected the correspondence to contain praise and accolades for doing the extensive research needed to track down such a hard-to-find foodstuff. Or maybe even a few queries as to where one might find a company that would send a box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers. Not so.

Most of the e-mail responses included lines such as, “You idiot. I was at the Dollar Tree today and they had a shelf full of Screaming Yellow Zonkers.” Or, “Why would anyone pay a New York company $6 per box plus shipping when you can go to the Dollar Store and purchase them for…you guessed it… ONE DOLLAR!”

After scraping my ego off the floor, I traveled to a local dollar store. They were right. Sitting on the shelf, only a few blocks from my home and office, were boxes of Screaming Yellow Zonkers. As the man said in his song, “So close, but yet so far.”

My first thought was to get to work on another column notifying everyone that Screaming Yellow Zonkers are alive and well and sitting on the shelves of their local dollar store. Then I worried that there might be a run on the candy coated popcorn and held off.

I cleaned the shelves in one dollar store and bought half of the stock from another before I wrote this piece. I am now hoarding 42% of the Hattiesburg area’s Zonker supply.

Now that my home and office shelves are fully stocked with dozens of 8 oz. black boxes of Screaming Yellow Zonkers, and my stash is intact, I can admit that I have quickly become addicted to the butter-glazed snack, and am in the market for a twelve-step program to help me with my snack consumption problem.

During the week that all of the e-mails were pouring in I received a note from Allan Katz, a California man, who was the award-winning creator of the original box, ad campaign, posters, and marketing of Screaming Yellow Zonkers, the snack that The New Yorker magazine called one of its best bets. After leaving the boutique agency that did the Screaming Yellow Zonker work, Katz traveled to Hollywood and became a writer and producer on some of television’s best shows including Mary Tyler Moore, Rhoda, All in the Family, Cher, M*A*S*H, and Roseanne.

In addition to designing the humorous copy on the box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers, Katz led the crew that designed an elaborate circus poster that was available in 1970 to those who sent in $2.95.

Actually, 35 years ago I sent $2.95 to the manufacturers of Screaming Yellow Zonkers and the poster hung on my wall for a number of years. I was saddened to learn in the letter sent by Katz that one of the posters recently sold on EBay for $5,000.00. It seems that. I am either paying too much for popcorn, or not holding on to my collectibles as long as I should.

Nevertheless, I’ve got my Zonkers stored under lock and key and I plan to keep the dollar stores in business for the next few years.

Watershed



How far will a man travel for a good piece of fried chicken?

The answer: 383.75 miles.

While attending a party in Atlanta last year, I was approached by numerous people on several separate occasions over the course of the evening. All asked one question: Have you been to Watershed? Some added …and have you eaten their fried chicken?

I had not been to the restaurant Watershed, although I was a fan of Chef Scott Peacock and his collaborative cookbook project with Edna Lewis, The Gift of Southern Cooking. The fact that all of these people were separately talking about one thing, Watershed and its fried chicken, roused my curiosity.

I told my traveling companions that after the cooking demo on the following evening, we would travel East on Ponce De Leon Avenue into neighboring Decatur, Georgia, and eat this fried chicken that everyone was raving over.

After arriving at Watershed we learned two things: 1.) The famed chicken is only served on Tuesday nights. 2.) We better get there early because it sells out quickly.

It was Wednesday, we were 24 hours late, and though we enjoyed an excellent meal of contemporary Southern cuisine in a very modish atmosphere, we weren’t able to order the fried chicken everyone had been talking about.

The meal that evening was outstanding. I remember a butter bean hummus that was served with a warm homemade pita. Someone in our group— maybe me— ate trout, another ordered an organic pork chop with greens and the most upscale macaroni and cheese I had ever tasted, and another ate chicken— but not fried chicken.

For eleven months I have lusted after the fried chicken at Watershed. I have talked to countless friends on numerous occasions of the three-day process used to prepare the chicken. I have planned road trips and tried to organize business meetings in the Atlanta area, all for naught.

Last week I was in Atlanta on a Tuesday. The day had finally come. I called Watershed and asked the receptionist for the earliest reservation available. She gave me a table for three at 6:45 pm. “Will there be any chicken left at 6:45?” I asked.

“Probably,” she said. I crossed my fingers.

We arrived at 5:30 pm and asked to be seated early. After 383.75 miles, I didn’t want to risk missing out on the chicken, again. She saw the desperation in my eyes and complied.

We all ordered the fried chicken which is served with mashed potatoes, garlic green beans, and two buttermilk biscuits. As I looked around the restaurant everyone was eating fried chicken. The full menu is available on Tuesday nights, but no one seems to care. They, like us, came for fried chicken.

Every Sunday the chefs at Watershed begin preparing for Tuesday’s fried chicken night by marinating 50 birds in a saltwater brine. On Monday, the chicken is transferred from the brine into a buttermilk marinade where it sits for the next 24 hours. On Tuesday, after three days of brine and buttermilk foreplay, all of the cook tops are lined with cast iron skillets filled with lard, a little bit of butter, and a touch of bacon grease.

A half of a bird is served. Only 100 orders are prepared, when they’re gone, one must wait until the following Tuesday.

As we were waiting for the chicken to arrive, I asked my dining companions, “Can you remember the best mashed potatoes you have ever eaten?”

“I can,” I said. They were eaten on March 2nd, 2005 on my first visit to Watershed.

One would think that a mashed potato is a mashed potato is a mashed potato. Not so. Think about it. Have you ever eaten mashed potatoes that were so good that you remember exactly where and when you ate them?

The chicken arrived. Eleven months had passed since I first heard of the famous three-day fried chicken process at Watershed. The build up had been significant. The pre-billing was considerable. Expectations were high. So many times these situations are ripe for a major let down. Not so with the Watershed chicken.

Each piece was perfect. The meat was plump and juicy, the crust was light and crisp, just like my grandmother used to make.

Isn’t that the gold standard for everyone’s fried chicken— will it be as good as my grandmother’s?

I am not prepared to say that the Watershed chicken was better than my grandmothers, but it was at least as good. And seeing that she passed away 15 years ago, this is the closest I will ever get.

Was it worth traveling 383.75 miles? Absolutely.

The Mint Julep


Rule number 237 of the 362 Undeniable Truths of the Deep South Restaurant Business is: True Southerners never drink mint juleps.

When a customer steps up to the bar in a Southern restaurant and orders a mint julep, we already know five things about him:

1.) He comes from North of the Mason Dixon line. Usually a state such as Rhode Island or Connecticut.
2.) He is amazed that everyone is wearing shoes down here.
3.) He thinks he is hearing a foreign language when the bartender uses the terms, “Ma’am,” and “Sir.”
4.) He will try to slip the word “y’all” into a sentence, but use it in the singular.
5.) He will make a hilarious lemon-squinted face once he tastes the mint julep.
6.) He will then order a glass of white zinfandel or strawberry daiquiri and ask when the next Civil War reenactment is scheduled.

Some Northern tourists believe the South is still nothing more than Gone with the Wind and Jim Crow. To those people, the Southerner falls into one of two categories: The poor, barefooted child walking down a dirt road, or Big Daddy in his seersucker suit sitting on the front porch of an antebellum mansion sipping a mint julep.

It’s ridiculous, and akin to saying that everyone from California is a surfer, everyone from Texas is a cowboy, and everyone from New York is rude. Well, two out of three…

Outside of Louisville, Kentucky on Derby Day, no one in the South drinks mint juleps (even on Derby Day, Kentuckians don’t enjoy them). People who say they like to drink mint juleps only enjoy the romantic thought of drinking mint juleps. At any rate, Kentucky is barely in the south and its proximity to Ohio leaves it suspect

My Aunt Virginia occasionally drank mint juleps, but she moved to Maryland in her youth and took to drinking scotch and milk later in life. I always supposed that anyone who could mix milk with scotch was suffering from lifeless taste buds to begin with. To her, mint juleps probably tasted fine.

In a word, mint juleps… suck. Maybe that’s three words, or it could be six, nevertheless, you get the picture.

Therefore, I submit for your perusal, The 10 Irrefutable Truths of Mint-Julep Drinking Tourists from the North:

1.) They will order a Coke by calling it a “Pop.”
2.) If they muster the courage to order grits, they will put sugar on them.
3.) Even though their mother has a double last name, they will make fun of the waitress’s double first name.
4.) They will be surprised when the iced tea arrives at the table already sweetened— and heavily so.
5.) They have more than likely contemplated vegetarianism at least once in the last three months.
6.) The waitress will think that they, too, talk funny, but will be too polite to say so.
7.) At least twice during the course of the meal, they will call a crawfish a “Crawdad.”
8.) They will remove the three cheeses, fried croutons, and all of the ham and bacon from the restaurant’s heart-healthy salad offering.
9.) They will have no clue that catfish is truly the other white meat.
10.) They will quickly learn that the best parking space was not the one closest to the door, which was puzzlingly available when they arrived, but the one way across the parking lot in the shade

Screaming Yellow Zonkers


In 1969 my Mom, a widowed art teacher raising two small boys on a limited income, taught painting classes out of a small studio room in our attic. Her students— various ladies from the neighborhood— learned how to paint mushrooms onto small blocks of wood using shades of avocado green and harvest gold.

Occasionally, I was asked to model while she demonstrated portrait painting. I usually found it hard to sit still for longer than 90 seconds, so mostly I planted fake vomit, and rubber dog poop around the studio for her students to find.

Mildred Puckett, a doctor’s wife— tall, fun, with a great sense of humor and a contagious laugh— was one of her students. One night Mrs. Puckett showed up with a black cardboard box and asked me if I had ever eaten Screaming Yellow Zonkers. “No, ma’am,” I said.

“Well try these,” she said. I did, and I was hooked.

Screaming Yellow Zonkers are my all-time favorite snack food. They hit the market in 1969, two years removed from the Summer of Love, and smack dab in the middle of the psychedelic era. A counter-culture snack aimed directly at the stoner crowd with a bad case of the munchies.

At eight-years old, I didn’t know what the munchies were, Mrs. Puckett probably didn’t either, but I knew that the Screaming Yellow Zonkers’ box filled with light butter-toffee-glazed popcorn tasted good.

For years I thought that Screaming Yellow Zonkers had been discontinued. Last week I learned that they are still being produced by Lincoln Snacks, the same company that manufactures Fiddle Faddle and Poppycock. I Googled “Screaming Yellow Zonkers” and found an outfit that would mail-order a few boxes to me.

The box was black. It still is. Actually, Screaming Yellow Zonkers were the first food ever to be packaged in a black box. The font on the box is pure vintage 1969. Best of all, Screaming Yellow Zonkers still taste great.

In 1969, there were two things I wanted to be when I grew up: An astronaut, and a hippie. When I learned that being a hippie took a lot less math and training, I decided to move in that direction. While most kids wanted a new bike, I wanted sideburns and a moustache. I actually ordered a pair of lamb-chop sideburns and a Dennis Hopper-style moustache from the back of an Archies comic book. I wore them to school and made it through three periods of the third grade before my teacher sent me, my sideburns, and my box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers to the principal’s office.

The counter culture intrigued me. I didn’t know where Haight-Ashbury was, but I knew it was a long way away from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Being eight-years old, and learning that mail-order sideburns were not the solution, I figured Screaming Yellow Zonkers were the closest I could get to hippiedom.

I would retreat to my room, crank up Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, turn on the black light, light some incense, and eat handfuls of Screaming Yellow Zonkers. Move over, Peter Fonda.

While the country was turning on and dropping out, I was doing my part. Little did I know that for the next few years, the closest I was going to get to being “turned on” to anything, would be the offer of Screaming Yellow Zonkers by Mrs. Puckett.

Alas, the obstacles of becoming the world’s first, and youngest, hippie astronaut.

Somewhere out there, my principal, Mr. Russell, is probably still locked in his office, strobe light on, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida blaring over the school sound system, wearing the confiscated fake sideburns and moustache, dancing wildly, and eating my box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers.

“Yes” + Touch = Memorable Meal



When dining in a restaurant and the chef approaches your table asking, “What are you in the mood for?” Your reply should be, “What do you recommend?”

If he or she then asks, “Do you want me to take care of you?” Your answer should always be an unequivocal, “YES!”

Not “Maybe,” or, “Well, if you want to,” or “What did you have in mind?” but a simple and quick, “Yes,” and sometimes, “Yes, please” and in certain instances, “Oh yes, please, oh please, oh please, oh please. Yes. Yes. Yes!”

This is the response you have stored away in your back pocket, the one you’ve been looking forward to using once again when the time was right. You have been waiting for months, years, sometimes decades, hoping for just the right restaurant, at just the right time, when the stars align, your cooking kismet and culinary karma have caught up with you, the restaurant gods are smiling down upon you, and the chef offers to put the fate of your dinner in his hands. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does— a moment of silence, please, while I remember my most recent meal at Restaurant August— it is a memorable event.

This moment hasn’t occurred if the guest has to ask the chef to “Take care of me.” Those dinners will be good, but nothing akin to the meal that follows the unsolicited offer tendered by the chef.

My wife and I were in New Orleans this past weekend, and dropped in on John Besh at Restaurant August. He stopped by our table and we caught up with each other, enjoyed some small talk mixed with meaty banter, and then it came: The question. “Do you want me to take care of you?”

After an excited, “Yes!” Besh retreated to his kitchen.

Minutes later the waiter stopped by the table and said, “So the chef’s gonna fix you up tonight?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well sit back, buckle your seatbelts, and enjoy the ride.”

I looked at my wife and said, “This is going to be good.”

John Besh is a genius. I don’t use that term flippantly, especially when it comes to the culinary arts. However, if the chef coat fits…

Our first course was a salad of heirloom beets, lump crabmeat, cherry-smoked bacon, quail eggs, and black-eyed pea croutons. It was the most memorable salad I have eaten since a frisée concoction prepared by Alfred Portale in his Manhattan restaurant, Gotham Bar and Grill, two years ago. Actually it might rank as one of the top three salads I have ever eaten in my life.

John Besh has excellent “touch.” One of the most important qualities a chef possesses is touch. It can’t be taught, it can’t be learned. It has to come from within, he or she is born with it. Good “touch” in cooking is knowing just the right amount to use, when to back off, and when to add in. Some have it, others don’t. Besh has it in spades.

The crabmeat and heirloom-beet salad was a prime example of good touch.

The second course arrived and my wife was served three separate oyster preparations: an oyster seared with country ham and truffle spoon bread, a crispy-fried oyster with Louisiana caviar, and a baked oyster served with an infused cream and Parmigiano reggiano. All were superb, the last being outstanding.

My second course will— from this day forward— be referred to as: “Death by Foie Gras.” On one plate I received four unique and inventive treatments of my favorite food, seared, grilled, smoked, and wrapped in the thinnest of five-layered pastries. I could have called it quits at that moment and the meal would have gone down in my top ten of all time meals, but there was more to come, much more.

For her third course, my wife was served a potato gnocchi (dumpling) with lump crabmeat and black truffle which once again reinforced the chef’s expertise and touch. The flavors were simple yet subtly amazing.

My third course was a dish of agnolotti (small stuffed pasta) filled with a crawfish reduction and tossed with fresh peas, sweetbreads, morels, and a small dice of the most intensely flavored smoked bacon I have ever tasted. The pasta was tossed in a cream-infused fish fumet that had— here comes that word— just the right touch.

Again, I could have stopped right there, but Besh wouldn’t have it.

Our fourth course was a fish course. My wife was served an almond-crusted sheepshead filet finished with a brown butter and crabmeat, while I received Loup-de-Mer (sea bass sometimes called wolfish) on top of a cauliflower puree finished in a truffle-infused veal stock reduction. Both were excellent.

After the fourth course, the server heard my wife and me moaning quietly (good moans, mind you) and instructed the chef to combine the upcoming meat and poultry courses. For our fifth and sixth combined courses we received a Moroccan-spiced duck breast with polenta, more foie gras, and dates. We were also served a Kobe beef short rib, a small fingerling potato filled with smoked marrow, and a petite filet mignon.

At this point I tried to remember if I had ever enjoyed a meal this much. Had Charlie Trotter’s been better? No. Had Gary Danko been better? No. Had any meal in New York or New Orleans ever been better? The answer again was, no.

It was during that epiphany that three dessert plates were set on our table. A chocolate tart with a small glass of warm spiced wine, a banana-rum cake with Creole cream cheese icing, and a plate adorned with a pear brulee, apple sorbet, a small candied apple, and a quince strudel. Stick a fork in him folks, he’s toast.

I could write for days of Besh’s skill, generosity, talents, and qualifications, but all of that information can be picked up on the website www.rest-august.com . What you should know is that he was born in Mississippi, raised in Louisiana, trained at the Harvard of cooking schools— the Culinary Institute of America— apprenticed in France, led a battalion in the Gulf War, worked at the Grill Room at Windsor Court, was chosen by Food & Wine magazine as one of the country’s top young chefs, and opened Restaurant August in 1999.

Besh’s August was the first New Orleans tablecloth restaurant to reopen (using actual tablecloths, silver, and china) after Katrina. He reopened only 30 days after the storm hit the city. In addition to operating one of the finest restaurants in the country, he has fed 1,100 displaced people— in three separate tent cities— breakfast, lunch, and dinner, every day.

Sitting in Restaurant August and witnessing one of the country’s top culinary talents at the top of his game was a pleasure I will never forget. It was a magical, humbling, and wonderful experience.

Always remember, if the chef asks, just say “Yes.”

Peanut Butter and Jelly


I took my son to a birthday party over the weekend. The kids ran and bounced in one of those blow-up jumpy things, drank some punch, and then ran and bounced some more. After a few hours of play time everyone was called to lunch: Barbeque and all of the usual accoutrements for the adults, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the children.

My son grabbed a couple of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and I made a plate of barbeque, although I was eyeballing his plate. Being an adult and wanting to make sure that each of the children got a sandwich, I resisted the pbj temptation and stuck with the grown up food. It was either that, or I just didn’t want to embarrass myself by eating kids food while there was plenty of “grown up food” available. More than likely it was the latter rather than the former.

In a conversation with a New Orleans food writer, legendary restaurateur, Dick Brennan, posed the question: “You know why kids like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? It’s because they’re good.” Who am I to argue with a Brennan?

I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I ate them almost everyday for the first six years of my life. They were just about all I would eat. I still eat them today. I own three restaurants and can eat whatever I want for lunch, but I go home a few days every month and eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with my wife.

For me, the peanut butter and jelly sandwich needs just a few easily acquired accompaniments to be the ultimate quickie lunch— an ice-cold glass of milk and a few Fritos corn chips. Fritos and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches go together like… well… like peanut butter and jelly.

The peanut butter and jelly sandwich would have been the perfect school lunch, except that school milk was never cold enough. Milk has to be at the just-above-freezing stage to properly accompany a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It is law: Red wine: 63 degrees, white wine: 53 degrees, milk: 35 degrees, no more, no less.

As a kid, I ate triple-decker peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I invented the three-layer sandwich way before McDonald’s came up with the Big Mac. Today, my children eat frozen, pre-made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They prefer the frozen ones to fresh. Unfortunately the frozen sandwiches don’t come in triple-decker sizes and my kids don’t know what they’re missing.

Early on I liked the crust cut off of my sandwiches. Today Ironkids makes crustless bread. My grandmother always cut the crusts off for me. There is just no end to a grandmother’s love.

Once, my mother was all out of grape jelly and had to use orange marmalade on my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I like orange marmalade on buttered English muffins but it is blasphemous to put orange marmalade on a six-year old’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

The criteria by which I select jelly has changed over the years. Early on I was only interested in the jelly-jar glass that the jelly came in. I had a full collection of Archies jelly-jar glasses. My mother was a Bama jelly woman. She swore by it. Today I use one of those all-fruit jellies.

For years, Jif was my peanut butter of choice. I had eaten Peter Pan on occasion, and in emergency situations, had eaten Skippy, but a 44-year old man has no business eating a product named “Skippy” (I have to draw the line somewhere).

Five years ago I wrote a column about peanut butter. I assembled a small panel and meticulously taste-tested all of the peanut butters available in my local grocery store. I was certain that my beloved Jif would win the day, easily. Ultimately, Reese’s (of chocolate-peanut-butter cup fame) won the taste testing by a mile. Today we only eat Reese’s. All hail George Washington Carver.

In this world you are either smooth eater or chunky eater. It’s like boxers or jockeys, one doesn’t vacillate between the two. I like it smooth. My brother was a chunky guy.

The peanut butter and jelly sandwich is comfort food to a six-year old. It is comforting food, even today.

Revival, Reopening, and Renewal



My last New Orleans meal prior to Hurricane Katrina was a lunch with my wife and children at K-Paul’s restaurant. I have often revisited that memorable experience during the stress and rebuilding of these last four months. For my first dining experience back in the city I wanted to return to Paul Prudhomme’s mainstay on Chartres Street.

After easily finding a prime parking space, my wife and I began our leisurely walk through the French Quarter. It was the Friday evening before New Year’s Eve and the city was eerily still. We passed a bar, usually loud and packed with tourists, only to find a lone bartender behind the bar and a cocktail waitress— palms in her chin— sitting on the only occupied barstool.

All was quiet on the restaurant front. There seemed to be more police than pedestrians. I commented to my wife that I felt safer than I have ever felt walking the streets of the Crescent City.

We turned at the Saint Louis Cathedral, headed South on Chartres, and were surprised that everything looked the same, though cleaner. As we approached K-Paul’s the sounds of a Zydeco band playing on the sidewalk echoed off of the centuries-old buildings. Chef Paul was greeting guests in front of the restaurant. A routine, I am told, he has been observing every evening since the reopening.

I have often stated that the shrimp creole, jambalaya, and etouffee, produced daily in the K-Paul’s kitchens are the finest examples of those dishes ever created… the gold standard. We began the meal with an appetizer portion of shrimp etouffee and a shrimp Rockefeller dish served on fried green tomatoes. The etouffee was dark, rich, and flavorful, and held up to all previous billing.

When a guy wants to know how the national monetary system works he goes to Alan Greenspan, when he wants to learn how to throw a pass he calls Brett Favre, when he wants to eat the world’s best gumbo, he looks no further than Paul Prudhomme. Our second course was a bowl of chicken and andouille gumbo, and I quickly reminded my self— for the 935 th time— why I love living so close to New Orleans.

As we finished our soup, the members of the Zydeco band, who had now made their way through the front door, began strolling from table to table. I have eaten many a jazz brunch; this was my first Zydeco dinner. Midway through the song, Chef Paul entered the dining room waving a white napkin and leading a conga line of customers. It was a surreal experience. “Only in New Orleans,” my wife commented.

The city felt alive again.

After entrees of expertly prepared blackened tuna and pan-fried drum, we skipped dessert, with hopes of visiting the newly reopened and virtually tourist-free Café Du Monde.

On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, I asked Prudhomme how his life had been impacted since the storm. “We have fed 35,000 relief workers since the storm,” he said, “We were the first tablecloth restaurant to (re)open in the Quarter.”

When I told him that his etouffee and Creole dishes were the finest examples of those dishes I had ever tasted, he replied, “It’s all in the stock.” I then commented on how his stocks were so intense, rich, and deep with flavor. His response was, “they have to be,” the food, like the man— no nonsense.

No one has impacted the nation’s regional cooking scene more than Paul Prudhomme. He is the most underestimated chef in America. He is much more than blackened redfish. Make no mistake, he is still the king. He packs more flavor and boldness into a dish that anyone I know.

Julia Child and James Beard were two of this country’s greatest culinary icons. Sadly, they are gone, which— in my mind— makes Paul Prudhomme America’s greatest living culinary national treasure. He has won countless culinary awards and accolades, lectured around the world, fed heads of state, given tirelessly to charities, written eight cookbooks, and produced six instructional cooking videos, two of which topped the Billboard charts for 53 consecutive weeks.

In these days of image-conscious and cleavage-bearing T.V. chefs, designer foams, elaborate vertical presentations, and salads made with fiddlehead ferns, it is refreshing when a world-class chef sticks to the basics. Prudhomme has the knowledge to prepare any type food he wants. Lucky for us, he stays true to his roots.

While walking past the Saint Louis Cathedral a military Humvee stopped in front of the church and six National Guardsmen stepped out. As we spoke to the soldiers, bells began chiming at the Cathedral. Of all of the times I have been in that area, I have never heard a bell ring. I don’t know if the carillon has always been there, or if the bells have been installed since the storm. Either way the sound was beautiful, signaling the end to a perfect night in the city, and heralding a fresh start with good things to come in the upcoming year.

Robert’s Top Ten 2005


As is the tradition in this column, every December I compile a list of the top ten dining experiences I enjoyed over the past year. The list is never based on price or atmosphere. I believe that good food can be served in a fine-dining environment or in a run-down diner. The only considerations are good food and good friends, which always lead to a good time.

This year’s culinary experiences took me from dining in the top restaurants of New York and San Francisco to eating pressed meat sandwiches in the heat and the dark of the immediate aftermath of the worst natural disaster to hit American soil.

10.) Oysters on the Half Shell— Wintzell’s Oyster House, Mobile. My friend Bill Kirby and I drove 90 miles South with a single mission— to eat oysters. After slurping four dozen each, we skipped dessert, ate another dozen, and drove home. The Apalachicola oysters were cold and salty, not too big and not too small. I could eat another five dozen right now.

9. tie) BBQ Ribs— Leatha’s BBQ Inn, Hattiesburg, Miss. Typically, I cook Christmas dinner for my restaurant managers every year. This year we invited spouses and significant others and let the Queen of BBQ, Leatha Jackson, do the work. We won’t be going back to my house anytime soon.

9. tie) Blackbird restaurant— Chicago. Braised pork belly and seared hanger steak never tasted better.

8.) Watershed restaurant— Decatur, GA. Chef Scott Peacock has created one of the hippest Southern eateries in existence. I have extensive notes on all of the dishes we enjoyed, but the mashed potatoes stick with me to this day. Achieving culinary perfection by cooking the “perfect mashed potato” is not as easy as one would think.

7.) Breakfast in a friend’s remote cabin— Franklin, Tenn. We feasted on country ham, red-eye gravy, scrambled eggs with extra-sharp cheddar cheese, garlic grits, two versions of beaten biscuits, sautéed apples, cream cheese pound cake, banana-nut bread, orange juice topped with a scoop of orange sherbet, and the absolute best sausage I have ever— or will ever— put in my mouth.

6.) Lunch with my wife and children— K-Paul’s, New Orleans. The shrimp creole, jambalaya, and seafood gumbo, produced daily in the K-Paul’s kitchens are the finest examples of those dishes ever created. Period. Prudhomme is the most underestimated and underappreciated chef in America. Make no mistake, he is still the king. He packs more flavor and boldness into a dish that anyone. This meal turned out to be my last dining experience in New Orleans before Hurricane Katrina changed the city forever.

5.) Anchovy Pasta— Trigiani residence, Jackson, Miss. My friend, and resident Italophile, David Trigiani, is an accomplished architect-turned-amateur-Italian cook, though his cooking is anything but amateurish. This evening he prepared a beautifully straightforward pasta dish by sautéing minced garlic in the finest quality extra virgin olive oil, he then added imported anchovies, and angel hair pasta. Simple, flavorful, beautiful.

4.) Seafood Luncheon— Puckett Home, Pass Christian, Miss. The Pucketts owned one of those century-old majestic homes on Scenic Highway 90 in Pass Christian. They prepared a beautiful meal of crabmeat au gratin, fresh fruit, and a cold shrimp salad. A row of brick steps— and memories— are all that remain of their home as Katrina tore through the coast two weeks later.

3.) Aureole— New York. A celebratory dinner with my agent after a successful day with book publishers. No one coddles foie gras like Charlie Palmer.

2.) Restaurant Gary Danko— San Francisco. Danko’s menu includes a five-course tasting menu and an unbelievably large selection of ala carte offerings including eight appetizers, caviar service, nine fish and seafood choices, seven meat and game-bird selections, a cheese course, and nine dessert options with one prepared tableside.

The most amazing feature of the menu was that all 34 of the ala carte items could be compiled into a personal tasting menu with a three-course, four-course, and five-course option. I opted for a four-course personally selected menu. First course: Seared foie gras with caramelized red onions and roasted peaches. Second course: Risotto with lobster, rock shrimp, roasted porcinis, tomato, fennel, and tomato oil. Third course: Branzini (farm-raised Mediterranean Sea Bass) with red pepper succotash, wilted arugula, and harissa. Fourth course: Herb-crusted loin of lamb with Israeli cous cous, yellow zucchini, and garam masala. The final course will rank as one of the top three lamb dishes I have ever eaten.

1.) Date with my daughter— Purple Parrot Café, Hattiesburg. No mom, no wife, no brother, no son, just my daughter and me. It wasn’t the five-course tasting menu that made it special, but the company. I may never top this one.

A Tale of Two Letters.

These are the letters to Santa that my children dictated to me last night (Holleman 8-year old, Harrison 4-year old). I wrote down everything they said as they said it. I then forwarded the letters to Santa. We’re keeping our fingers crossed for Harrison!

RSJ




Dear Santa,

How are the elves doing? They made a new movie, you know, called "The Happy Elf."

What kind of cookies do you want for Christmas?

It's Holleman talking, here. I'm loving school this year. I'm in the third grade now. I live on 222 Arlington Loop in Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

I've been trying to be good all year.

If you don't mind for Christmas may I have a skateboard? How's a lava lamp feeling to ya?

Dear Santa, I've gotta explain this one to you. I would like a bubble chair. One that hangs from the ceiling, that is light pink and fuzzy. I've seen it on a commercial, so you know I'm not making it up.

This is late notice, but is there a chance of you coming to our house? I don't really NEED anything, what I've listed before is just what I would LIKE.

Would you like organic milk, or regular? Which is the one that Mrs. Claus gives you?

Please write back.

Do the reindeer still have energy in them?

Is Rudolph's nose still glowing like a flashlight? A red one, that is.

I'm so glad to be actually talking to you.

Once again, that's it.

Best wishes, and good luck.

Love,

Holleman

P.S. May I please have the Chloe Bratz winter doll? Thank you





Dear Santa,

Yo Santa, I've been bad and I apologize. I want a flying suit so I can fly up in the air, where you go up and down and sideways.

Now Santa, I gotta tell ya, that I want a jet-propelled skateboard that goes really fast with fire on it that's really cool.

And Santa, I've got to tell you something that you really might like, guess what, I want an alien saucer that could fly higher than the moon!

I want an "Easy" button that locks the door, maybe even closes it, maybe even opens it.

What was it like when you were a kid?

How is Mrs. Claus doing. I hope she's not getting too old.

I want something awesome... all the Batman stuff you see in your bag.

I want a four-wheeler that can go on the wall and the ceiling. I want a trick phone that when you talk on it all you hear is "huuh, huuh, huuh (heavy breathing)."

Guess what I want next? A jingle bell that is so loud it knocks you Down!

The four wheeler is going to be a Batmobile!

I want a light that when you turn it on, it shines in your eyes and knocks you out!

Hey Santa, I'm going to leave you some chocolate chip ones that are really tasty.

Santa, you know what? My typing's over right now, already.

My name is Harrison St.John


(Several times during the letter, I asked if he wanted to tell Santa how he has acted this year, he replied, "I've already told him that.")

Christmas 2005



Christmas is a season for reflection. As I look back over 44 years, I am humbled by the joys and blessings that I have received, and I am in awe of all of the warm Christmas memories that have been created.

It took me almost 40 years to realize the aspects of life that matter the most. For me, they are: Faith family, friends, food, and fun. I call them the Five Fs and they are listed in that precise order for a reason.

Faith is the foundation. It is first. It is foremost, and it is the basis for the following four Fs. Without a strong foundation, it’s hard to build a fulfilling life. Faith comes in many forms and many denominations, you know best what “faith” means to you, and so I’ll leave it at that.

No other time throughout the year offers as much opportunity to appreciate and enjoy family. Even when we think we’ve had all of the “family” we can stand, the holidays keep giving us more. My fondest Christmas memories have strong ties to family: My daughter’s first Christmas, my son’s first Christmas, the first Christmas in a new home with my newlywed wife, my crazy Aunt Virginia— three sheets to the wind on Christmas
Eve— singing Mele Kalikimaka on top of the coffee table.

The things— the toys and junk— aren’t what make a memorable Christmas. Sure, I remember the Christmas I received my first bike and the morning I unwrapped the Easy Bake Oven Santa brought, but I don’t remember many other material gifts. I do remember the last Christmas afternoon I spent with my grandfather. I remember the last Thanksgiving meal I ate with my grandmother. I remember the stupid-looking matching pajamas my mother made my brother and me wear every Christmas Eve.

Today’s quirky Christmas event is tomorrow’s fond Christmas memory.

Friends are vital at Christmas. Being a friend during this first Christmas following Hurricane Katrina might be more important than ever. Everyone in our area was affected. Most of us lost something; many lost too much, some lost everything. Friends came to the rescue— friends next door, friends from other towns, friends from other states. New friendships were created and lasting relationships were cemented. Never in my lifetime have friends— new and old— been more important.

Christmas is synonymous with food, and food has such strong connections with our memories. Christmas is the only time of year that friends stop by the house throughout the day bearing gifts of food. For generations my family has eaten a huge formal meal on Christmas Eve and I can remember each and every one that I have attended or hosted. Christmas morning wouldn’t be complete without a batch of my neighbor Mary Virginia McKenzie’s sweet rolls and my mother’s garlic-cheese grits.

For many years I chased fun. I looked under every nook and cranny in search of fun, I tried to create fun. In retrospect, my fondest memories have occurred when I wasn’t trying to make fond memories, and certainly when I wasn’t trying to create fun. Most of my fondest remembrances were unintentional memories that were created by accident or happenstance, most happened when the other Fs were in play.

When three or more of the Five Fs are present, fun happens. It doesn’t have to be created. Relatively late in life I have found that true fun and sheer joy come from the unintentional implementation of the Five Fs.

This Christmas enjoy all of the joys the season unintentionally offers, for they will surely become fond memories in years to come. Pray for those who need help and guidance. Give to those in need like you’ve never given before. Give food, give clothing, give time, and give your friendship. Spend time with your family, spend time with your friends, make new friends, and make sure to do everything you can to assure that everyone who needs to eat is able to eat.

In the meantime, my children will be wearing matching pajamas and I’ll be singing Mele Kalikimaka.

The Great Christmas Compromise



Christmas is full of compromises.

When couples wed they bring many things into the union. I’m not talking about bachelor-apartment wire-bale coffee tables, milk-carton two-by-four college-dorm shelving, or great-grandmother’s tacky faux-antique tea set. I’m talking about family traditions and ideas about how things are done within the family unit.

Nowhere are family traditions and longstanding practices more evident— or volatile— than during the holidays.

Christmas has such fond memories attached to our youth. We like to celebrate the holidays exactly how we used to do it, and that is the way we want to keep celebrating for ever, and ever, and ever, ad nauseam, ad infinitum, and a partridge in a pear tree, or a partridge on a wire-bale coffee table depending on who wins the argument.

The granddaddy of all Christmas quandaries is whether to open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. My wife would open presents on September 28th if they were available. She came from a family that opened presents on Christmas Eve. Actually, she came from a family that had to take drastic measures in hiding presents from her so she wouldn’t break into them as soon as they were placed under the tree. My wife can open and re-wrap a present with the stealth and precision of an international secret agent.

The dilemma of living with a Christmas-present peeker is that all gifts must be locked down in a bank vault until Christmas morning. Either that, or all presents must be completely bound by layers of duct tape before being stashed under the tree.

The first Christmas compromise that took place in our marriage was the icicles-no icicles debate. I am a direct descendant of a long line of icicles-on-the-tree Yuletide decorators. We take our tinsel seriously. We throw icicles on the tree in heavy clumps. As a matter of fact, children from all over the neighborhood used to come to my house to throw tinsel with abandon.

My wife’s family views icicles with a contempt normally reserved for dog beaters. In the St.John house, the weeks leading to Christmas are filled with the constant placing and removing of icicles from the tree.

The children are on my side and will thankfully carry on the longstanding St.John icicle tradition. When tree-decorating time rolls around the three of us hurl tinsel on the finished product with the agility and accuracy of an Olympic discus thrower. For the next three weeks, my wife comes behind us and removes most of the icicles from the tree, which, in turn, leads me to wake up at 3 a.m. to add more tinsel to the tree. I have spare boxes stashed all over the house.

White-lights vs. colored lights is another predicament. We used to alternate years. My year we would use colored lights on the tree and during her year we used white. Finally we compromised eight years ago and place both white, and colored, lights on the tree. Our children each have a small Christmas tree in their respective bedrooms. Amazingly enough, the tree-light debate has fallen along gender lines— my son likes colored lights and my daughter sides with her momma.

Some families eat their “big meal” on Christmas Eve, others opt for Christmas day. My family always ate a formal dinner on Christmas Eve. We still do. Chalk up one for my team.

Luckily, the other typical Christmas food compromises have not had to be made within our union. When it comes to the ham vs. turkey quandary we both prefer poultry over pork. When adorning the aforementioned bird, we both prefer dressing baked separately instead of giving the bird a celery and breading spiked enema. No stuffing in the St.John house. Stuffing is for Yankees.

And when it comes to dressing, we both came into the marriage with a strong appreciation for cornbread dressing. My soon-to-be brother-in-law once brought an oyster dressing to our Christmas Eve dinner. It was shaded in a freaky green hue and had a pudding like consistency that could curl your toes backwards after one bite. No thank you. My family eats cornbread dressing, it is yellowish tan, it doesn’t jiggle, and that’s that.

Our marriage has seen a few disagreements through the years, but I will be eternally grateful to my Creator for placing a woman in my life who hates marshmallows on her sweet potatoes as much as me. Marshmallows do not— I repeat— do not belong anywhere in the vicinity of a sweet potato.

My holiday advice to newlyweds is: Hide the marshmallows, keep oysters out of the dressing, install non-tamper security features on all under-the-tree gifts, no matter how tacky her grandmother’s tea set looks— don’t comment on it, colored lights or white— it doesn’t really matter as long as you decorate the tree together, and finally, throw icicles with your children, throw them hard, throw them long, and throw them with abandon.

Small-Town Pancakes


I love living in the South.

As far as my literary agent in New York is concerned, I live in a small Southern town. In reality, I live in a medium-to-large-sized town by Southern standards.

Whether my metropolitan area is large, medium, or small, there are two events each year that make me feel as if I am living in the smallest of the small-town South: My local Christmas parade and the annual Kiwanis Club pancake breakfast.

Both events occurred on the same day this year. The Hattiesburg Mississippi Christmas Parade is small, even by small-town standards. There are no large Macy’s-style helium-filled balloons, Broadway lip-syncers, or elaborately decorated floats, but there is a spirit to the event that evokes a comforting sense of community.

There is something about small-town Southern Christmas parades that transports me to the innocence of a Norman Rockwell painted America. I try to never miss a local parade.

The Kiwanis Club pancake breakfast has been a local event for as long as I can remember. The pancakes are O.K. The syrup is an inexpensive generic variety, and the sausage is passable. But it’s not the food, or the quality of the food, that make the event memorable. It’s the people. It is citizens from all walks of the community that gather together to share a meal, and a morning meal at that. Young, old, black, white, Protestant, Catholic, rich, poor, the only link connecting all of the people in the room is that they all bought a $5 ticket from a Kiwanis Club member. Nevertheless, there is a common bond that is shared during a meal that breaks down all barriers.

It’s not the food, it’s the fellowship. Sharing a meal together is a very biblical thing. Food is used throughout the bible. Whenever two or more are gathered in His name, there is usually a loaf of bread, a few fishes, and some wine. Food is the common link we all share it is the catalyst that brings us together.

Pancakes were a common link in bringing my family together on many occasions. My grandmother made excellent pancakes. We never woke up in her home without eating pancakes. Her pancake recipe was one of the components that defined her place in the family structure— my grandfather was the avid sportsman who could fix anything, my grandmother made great pancakes. Of course their personalities and talents were deeper and more complex than that, but when broken down into their simplest forms, those were the roles and labels. We all lived up to them. I was the hyper wild kid, my mother was the single-mom art teacher, and my grandmother cooked great pancakes.

Whenever the family gathered on vacation and breakfast was served, my grandmother— Muz we called her— prepared pancakes. She cooked them at her home, at our home, and away from home. Muz showed her love for us through the simple act of cooking pancakes.

A few years ago, while eating pancakes with my daughter, it struck me that no one had ever cooked pancakes for Muz. Every time we were together she did all of the cooking. At the time she was living in an assisted living home. We called her and made arrangements for a pancake breakfast the next morning. I cooked the pancakes this time and it was one of the more memorable breakfasts I can remember.

I have never joined a civic club. Most of them meet at lunch which is the height of my workday. And I don’t know a whole lot about what they do other than cook pancakes once a year. However, one has to be a fan of any organization whose motto is “Serving the children of the world.” In addition to serving the children of the world, once a year, they are feeding the citizens of my town.

Here’s some unsolicited advice from a formerly jaded southerner: Never let a small-town parade, a pancake-breakfast fundraiser, or a chance to cook for your grandmother pass you by, ever.



Muz’s Pancakes – The World’s Best (and good for the soul)

1 cup All Purpose Flour
2 tsp Baking Powder
1 tsp Baking Soda
1 /2 tsp Salt
1 Tbl Sugar
1 Egg
1 cup Buttermilk
1 /2 cup Melted Butter, divided

Mix dry ingredients thoroughly. Gently add liquid ingredients including 1 /4 cup of butter, and stir until just incorporated. Do not overwork the batter. The batter is thick, if you like it can be thinned with a small amount of water or a little more buttermilk.

Cook pancakes on a lightly greased griddle. Pancakes should be turned only once. They are ready to be turned when bubbles form in the middle and the edges appear cooked. Once pancakes are turned, use a pastry brush to spread the additional 1 /4 cup of melted butter on top of the pancakes while the other side is cooking. This will keep you from having to spread cold butter on them, which will tear them. The pancakes will already be buttered once they reach the table. Serve with real maple syrup.

Unsung Heroes

Mississippi is full of unsung heroes. The problem with unsung heroes is inherent in the name. they mostly go unsung. The high-profile types get a lot of credit- all deserved- for helping others. There are tens of thousands of unrewarded heroes out there who fall between the cracks. Not as long as I have these 750 words available to me each week.

There are also many unsung heroes in the culinary world. Hattiesburg's Yvonne Owen is most definitely one of those heroes. While her children were in school Owen began baking cakes "for therapy." After her husband died, she went into the catering business full time, "With a vengeance," her friend Sharon Walker explained. With all of her children grown and out of the house, she expanded her tiny kitchen into a full-scale commercial operation and the cakes began flying out the door. Eventually she began catering parties, teas, and weddings. She catered my wedding in 1993.

However, business has always come in a distant second with Owen. What makes Yvonne Owen special is all of the unselfish ways she helps others. Her daughter stated, "I can't remember a time when she wasn't helping someone, or giving something away." Always a loyal member of Court Street United Methodist Church, this busy grandmother took on the job as hostess for the church, feeding the membership every Wednesday night. Before long she added another Methodist church, and a few months later, as if it were predestined, she added a Presbyterian church, too. Three churches, hundreds of meals, every Wednesday night, out of her home kitchen- all this, and the cake and catering business, too.

In addition to her everyday duties she has worked tirelessly with the Mississippi Diabetes Association and other charities, helping anytime anyone anywhere held out their hand. A few years ago, seeing a need to feed shut-ins and under-resourced citizens in the community, she began cooking 10 meals every Monday through Friday for a Meals-On-Wheels program. "I'm only going to do 10 a week," she told Dora Sue Ferrell, her longtime assistant. Before long, 10 became 20, and 20 became 60. Day in, day out, five days a week, 52 weeks a year, rain or shine, Yvonne Owen prepared salad, entrée, two vegetables, bread, and dessert using her own money and resources. And when no one was available to deliver, she became the wheels that delivered the meals.

Owen contracted a rare form of cancer in 2003 and underwent a rigorous chemotherapy program. The day she finished her chemotherapy she traveled to her daughter's house to begin a five-week babysitting stint with her newborn grandson.

Today, the cancer is in remission. Fortunately for the citizens of Hattiesburg her cooking is not in remission. She has dropped down to feeding only two churches on Wednesday nights, and others have taken on the Meals-for-Wheels responsibilities, but not a funeral or open house goes by at Court Street Church without Yvonne's culinary touch.

A few years ago Owen began traveling through under-resourced neighborhoods picking up children and taking them to church for Wednesday night and Sunday morning services. Sometimes it is the only balanced meal the children will eat all week. The kids call her "Sugarmama," she calls them "her fish" referring to a line in a sermon she once heard that taught the lesson of feeding and nourishing the spirit of the needy. It is a lesson that we should all learn. It is one Yvonne Owen is living by example in her everyday life.

The Mississippi Conference of the United Methodist Church recently awarded Owen with the Denham Evangelism Award. It seems that the children she was bringing to church soon began bringing their parents. In addition to being a cook, hostess, caterer, mom, grandmom, and great-grandmom, she became a one-woman evangelism team.

Owen, along with her longtime assistants Ida and Dora Sue, is making the world a better place one meal at a time. "She's always doing for somebody else, wearing herself out," Ferrell stated. "She has planned her retirement four times, but she keeps pushing the date back. I don't think she'll ever stop." Let's hope she doesn't.

The world needs more Yvonne Owens.

Butterball Hotline


True story: A woman once called the Butterball Hotline to find out how long it would take to roast her turkey. The hotline worker asked how much the bird weighed. The woman responded, "I don't know, it's still running around outside."

The holidays offer no respite for idiots.

The following are actual questions asked of Butterball Hotline personnel:
"I lost a bet on a football game and now I have to fix Thanksgiving dinner for 20 people. How does a guy do that?"

"I know you're all about turkeys, but can you help me make cookies?"

"How do you prepare a turkey for people who don't eat meat?"

"The doorbell is ringing, everybody's here, but the turkey is still frozen solid. Can I serve it anyway?"

"I buried my turkey in a snow bank and now I can't find it. What should I do?"

"I'm calling from a cell phone and I'm walking up and down the aisles in the grocery store. I don't know what to get for Thanksgiving dinner. Will you walk with me and tell me what to buy?"
“What are you wearing?”

I have never called the Butterball Hotline. I have no problem cooking turkeys. I cook my turkey at an extremely high heat, never stuff, and never baste and it comes out flawless every time. However, I do have a few questions I would like to ask the experts at the Butterball Hotline:

Does anyone eat mincemeat anymore?

Why in the world would anyone place a marshmallow on top of a sweet-potato casserole?

Who was braver— the first man to milk a cow or the first man to eat an egg?

Why do Yankees insist on calling dressing “stuffing”?

Can you explain the offside rule in soccer?

Is the hokey pokey truly “what it’s all about?”

Why don’t psychics ever win the lottery?

Giblets… come on, what’s the real story?

How did Chuck Norris ever get into the movie business?

Why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?

Do you know anyone that actually eats fruitcake?

Why are hot dogs sold in packages of 10 and buns only come in packages of eight?

Why does everyone fight over the white meat, when we all know dark meat tastes best?

The Mississippi Culinary Hall of Fame



Mississippi’s literary history is well documented and recognized nationwide, from Mr. Faulkner to Walker Percy, Willie Morris, Eudora Welty, and John Grisham.

The blues were invented here and musicians from Muddy Waters, B.B. King, Willie Dixon, and Robert Johnson have called Mississippi home. The father of Country music, Jimmy Rogers, along with Faith Hill, Charlie Pride, Conway Twitty, and Tammy Wynette were all born in the Magnolia state. Artists from the classical and jazz disciplines such as Leontyne Price, Mose Allison, and Cassandra Wilson, were born here. There’s Jimmy Buffett, Jerry Lee Lewis, and a small-town kid from Tupelo named Elvis.

Mississippi is fertile ground for creativity. Legendary radio commentator, Paul Harvey, once said of Mississippi, “No state can point to a richer per capita contribution to the arts and letters.” That, Mr. Harvey, is truly the rest of the story.

However, I think the Academy Award-winning actor and Mississippi resident, Morgan Freeman, said it best. While singing Mississippi’s praises on a recent national television broadcast, Freeman stated, “I’d live here for the food, alone.”

Mississippi has two music halls of fame, a blues museum, and three world-class art museums. It’s time our cuisine got its due. The time is right for a Mississippi Culinary Hall of Fame.

Therefore, I submit for you approval, one man’s list. The 2005 Inductees into the Mississippi Culinary Hall of Fame:

Culinary Innovator Award— Fred Carl, manufacturer, philanthropist, Viking Range Corporation, Greenwood— Carl invented the commercial cooking-equipment-for-the-home segment. He owns the majority of that market and his ventures deeper in the hospitality industry add up with each passing year. His tireless work in helping to save downtown Greenwood is representative of what is best about Mississippi— we take care of our own.

Best Chef Award- North Mississippi— John Currence, City Grocery, Oxford— Thirteen years manning the stove at what has consistently become one of Mississippi’s finest and most recognized restaurants.

Best Chef Award- Central Mississippi— Nick Apostle, Nick’s restaurant, Jackson— No one works harder or longer displaying such outstanding commitment to consistency and quality. Apostle still works restaurant hours that would kill a 22-year old.

Best Chef Award- South Mississippi— Linda Nance, Purple Parrot Café, Hattiesburg— If this were a real Hall of Fame I would have to bow out of this vote with a conflict of interest. Nevertheless, I am confident that the jury would unanimously vote Chef Nance in— if not for the excellence shown in her weekly five-course tasting menu, alone.

Humanitarian Award— Cat Cora, Food Network Iron Chef, Jackson native— The network’s first and only female Iron Chef, Cora founded the charitable organization Chef’s For Humanity to aid with Tsunami relief. Since Hurricane Katrina, Cora has worked tirelessly to raise money to help aid victims in her home state.

Restaurateur of the Year— Bill Latham, Amerigo restaurant, Char restaurant, Jackson— Latham is the embodiment of a true food-service professional. His 25-year track record of excellence and success speaks for itself.

Food Awareness Award— Carol Daily, The Everyday Gourmet, Jackson— In addition to The Everyday Gourmet— the culinary epicenter of Mississippi— Daily runs the Viking Hospitality Group, and consults with hotels and inns. Mississippians have been eating better home-cooked meals since 1981 thanks to Daily.

Food Writer Award— John T. Edge, Oxford, food writer, author, culinary historian— A multiple James Beard Award finalist with six books under his belt and more on the way, Not to mention he single handedly gave the country The Southern Foodways Alliance, an organization where he also serves as director.

Lifetime Achievement Award— Leatha Jackson, Leatha’s BBQ Inn, Hattiesburg— This humble, gracious, and charitable lady’s 70 years in the kitchen and fall-off-of-the-bone ribs are a living testament to all that is good in Mississippi.

Culinary Heritage Memorial Award— Craig Claiborne (September 4, 1920 – January 22, 2000), New York Times food editor and critic, cookbook author, Sunflower— Even in death, he’s the best-known and most respected food writer in America, Claiborne encouraged Americans to broaden their tastes and experiment in the kitchen. Over the course of his career, he wrote more than 20 books, including brilliant The New York Times Cookbook.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go On A Diet….



It’s cookbook testing time, again.

Last week I started a new diet. This week I started the recipe-testing phase for a new cookbook. Testing recipes and watching calories go together like the New Orleans Saints and the Super Bowl, never the twain shall meet.

Last spring I signed a three-book deal with Hyperion books in New York. In addition to the Hyperion contract, Wyatt Waters, the noted watercolorist, and I are publishing another book, “Southern Seasons,” which will be released next fall. Over the next 18 months I will have conceptualized, developed, written, and recipe-tested three new cookbooks, and re-released another cookbook in the backlog. Sure, that’s a lot of writing, but mostly that’s a lot of eating.

Recipe testing for cookbooks is a blast. In the heat of the development phase, four to six recipes are created and tested every day. The finished recipes are tasted, critiqued, and rated. The next day, changes are made to the written recipes, and the process starts all over again until the final products are the perfect result of what was envisioned at the recipe’s conception. Sometimes one specific recipe can be prepared and tested every day for two weeks until the final recipe has been perfected. Occasionally, we nail it on the first try.

The three deciding factors of a winning recipe are: First and foremost, does it taste good. Secondly, can it be easily replicated at home with everyday ingredients found at the local grocery store. And finally, does it fit the theme of the book. The savvy reader will notice that the terms low-fat, low-carb, and low-calorie are not listed anywhere in the preceding sentence.

Recipe testing is fun, but it wreaks havoc on a diet.

Actually, I am writing this column in between bites of Lamb Kabobs with Mediterranean Spice Rub and Raspberry-Mint Dipping Sauce; Cheddar-Rice Crackers; Corn, Crab, and Avocado Dip; Mushroom-Stuffed Pastry Purses; Smoked Beef Tenderloin with Chive and Tarragon Sauce, and Horseradish Mustard; and Chicken and Andouille Empanadas. Note: It is 6:24 a.m. and these items make for an unusual breakfast.

I have 30 pounds to lose and three book deadlines to meet in the next 10 months— January 15th, April 15th, and September 1st. Seeing as none of the books are diet manuals and that most of my recipes are NOT developed with health-conscious calorie counters in mind, I am going to have to develop a system. I don’t yet know what that system is going to be, but, unfortunately, a gym and a treadmill will probably be major components in the final plan.

And in case you were wondering, the Lamb Kabobs were nailed on the first try although the sauce is a little too sweet. The Cheddar-Rice Crackers need more cheddar. The Corn, Crab, and Avocado dip needs something; I’m just not quite sure what that something is. Maybe sour cream. The Smoked Beef Tenderloin is perfect, but I have doubts that it can be easily replicated at home. The Mushroom-Stuffed Pastry Purses had been in the freezer for two days to see if they could be made in advance, frozen, and then baked. They can be. And the Chicken and Andouille Empanadas might need a name change.

Gotta go, the treadmill is calling.




Cheddar-Rice Crackers (Second Revision)

1 cup Butter, softened
2 cups All Purpose Flour
2 cups Rice Krispies
1 /2 lb Sharp Cheddar Cheese
1 /2 tsp Dehydrated Onion (Onion Flakes)
1 /2 tsp Hot Sauce
1 /4 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 /8 tsp Black Pepper, freshly ground

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Combine all ingredients on slow speed using the paddle attachment of an electric mixer until a small ball forms. Do not over mix. Form into small 1 /2 ounce balls and place on an un-greased cookie sheet. Using a fork, press down dough in a crisscross pattern. Bake for 20 minutes.

A Different Kind of Date




Last week I invited my eight-year old daughter on a date.

It was the first in what I hope will become a quarterly event. No mom, no wife, no brother, no son, just my daughter and me.

Earlier in the day I made a reservation at the Purple Parrot Café. I told them to give me the best table in the house. They did— not because I own the restaurant— but because they knew how important this night was to me.

After coming in from soccer practice, and finishing her homework, she was ready. I got in my car, pulled around to the front door, rang the doorbell, and opened the car door exactly how a gentleman is supposed to.

We ordered the five-course tasting menu at the Purple Parrot Café.

The meal started with an amuse bouche tart of spinach, blue cheese, and bacon. She loved it. This is going to be great, I thought to myself. She’ll breeze through these menu items with no problem. I refuse to be a parent that raises one of these children who eats nothing but chicken strips and soda. She has always had a rather sophisticated palate, so the prospects looked good for a new and positive learning experience.

Butternut squash soup was the first official course. She swallowed a couple of spoonfuls and, when asked, said it was good. I could tell that she didn’t care for it, but she didn’t want to let me know. When the waiter came to check on us, I had him remove the soup and told him that we were pacing ourselves. I want her to have a refined palate, but I don’t want to force any foods on her that aren’t “her thing.” To this day, there are still foods that I don’t eat and no one forces them on me.

The second course was a warm duck confit salad with a wild mushroom vinaigrette. It was great. Again, she wasn’t thrilled with it. She took a few bites, and politely laid her fork on the plate. At this point and time I thought about forcing her to eat more, but held back. Instead, we talked about the proper way to transfer butter to the bread-and-butter plate and how to butter a piece of bread.

The third course was a petit filet mignon with fingerling potatoes, wilted spinach, lobster, and brie. Bingo! She cleaned her plate. I patted myself on the back for not commenting on her lack of enthusiasm for the first two courses. If I had, this course might have had a different end result.

The fourth course was a cumin-dusted rack of lamb with cous cous and an ancho-chile demi glace. “Lamb, as in Mary Had A Little?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, and took the opportunity to tell her the story of how I never ate lamb as a child until my mother told me that it was roast beef. The story didn’t work. Six weeks earlier, my daughter had decided to become a vegetarian. Though she was only herbivorous for a few days, this jump from “I’m not going to eat anything with a face” to slicing into the medium-rare flesh of an animal whose “Fleece is white as snow,” was going to be a huge step.

“But they’re so cute,” she said.

“Just try one bite. If you don’t like it you won’t have to eat another.”

On the night of October 20 th, 2005 another lamb lover was born.

Our fifth course was a pecan-praline bread pudding. She loved it.

After the meal was over, I asked which had been her favorite course. She said that she liked the amuse bouche best, followed by the tenderloin, the lamb, and the bread pudding. Squash soup and duck confit will have to wait for another meal. The final tally was four out of six. Not bad for foods that I didn’t eat until I was in my twenties.

I want my daughter to set her goals high. I want her to know exactly how a man is supposed to treat her. Investing this sort of time in our relationship now is going to help with all of the relationships that follow in her life. Especially when it comes to one of the most important steps she’ll ever make: choosing a man.

When my children are grown and gone and I am left to sit and remember, there is no doubt in my mind that one of my fondest memories will be of that first date with my daughter. It just might be one of hers, too.

Fathers, do yourself a favor; make a date with your daughter, tonight.

A Formal Afternoon at the Triple-L Ranch



Last week I was the featured speaker at a ladies luncheon club.

A nice-sized group of 50 ladies were in attendance. The meeting was held in the formal living room of a stately 100-year old home in Brookhaven. Before the speech, the ladies were served tea, cheese straws, and finger sandwiches.

It was a Triple L lunch if I ever saw one: Ladies Lap Luncheon. All in attendance were dressed to the nines. However, the women in my life would be quick to tell me that it wasn’t a luncheon at all. The event was held at 3 p.m.; therefore it was a formal afternoon tea.

As I was signing books afterward the hostess asked if I would like a plate for the road. Being one who has never turned down food, I said, “Yes, thank you.” She went on to say that today’s menu consisted of “Cheese straws, grapes, petit fours, and chicken salad sandwiches.” At that moment another lady chimed in and said, “And the chicken salad has apples and pecans in it!”

On the drive home I began thinking of how chicken salad is dressed up or dressed down depending on the occasion. It was the 100 th anniversary meeting of the organization, which obviously explains the apples and pecans. Chicken salad is just “salad” until a hostess puts some fruit or nuts into the mix.

I love chicken salad. My grandmother’s chicken salad is still the gold standard by which all other chicken salads will be judged. On special occasions, or when an out-of-town guest was coming to her house, she added grapes to her recipe. On very special occasions she added chopped walnuts, too.

A few months after I opened my first restaurant I asked my grandmother for her chicken salad recipe. She said that she had never followed a recipe, but if I would like to come over she would prepare it and I could write down the steps and measurements.

She didn’t have to twist my arm. As a child I had spent many hours in her kitchen, sitting on a stool by the window-unit air conditioner watching her cook or helping to shell peas. That day I observed and notated as she went through the effortless steps that had been repeated hundreds of times in her 90-plus years of preparing chicken salad.

Typically she only used Hellmann’s mayonnaise when cooking. But for her chicken salad recipe she used Miracle Whip. I never thought to ask her why.

I returned to the restaurant and multiplied her recipe by a factor of ten and served the finished chicken salad in a cantaloupe half. That chicken-salad offering stayed on the menu for many years and we bring it back as a featured item on occasion. I also published the recipe in my second cookbook (sans grapes)

Some of my greatest memories are of lunches served in my grandmother’s breakfast room, just the two of us. No grapes, no walnuts, no cantaloupe, just chicken salad, white bread, sweet tea, and conversation.

That day turned out to be the last time I ever sat with my grandmother and watched her cook. Unfortunately, I became too busy with the restaurant business and she became too infirmed to work in the kitchen.

My grandmother was one of the most kind and gracious ladies I have ever known, and ten times the cook I’ll ever be. A competent hostess with an overly-generous spirit, she was one the finest examples of how to live a caring, productive and fruitful life that I will ever have. I would trade all of the upscale New York restaurant meals and all of the cookbook sales in the world to eat one more chicken salad sandwich with my grandmother, or to sit on that stool in her kitchen and watch her cook.

Today I eat chicken salad, often. But I never eat it without thinking of my grandmother and her kitchen.

And to the Climber’s Club of Brookhaven, happy 100 th anniversary, thanks for stirring up some great memories, thanks for the chicken salad, and don’t tell my wife, my mother, or Emily Post that I wore sandals to give a speech at a formal tea.





Mam-Maw’s Chicken Salad

1 3-5 lb Chicken
2 Carrots, peeled and quartered
1 Onion, peeled and quartered
3 stalks Celery
2 /3 cup Sweet pickle relish, drained
1 1 /4 cups Miracle Whip
1 /2 tsp. White pepper
1 tsp. Salt
3 Eggs, boiled and chopped
1 /2 tsp. Garlic powder
1 /2 tsp. Onion powder
1 cup Celery, chopped fine

Fill a stockpot one-half full with cold water and add carrots, onion and celery. Bring to a boil and add chicken. Return to a slow boil and cook until chicken is cooked through. Remove chicken, let cool and chop or shred. Combine with remaining ingredients. Yield: 1 1 /2 quarts

On special occasions add: chopped grapes, walnuts, pecans, or apples. Capers can also be added in small amounts. However, if capers are used, do not add fruit or nuts.

Bathroomitis and the Joys of Lavender Soap



My four-year old son used to be an extremely rowdy restaurant customer.

Early on, he screamed like a banshee while eating in restaurants. Later, during his terrible twos, he graduated to holding conversations with customers seated at surrounding tables while they were hopelessly trying to finish their meal. Today, in terms of enjoying a peaceful meal away from home, we are miles ahead of where we were in his early years. He no longer yells and screams at the table and rarely, if ever, disturbs neighboring patrons.

Nowadays he has a strange new affliction. I call it Bathroomitis. He has traded in his large voice for a small bladder.

For some strange reason, restaurants make him want to go to the bathroom. I can’t explain this phenomenon but it’s real. Five minutes after we are seated in a restaurant, something clicks in his brain, then travels southward, and out of his mouth comes, “Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“But you just went five minutes ago, before we left the house.”

“I know, but I have to go again.” And he does.

Early on, I assumed his multiple restroom visits were a crafty ploy he had devised to keep us away from the table allowing him to wander through restaurants. But every time I took him to the restroom, he did, in fact, need to go.

One trip to the lavatory per restaurant visit wouldn’t be bad. But, as with everything in our family, nothing is done in moderation. He often makes four trips in one restaurant stay.

I began to think that it might be a medical problem, but this strange phenomenon only occurs in restaurants. At home he’s a camel. He can go hours without ever stepping foot in a bathroom. In a restaurant he develops a bladder the size of an English pea.

Consequently, I have become an expert on restaurant bathrooms. I know what every restaurant lavatory looks like from Jackson to New Orleans. I know which eatery offers the best soap, who mops their floor regularly, and who never restocks the paper towels.

“How was your meal today, sir?”

“The meal was fine. However, that mint-green hue you chose when painting your bathroom walls makes one look a little peaked when washing their hands for the fourth time. Also, you soap is a little fruity. Try something with lavender or herbs.”

“Will you be having dessert today, Mr. St.John?”

“Yes, I’ll take mine in stall number three. And could you please restock the paper towels.”

These days, at the end of a meal, I have visited the bathroom sink so often that, by the time dessert arrives, my overly washed hands have morphed into that I’ve-been-swimming-for-hours prune look.

I’ve tried everything. I talked to a pediatrician friend who assured me that nothing was out of order. I had him checked for diabetes, I even changed my son’s restaurant beverage of choice— Sprite— to water, thinking that the lemon-lime combination acted as a diuretic in his system. To no avail, I still heard those four familiar words multiple times during a restaurant visit: “Daddy I gotta go!”

I have become quite the connoisseur when it comes to paper towels. I know a three-ply from a pseudo-two-ply, and can spot a single-ply towel from a mile away. I have developed a deep hatred for those old-fashioned pull-the-towel-down-from-inside-the-machine-while the-used-cloth-loops-back-into-the-machine gas-station-style towel dispensers. As luck would have it, my son loves those contraptions. I turned around once and found that he had crawled up into the towel loop and was hanging by his feet, upside down in the bathroom. “Look daddy, no hands!”

Having a son with a chronic case of Bathroomitis makes one appreciate the little things in life such as adequate restroom ventilation, distance from the dining room to the washroom, and low-to-the-ground child-friendly urinals.

Ultimately, I have come to believe that his Bathroomitis is nothing more than a Pavlovian response directly related to the excitement of visiting a restaurant and the sheer anticipation of enjoying a restaurant meal. In the end, he’s just like his old man, he loves food and he gets excited when he’s about to eat a mess of it.

The Loss of A Legend


Last week Austin Leslie, the creator of Creole-Soul food and a true New Orleans culinary journeyman, died in Atlanta. He was 71.

Leslie, who most recently manned the stoves at Pampy’s Creole Kitchen, was best known for his groundbreaking Creole Soul-food restaurant Chez Helene and his world-class fried chicken.

I met Leslie while he was working the deep fryer at Jacques-Imo’s on Oak Street in the Carrolton district of New Orleans. At that point in his life he had seen all of the highs and lows of the restaurant business over the course of a 50-year career in which he began as a fried-chicken delivery boy, rising to the pinnacle of multi-restaurant proprietor— including one property that inspired a CBS television series.

While in high school, Leslie delivered chicken via bicycle from the kitchens of Portia’s restaurant on Rampart Street. Years later, Leslie would credit Portia owner Bill Turner as the man who taught him how to fry chicken After a brief military stint, he began his lifelong culinary tour of duty with a job as an assistant chef in the kitchen of the D. H. Holmes department store on Canal Street.

In 1964 he joined his aunt Helen at her restaurant Chez Helene in the Seventh Ward. It was there that he perfected his version of the Portia’s fried chicken recipe.

After purchasing the restaurant from his aunt in the mid 1970s Leslie’s fame and popularity grew. In short order, a string of fried chicken franchises opened and satellite Chez Helene restaurants opened in Chicago and the French Quarter. He was on top of the world and being touted as the next Prudhomme— the African-American Prudhomme. His Creole Soul food was the hit of one of the nation’s most prominent food cities and was on track to becoming a nationwide phenomenon.

In the mid 1980s CBS aired the television show Frank’s Place inspired by— and based loosely on— Leslie and his restaurant. The show tackled dramatic inner-city social issues in a sitcom format, and though critically acclaimed, failed to reach an audience, and was cancelled after one season.

By the early 1990s urban decay, lack of management, and poor business decisions led to the closing of Leslie’s restaurants including the flagship on North Robertson Street. He spent the next few years picking up odd kitchen jobs in locales as far away as Copenhagen, Denmark.

In 1996 Leslie wound up back in New Orleans manning the fry station at Jacques-Imo’s. It was there, one evening before a concert, that I met the man who first fused Creole and soul into what would become a much copied culinary style in a city known for its culinary style. He was humble and gracious and jovial. The restaurant business had beaten him down but the scars weren’t visible.

The Leslie signature on a perfectly cooked chicken thigh was a sprinkling of chopped parsley and garlic. Those simple ingredients, along with an evaporated milk marinade, are what took the man from neighborhood delivery boy, to the heights of Hollywood, to the fry station at a neighborhood joint.

Recently, Leslie was hired on as the new executive chef at Pampy’s Creole Kitchen in the Seventh Ward. It would be his last stop.

Austin Leslie spent two days in the attic of his home after Hurricane Katrina. The septuagenarian was finally rescued from the sweltering 98-degree heat and stifling humidity and relocated to the chaos and horror of the New Orleans Convention Center. He remained there, lost in a sea of distress, until he was relocated to Atlanta. On September 28 th he was admitted into an Atlanta hospital with a high fever. He died the next day.

New Orleans was Leslie’s lifeline. Over a fifty year period he had survived all of the blows that the brutal restaurant business could deliver and was still enduring. The man who helped put New Orleans cuisine on the map died homeless, in a city that had no clue of his culinary pedigree. In the end, the storm that continues to take lives even a month after its landfall, struck one of its most monumental blows in a city far removed from the one that care forgot.

There will be no shrines erected for Austin Leslie. No publisher will ever issue a tribute to his legacy. Two hard-to-find and out-of-print cookbooks are all that remain as a testament to his career— that and the memories of the hundreds of thousands who enjoyed his fried chicken, Creole-stuffed peppers, and etouffee.



Austin Leslie’s Fried Chicken Recipe

1 Chicken fryer cut into 8 pieces
1 /2 cup Peanut oil
Salt and black pepper to taste
1 Egg
1 cup Evaporated milk
1 cup Water
½ cup Flour
4 Tbl Fresh minced garlic
4 Tbl Fresh minced parsley

Heat oil in a cast iron skillet to 350°F. NOTE: Oil should come about halfway up sides of skillet. Adjust amount in accordance with skillet size. Combine garlic and parsley in small mixing bowl and set aside.

Wash chicken pieces in cool water, pat dry with paper towels and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Set aside.

In a medium mixing bowl, whisk egg, evaporated milk and water. Season with salt and pepper. Place flour in a separate bowl. One piece at a time, starting with heaviest pieces, dip chicken into egg wash, squeeze, dip into flour and place gently in skillet. Do not overcrowd skillet. Maintain temperature of 350°F. Use tongs and long fork to turn chicken often for 7–8 minutes. Remove chicken from oil with tongs, pierce with fork and squeeze. Place chicken back in oil approximately 7–8 minutes. Chicken is done when no longer hissing and juices run clear. Remove from oil and place on paper towels to drain. Immediately top with a sprinkle of garlic and parsley mixture. Continue until all the chicken is cooked.