Bake Sales


Many of our childhood school activities fall by the wayside as we grow older.

Today I don’t play tetherball or box hockey. I haven’t roller skated in years. I don’t think I’ve played an all-out game of dodge ball since the Carter administration, and I haven’t played tackle football since I was in my early twenties, though I’d love the opportunity to go back out there and tear a few of my tendons, pull some muscles, and break a few of my bones.

Some activities I miss, others, not so much. If I never attend another pep rally, or work on an algebraic equation, I’ll be O.K.

One school activity that played a fairly important role in my youth is: the bake sale. Nowadays, I never happen upon a bake sale and I am a lesser man for it.

I loved a bake sale. It seemed like there were two or three a week in my school. The thing that made bake sales in my junior high and high school so memorable were the mothers who baked the product. I grew up in a neighborhood filled with excellent and dedicated cooks. They baked well and they baked often

The bake sales of my youth were held in the hallways of my school. They were mostly low-key affairs. All one needed was a card table, poster board, magic markers, a shoebox for the money, and the store was open. The table was always filled with homemade sweets of all types.

Caramel apples were available but they tended to stick to braces and headgears. Cakes and pies were not popular bake sale items as one needed a fork and plate to eat them and most bake-sale foods needed to be eaten on-the-run between classes. The Rice Krispie treat was the most popular item at my school’s bake sales and they were always the first to sell out. Brownies were a close second, cookies came in third, but nothing ever surpassed the goshamighty Rice Krispie treat.

I was on the road last week, returning home late from a speaking engagement, and stopped in a convenience store to load up on caffeine and a snack. I didn’t want a candy bar, chips, or a microwave sandwich, and I’m not quite dedicated enough to eat a protein bar, granola, or mixed nuts. As I browsed the aisle, there it was— the zenith of the high-school bake sale— a Rice Krispie treat. I didn’t know they packaged them for sale in stores.

I read the nutritional information on the back of the package and was surprised to learn that it was relatively low in saturated fat, cholesterol, and sugar. Who knew we were eating fairly healthy at bake sales in the 1970s?

I bought one.

As I drove home, the Rice Krispie treat took me back to the days at my school. One bite and I was instantly dusting erasers, sharpening pencils, and nervously waiting outside the principal’s office.

We need more bake sales in our adult lives. We tend to gravitate towards black-tie galas, draw-downs, and wine tastings; but I would gladly trade them all for a rickety card table loaded with sweets.

If I were holding a bake sale today, I would sell nothing but Rice Krispie treats and sweet potato brownies. The sweet potato brownie recipe was in my most recent cookbook. It was one of the most popular recipes in the book.

A famous New Orleans restaurateur once said, "Do you know why kids love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? It's because peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are good." Ditto Rice Krispie treats.










Four guys who never met a bake sale they didn't like.
Stan, Chris, Robert, and Forrest-- well-fed members of the Class of 1979, Beeson Academy. Home of the world's greatest bake sales





Sweet Potato Brownies

If you don’t like sweet potatoes, don’t worry, you’ll love these. If you don’t like brownies, have no fear, you’ll love these. If you like sweet potatoes and brownies… get ready for an amazing treat!

1 /2 pound butter
2 cups sugar
1 1 /2 cups flour
1 tsp Salt
4 eggs
2 tsp Vanilla
2 cups potatoes, grated
1 cups pecans, toasted

Preheat oven to 350.

In an electric mixer, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add remaining ingredients in order, stirring after each is added.

Pour into a buttered and floured 9x12 inch baking sheet.

Bake for 30-40 minutes.

Allow brownies to cool completely before cutting.


Glaze
2 Tbl butter
1 /4 cup orange juice
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup confectioner’s sugar

Melt butter and add remaining ingredients. Let cool. Glaze brownies after they have been cut.

Viral Victuals


I’ve got a virus.

My particular virus is not influenza, a common cold, or a computer virus. I don’t have chickenpox, mumps, Ebola, or rabies.

There are many viruses with exotic and interesting names such as: cereal yellow dwarf virus, Leaky virus, and Four Corners hantavirus. There are virus named after plants and vegetables such as: squash mosaic virus, tobacco virus, tomato bushy stunt virus, and rice dwarf virus. There are also viruses named after animals such as: squirrel monkey retrovirus, Swiss mouse virus, European elk papillomavirus, wooley monkey sarcoma virus, Turkeypox, camelpox, sealpox, and Gay elephant tycomabanucleoid virus. I don’t have any of those either.

Yesterday I read an Associated Press story with a headline that stated: “Obesity linked to virus, new experiments suggest.” It appears that I have contracted the fat virus and that is the reason that I do all of my shopping in the big and tall section.

I’ve been trying to lose 30 pounds since January. At the moment I’m 15 pounds lighter than I was on New Year’s Day, but a few weeks ago I hit a plateau and the scales aren’t budging. I must have contracted a bad case of this fat virus while I was on Spring Break.

Whew! At least it’s a virus. I though all of those barbeque ribs and late-night refrigerator raids were to blame for my flabby midsection.

When I told a doctor friend of mine that I thought I had come down with the fat virus, he asked if the article mentioned a vaccine. “I don’t think so. But if there were a vaccine, where would I get one?” I asked. He then told me that vaccines are small doses of the actual virus that one is trying to defend against. So I asked him if loading up on gravy-cheese fries, cornbread, and jelly doughnuts would help kick start the vaccination process and assist in my fight against the fat virus. He didn’t have an answer.

Then it hit me— maybe I can battle the fat virus with an antibiotic.

As everyone knows, antibiotics are made from mold. It just so happens that mold comes from bread. I love bread. Around the time I started my diet, a new French bakery opened across the street from my office. At the time, I thought that might make dieting harder as they have many beautiful and tasty pastries. Now that I know about this fat virus and its dangers, I am going to do my best to find an antibiotic. I think I’ll start my search for a fat cure in the C’est La Vie Bakery’s pastry case.

As a matter of fact, as I write this I am eating a custard-raisin filled pastry from C’est La Vie and I feel better already.

The fat-virus study was conducted at the University of Wisconsin which proves that when it’s snowing up North, those people truly have nothing to do. It seems that they could have spent some of their snowed-in time coming up with a name for the fat virus.

My home state, Mississippi, is statistically the fattest state in the nation. Who better to name the virus?

Here are my suggestions for fat virus names: Double Chinfluenza, Dimpled Thigh Disease, Chunky Gut Syndrome, Chronic Lap-Over Flabbyitis, NASCAR Barley Bug, Mississippi Blubber Flu, or Pudgypox.

So it turns out that I am fat-virus positive. It could be worse; I could have come down with that yellow dwarf stuff.










Robert burning calories and searching for a cure for Double Chinitis
Park City, Utah, March '07




Chocolate Pie

1 cup plus 2 Tbl. Sugar
3 /4 cups Heavy cream
3 /4 cups Buttermilk
3 1 /2 Tbl Cornstarch
Pinch Salt
4 Egg yolks, reserve whites for meringue
3 ounces Semisweet chocolate, high quality
1 Tbl Butter
3 /4 tsp Vanilla
1 Pie Crust, baked (recipe below)

In a small saucepan combine the sugar, heavy cream, buttermilk, cornstarch and salt and whisk until smooth. Place over medium-high heat, and bring to a boil, whisking from time to time, allowing the sugar and cornstarch to dissolve and the mixture to thicken (about five minutes). Continue cooking at a low boil for an additional five minutes, whisking constantly.

In a mixing bowl, beat egg yolks lightly. Pour 1 /2 cup of the hot mixture into the egg yolks and whisk thoroughly. Pour the egg yolk mixture into the saucepan and whisk over the heat until thoroughly combined (about 30 seconds).

Pour mixture into a mixing bowl, and whisk in the chocolate, butter and vanilla. Continue whisking until thoroughly combined (mixture will be very thick). Pour the chocolate batter into the prepared pie crust. Prepare the meringue and spread over the pie and bake at 350 until golden, about 8-10 minutes. Allow pie to cool completely before serving (refrigerate at least four hours). Yield: eight slices

Meringue:

4 Egg whites
6 TBSP Sugar
1 /2 tsp Cream of tartar

Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer. When they start to increase in volume, add in the sugar and cream of tartar. Continue to beat until stiff peaks form.


Pie Crust

2 cups Flour
1 cup Shortening
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 Egg
1 /3 cup Milk

Blend the first three ingredients together with a pastry cutter or a fork. Beat egg and milk together. Slowly add egg/milk mixture to flour mixture, one tablespoon at a time until pie dough becomes moist and forms a ball. Divide into half and shape into a ball. Wrap and refrigerate one hour before rolling. Roll out on a floured surface. Yield: Two crusts

To roll out dough: Remove dough disk from refrigerator. If stiff and very cold, let stand until dough is cool but malleable.

Using a floured rolling pin, roll dough disk on a lightly floured surface from the center out in each direction, forming a 12 inch circle. To transfer dough, carefully roll it around the rolling pin, lift and unroll dough, centering it in an ungreased nine-inch pie plate.

Blessed Fish and My Grandmother’s Lamb


We are smack dab in the middle of the Lenten Season and Easter is only a few weeks away.

This time of year always brings memories of my grandmother’s dining room. Easters used to be elaborate occasions in my family— new church clothes, hidden candy tucked away in pastel-colored plastic eggs, the annual family photograph, china, crystal, silver, and leg of lamb.

My grandmother worked in food as an artist might work in acrylics or egg tempera. The Easter leg of lamb was her masterpiece.

Unlike lamb chops, leg of lamb should never be cooked to medium rare or medium. It is a tougher cut and benefits from the longer cooking time as the tissue tends to break down and make the meat tenderer. My grandmother always made a simple gravy with the drippings from the roasting pan to accompany the lamb and served mint jelly on the side. It was a meal fit for a king, or possibly a Pope.

A few weeks ago the president of the Kentucky Fried Chicken chain of restaurants wrote a letter to the Pontiff asking him to bless their new fish sandwich.

KFC’s Fish Snacker Sandwich consists of a fried Alaskan Pollack filet with tartar sauce on a sesame seed bun. The Associated Press reprinted a portion of the press release that described the sandwich as, “ideal for American Catholics who want to observe Lenten season traditions while still leading their busy, modern lifestyles.”

I am a Methodist. Granted, I don’t know much about Catholicism, but if the Pope blesses a fast-food fish sandwich, I think I could probably get a deferred blessing for my grandmother’s leg of lamb. It was certainly as close to heaven on a plate as any food I have ever tasted. Her mashed potatoes were better than KFC’s and no one at her dinner table had to use a spork. As for the eleven secret herbs and spices, my grandmother used only salt and pepper to season her lamb— no secrets, there.

KFC can have Fridays for their fish sandwich. Give me Sundays for my grandmother’s leg of lamb.

So if the Catholics get a fish sandwich and we Methodists get leg of lamb, where does that leave the Baptists? What food would my Baptist friends submit to the leader of the Southern Baptist Convention for an official blessing? The Presbyterians? The Lutherans?

In my most recent cookbook, Deep South Parties, I offered several recipes for punch, each broken out by denomination. The Methodist, Baptist, and Presbyterian punches were harmless, though tasty, offerings. The Catholic punch was made stronger with the addition of wine, and the Episcopalian punch— a recipe that came from one of my uncle’s church members (he’s an Episcopal rector)— requires a designated driver.

As of this writing, I couldn’t find a news story that reported a response from the Pope. If the Vatican does indeed officially bless the fish sandwich, I would look for the culinary floodgates to open and requests for Big Mac and Whopper blessings to come pouring in immediately.

In the meantime, I’m going to be roasting a leg of lamb on Easter Sunday— blessed or not.









Ned and me in my grandmother's backyard, Easter '65



Leg of Lamb with Raspberry Mint Chutney

Preheat oven to 375

1 Leg of Lamb, bone in, about 6-7 pounds
12 cloves fresh garlic
1/4 cup olive oil
1 Tbl fresh chopped rosemary
1 Tbl fresh chopped thyme
3 Tbl kosher salt
1 Tbl fresh ground black pepper

Using a paring knife, cut 12 small pockets, spread out in the lamb leg.
Insert one clove of garlic into each pocket.
Rub the leg with the olive oil, the rub the herbs, salt and pepper over the leg.
Place the lamb in a large roasting pan, and place it in the preheated oven.
Roast for 30 minutes, then reduce the heat to 325 and continue to bake for 1 hour and 30 minutes to achieve a medium- medium well temperature. If using a thermometer, it should register 155 degrees.
Remove from the oven and allow the lamb to rest for 10 minutes. The temperature of the lamb will rise a few degrees while resting. Slice thinly around the bone and serve.



Raspberry Mint Chutney

1 Tbl olive oil
1 /2 cup shallots, minced
1 Tbl garlic, minced
1 Tbl fresh ginger, minced fine
2 tsp curry powder
1 /4 tsp black pepper, freshly ground

1 /2 cup sherry
3 cups raspberries, fresh or frozen
1 cinnamon stick
2 cups chicken broth
1 bay leaf

1 cup mint jelly
1 tsp cornstarch
2 tsp water
1 /2 tsp balsamic vinegar
1 Tbl fresh mint, chopped

In a small sauce pot, heat olive oil over medium-high heat and cook shallots 3-4 minutes. Stir in garlic, ginger and seasonings, and cook 3-4 more minutes, stirring often. Do not let garlic brown. Deglaze with sherry and reduce by half.

Stir in 2 cups of the raspberries, chicken broth and bay leaf and simmer 15-20 minutes, until reduced by half. Stir in mint jelly and cook three minutes more, stirring constantly. Dissolve the cornstarch with the 2 teaspoons of water and stir it into the simmering sauce. Allow the sauce to thicken then remove from the heat and strain. Stir in the vinegar, fresh mint and remaining cup of raspberries.

Serve at room temperature.

Spring Break Diary

Day One: Saturday

4:30a.m.— I wake up early for a 9:30a.m. flight out of Jackson. Last night I told my wife we needed to leave the house no later than 6:30 a.m. I organize luggage, locate airline tickets, and condo confirmation numbers. The rest of my family sleeps peacefully.

6:23 a.m.— My wife is putting on make-up. Her hair is still wet. Did I mention that the Jackson airport checks no one in within 30 minutes of his or her departure time? My nine-year old daughter is still asleep. For some reason, my five-year old son slept under his desk last night. The 6:30a.m. departure is not going to happen. I guess there is something that can be said for consistency.

6:52 a.m.— The St.John Scramble officially commences (as it does every time we try to get to an airport on time). No matter what time the flight, or what time I tell my wife we need to leave, we are 45 minutes late. Being a master of the St.John Scramble, I had the foresight to tell my wife that we needed to leave at 6:30 a.m. when we actually didn’t need to leave until 7:00 a.m. Wisdom comes with age.

7:24 a.m.— My wife refuses to get in the car unless we drive through Starbucks. I agree because I am the man of the house and I always call the shots.

7:29 a.m.— My wife forgot her ring at the house. We turn around. The kids are eating Starbucks pound cake for breakfast— mega doses of sugar. My son will be bouncing off of the car windows for the next 90 miles to the airport.

7:33 a.m.— We’re on the road. Our flight leaves at 9:30 a.m. I consider calling my travel agent to check on later flights. My son is loudly singing jingles from cheesy commercials. My daughter is staring out of the car window. My wife is still unconcerned. I wonder how my son knows every word to the Forrest General Hospital television commercial.

8:47 a.m.— Tires squeal as we pull up to the curbside check-in at the airport. Sky Caps scatter as I wildly throw suitcases and duffle bags out of the car in a practice with which I have become all too familiar, and all too good.

8:58 a.m.— We check in 90 seconds under the wire and the four of us run through the airport like O.J. in a car-rental commercial. My daughter asks, “Who’s O.J.?”

9:02 a.m.— My son loses his shoes in the security line. I learn that our fight’s departure has been moved up 15 minutes. We make it. Unbelievable. I still haven’t eaten breakfast.

10:17 a.m.— On a small commuter jet, my son stands up, points, and yells out, “Momma, that man has a huge head!”

11:56 a.m.— After a mostly uneventful flight— one with no foodservice— we have a $92.78 meal at a so-called Tex-Mex café in the Dallas airport. The “house specialty” tortilla soup was nothing more than canned chicken noodle soup with the addition of limes, jalepenos, and Tostitos. My son spills his soft drink on his sister.

1:05 p.m.— Just before boarding the flight to Salt Lake City, I notice that we have seats 17B, 17C, 17D, and 17E. I say a heart-felt, silent prayer for the passenger who holds the ticket to seat 17A.

2:07p.m. — At 35,000 feet, somewhere over West Texas, my wife notifies me that she left all of the ski school vouchers, lift tickets, and all other vital vacation stuff “in the box on the dresser, in the den.” The den is still in Mississippi the last time I checked. The man in 17A is nice and skinny— a ray of hope

2:48 p.m.— Mr. 17A appears to have gastro-intestinal issues. My daughter says, “Daddy, that man is making bad air.”

5:15p.m. — We check into the condo. The brochure advertised a “hot tub” in the unit. It looks more like a “hot bucket.” My fourth grader might be able to fit inside.

6:49 p.m.— Sitting in my favorite sushi restaurant in the world— The Flying Sumo in Park City, Utah— eating Luxury Shrimp, Money Rolls, Utah Rolls, Samurai Rolls, Tuna Nachos, and Funky Rolls. The atmosphere is cool, the music is good, the food is great, and no one is making bad air. I’m watching my children eat food that I wouldn’t eat until I was in my thirties. Sleep will come soon. Tomorrow we’ll ski. All is forgotten. Life is good.


Yellowfin Tuna Tartar with Avocado Relish

The ingredients must be fresh. Do not substitute. You won’t be sorry. A true crowd pleaser with a lot of “Wow” appeal.

1 /4 cup minced green onion
1 tsp fresh minced ginger
2 Tbl chopped cilantro
2 Tbl toasted sesame seeds
1 Tbl sesame oil
1 tsp fish sauce
1 /2 tsp hot sauce
2 Tbl soy sauce
1 tsp honey
1 tsp sherry
1 tsp rice vinegar
2 Tbl cottonseed oil
1 /2 pound fresh Yellowfin tuna, small dice

Combine all ingredients except for Yellowfin tuna and blend well. Diced tuna should be added to sesame seed mixture just before serving.


Avocado Relish

1 Tbl fresh lime juice
1 tsp cottonseed oil (or canola oil)
1 tsp sesame seed oil
1 /4 tsp garlic, minced
1 TBSP red onion, finely diced
1 tsp fresh chopped parley
2 tsp red bell pepper, small diced
1 medium sized ripe avocado
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 /8 tsp Cayenne pepper

Combine first seven ingredients and blend well. Quickly fold the avocado. If making in advance, place the seed in the relish and press plastic wrap directly on to the relish, sealing it off from any air exposure. Refrigerate.

5 sheets fresh egg roll wrappers to make wonton crackers


Using a cookie cutter, cut 2 1 /2-inch circles into the center of egg roll wrappers. Fry according to the package directions.
To serve, place 1 1 /2 tsp of the tartar mixture and 1 tsp avocado relish on the wonton crackers.

Yield: 25-30

Pancakes and Passings


I buried my grandmother today. She was the only one I had left.

I was fortunate to have spent all of my childhood and a good part of my early adult years with both grandmothers, each playing a crucial role in my upbringing. My paternal grandmother passed away 17 years ago, my grandfather 25 years ago, my maternal grandmother, last week. She was 97-years old.

In their respective families, grandparents are usually known for a few specific deeds or character traits among their grandchildren. My grandfather was an avid outdoorsman, sportsman, and history buff. My paternal grandmother was a gracious Southern lady with impeccable manners and a knack for entertaining. The lady we buried today was full of spunk, devoted to her family, an excellent bridge and solitaire player, and the creator of the best pancakes on the planet.

Some cooks are more comfortable cooking specific items such as seafood; others excel at on a certain piece of equipment— a barbeque grill or cast iron skillet. Some cooks pride themselves on elaborate dinners; some are more comfortable with small, intimate lunches. For my grandmother, breakfast was her domain; the early morning kitchen was her kingdom, we were her subjects, a spatula was her scepter, and pancakes were the currency.

When dining at my grandmother’s home, no breakfast was complete without her pancakes. The supporting cast of breakfast items might change with each meal— sausage one morning, bacon the next, grits, or no grits— but there were always pancakes.

I am not sure what made her pancake recipe so much better than others, but it is better, much better. It might have been the amount of baking soda, or it could have been the baking powder, possibly a combination of the two with the addition of buttermilk. Most pancakes are dull, flavorless and too bread-like. Not hers. I am fortunate to have grown up in a home where out-of-the-box pancakes of the just-add-water variety were never served.

Whenever the family traveled she packed her pancake mix into Zip-Loc baggies and prepared them on site wherever we might be. Her pancakes were the constant in an ever-changing family structure.

I would bet three paychecks that my grandmother cooked more pancakes than any other homemaker of her era. A few years ago, as I was thinking back on so many shared breakfasts, it occurred to me that no one had ever cooked pancakes for my grandmother. All of my life, every time pancakes were served when she was around, it was she that did the cooking. At the time, she was living in an assisted living home. I invited her to my house for pancakes. This time I did the cooking. We sat with my wife and daughter and enjoyed one of the more memorable breakfasts I will ever have.

Today, my wife makes the pancakes in our family. She uses my grandmother’s recipe.

There are many options for those who want to leave a legacy to their family. It seems that food, or a particular food item, is a legacy of the utmost significance. Like money, it can be passed down to future generations, but unlike cash, the opportunities for creating lasting memories, are limitless. Sharing a meal with one’s family makes life richer. My grandmother made life richer for us all.


Muz’s Pancakes – The World’s Best

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. Mix together the liquid ingredients— including 1 /4 cup of butter— and gently add to the dry ingredients, stirring until just incorporated. Do not overwork the batter.

Note: The batter is thick, it can be thinned with a small amount of water, milk, or a little more buttermilk if you prefer.

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. Top with real maple syrup.

Little Biscuits, Big Appetites


The fondest food memories of my youth are drawn from my grandmother’s house.

For 70-plus years my paternal grandmother lived in a large white house on an oak-lined, brick-paved street in my hometown of Hattiesburg, Miss. Her home had 13-foot ceilings, Oriental rugs, crystal chandeliers, European antiques, and a window-unit air conditioner in every room. I spent many days propped on a stool in the kitchen next to the window-unit watching her fry chicken, roast lamb, or roll biscuit dough.

Summer lunches were eaten in the breakfast room. The formal dining room was reserved for special occasion evening meals and Sunday lunches. I spent almost every Sunday lunch for the first 18 years of my life in that dining room.

The Sunday lunch menu was on a revolving schedule. One Sunday we’d eat roast beef, the next week she would serve fried chicken. Turkey and dressing made a once-a-month appearance and was not reserved for Thanksgiving alone. My favorite meal in that house— roasted leg of lamb— was served at least once a month.

The vegetables changed weekly. The starch was usually rice and gravy though mashed potatoes made an appearance on fried chicken day. Iced tea was served in sterling silver goblets and the one constant, week in-week out, were her biscuits. The woman could flat-out bake biscuits.

The biscuits were very small— about the size of a silver dollar— and light, and good. I could eat a dozen of them. Nothing sleeps as hard as a meal of a dozen biscuits, leg of lamb, and rice and gravy for a Sunday afternoon nap.

She served mint jelly on lamb day, but my brother and I always opted for grape jelly— not for the lamb, but for all for the biscuits we consumed. We called it “plain jelly” I am not sure why, unless we thought mint jelly was “fancy.”

I have tried to replicate her biscuits for years, to no avail. She never wrote down her recipe and unfortunately, I never asked for it. Two cookbooks ago my sous chef and I spent almost two weeks trying to recreate my grandmother’s biscuits but hit dead end after dead end.

In the almost 20 years since her death, I have not eaten a biscuit as good as my grandmother’s. Until last week.

Last week I was a guest speaker at the Natchez Literary and Cinema Celebration. Included with the admission to my speech was a luncheon following the speech at Stanton Hall’s Carriage House Restaurant. On the short drive to the restaurant, my host informed me that the restaurant’s specialties were fried chicken and biscuits. I hear this often, and every time I do, I say to myself— good, sure, but not as good as Mam-Maw’s.

While eating and visiting with my hosts, someone passed a plate of little biscuits. Even though they were small, I was polite and took only one. I placed it on my plate where I forgot about it until midway through the meal. When I finally took a bite, I was stunned. “That’s it!” I said.

“What’s it?” said one of my hosts.

My grandmother’s biscuit, this is just like hers. I haven’t tasted anything like this in 20 years.” My hosts asked the server for one more plate. The server brought two. I threw manners out the window and put three biscuits on my plate. Someone passed the butter and then the man next to me handed me a small bowl of grape preserves— plain jelly.

The rest of the meal’s conversation went something like this:

"That was a great speech today, Robert.”

(With mouth full) “Would you please pass the biscuits?”

“Robert, how’s that diet you’ve been writing about coming along?”

“Is there any butter left in that bowl? Where’s that other plate of biscuits?”

“Robert, I just love when you wrote about the diet devil and the diet angel. That was clever.”

“Y’all, I know I’m making a pig of myself, but I think I’ll have a few more biscuits.”

“Robert, would you like dessert?”

“No, but I’ll take a few more of those biscuits. Do you think we could get some more plain jelly?”
Apparently, word of my substantial biscuit consumption made its way to the restaurant’s manager, who handed me a recipe card on my way out the door and invited me for a return visit.

I haven’t prepared the Carriage House Restaurant’s biscuit recipe, yet. But if they’re anywhere close to the ones I ate last week at the in Natchez, a two-decade search is over.


Carriage House Restaurant Biscuit Recipe
Stanton Hall, Natchez, Miss.



2 cups All Purpose Flour
1 /4 tsp. Salt
4 tsp Baking Powder
1 tsp Sugar
5 Tbl Solid Vegetable Shortening
3/4 to 1 cup Milk

Pre-heat oven to 450 degrees.

Mix all dry ingredients and sift. Add shortening and cut with a pastry cutter until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add milk and stir slowly until mixture forms a ball (do not over mix).

Place ball on board sprinkled with flour. Roll out to 1/4-inch thickness and cut into 1 1/2-inch circles.

Place on an ungreased cookie sheet and bake 15 minutes.

Remove the Foot and Eat Some Crow



Over the six-plus years I have written this column I have never missed a week. At 750 words each week, that’s roughly 253,500 words total, depending on how badly I am censored by my editors.

Over the course of that period, I have stirred up more controversy, frustrated more editors, upset more newspaper readers, and received more hate mail than any writer in the history of food-humor columns. Of course, it’s an extremely limited field, as I am the only Southern food-humor columnist I know.

Nevertheless, I have endured the wrath of many groups. The PETA organization sends e-mail frequently. They are easy targets, especially in this part of the country that hosts more hunters per capita than any other region. I have never been intentionally cruel to a domesticated animal, but my love for foie gras and veal has filled my inbox with some of the more hilarious hate mail a columnist could ever receive.

Vegetarians send e-mail quite frequently. But what they don’t understand is: I like vegetables, too. I just prefer that they taste more like meat.

Any time I make fun of Barbra Streisand, I receive a few snotty e-mails from New York and California. Granted, its’ a stretch to fit a criticism of Barbra Streisand into a food column, but whenever I can, fun ensues. They get especially upset when you misspell her name.

The Girl Scouts organization was on my case a few years ago. My daughter was a member and she tried to pull an advance-purchase cookie scam on me, I wrote about it, and Scout leaders from all over the country mobilized against me. The troop was disbanded, the den mother scolded, and my daughter left scouting and picked up tennis. I also wound up with a pantry full of unsold Girl Scout cookies. Though I wasn’t so upset about that— I ate them.

The Atkins Diet people must remain on full-alert 24-hours a day with teams of press clippers scanning the internet for journalists who dare contradict or make fun of the late doctor’s tortuous carbohydrate deprivation methods. They fill their e-mails with a lot of medical mumbo-jumbo and technical jargon. On the occasions that I do reply, I go into great detail extolling the joy and beauty of bread, rice, and potatoes.

I have upset owners and supporters of various restaurants and hotels, lovers of food, haters of food, little old ladies, and people who don’t even like food but have a major axe to grind.

People who eat opossum mobilized against me four years ago as did fans of chitterlings.

When I wrote of my then two-year-old son’s behavior in restaurants, I received letters condemning me, him, our doctors, his teachers, his sister and his mother for actions for which he wasn’t even responsible.

The most surprising aspect of these e-mails and telephone calls is they don’t bother me in the least. Not a bit. That has been a total shock to my wife, who knows me better than anyone. She was amazed when the first batch of hate mail arrived into the inbox six years ago. Knowing that I am normally sensitive to others feelings and their opinion of me, she was ready to come to my aid and comfort. For some reason, the initial group of letters and phone calls didn’t affect me. I actually found them amusing, wrote them off as a differing opinion from my own, and used the controversy to stir more creative energy to tackle more subjects.

The criticism and complaints have never affected me. That is, until last week. In a column I wrote about Easy Bake ovens, I made an off-handed remark and generalization (I won’t repeat it here for obvious reasons. Though, those who were offended know who they are). I later sent an e-mail to my editors in which I reworked the sentence, but it was too late for a few newspapers though several others had already deleted the sentence on their own.

I second guessed the sentence when I was writing the column, but it was early in the morning and I left it in anyway. That’s no excuse. I am a father who has been blessed with two wonderful children and I love all children. So, here it is, a first after 254,223 words, to those I offended last week: I am sorry. I truly am.

Now that I’m getting soft in my old age, I’ll have to admit that I kind of miss the Girl Scout cookies, too. I wonder if I could talk my daughter’s tennis coach into holding a bake sale.


Lamb Kabobs with Raspberry Mint Dipping Sauce

Skewer Soak

24 skewers-
1 cup water
1 /4 cup lemon juice
1 /4 cup red wine

soak for 3-4 hours before using


2 pounds leg of lamb, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
1 /4 cub lamb rub, recipe below
1 Tbl kosher salt
1 /4 cup olive oil


Skewer the lamb onto the soaked skewers, leaving a space at one end so that they can be easily picked up.

Season the meat on all sides with lamb rub and refrigerate for three to four hours.

Preheat oven to 375

Over high heat, heat enough olive oil to cover the bottom of a large cast iron skillet. Sprinkle the kabobs with the kosher salt, and sear six kabobs at a time. Once all kabobs are evenly seared, place on a baking sheet and finish cooking in oven. Although, at this point, kabobs can be held in refrigerator for several hours before baking.

Bake five to seven minutes to medium (a little longer if the kabobs have been refrigerated).

Serve with raspberry mint dipping sauce.

Yield 24 skewers


Raspberry-Mint Sauce

In addition to the lamb application, it is a perfect accompaniment with pork and turkey.

1 Tbl olive oil
1 /2 cup shallots, minced
1 Tbl garlic, minced
1 tsp creole seasoning
1 /4 tsp black pepper, freshly ground

1 /2 cup sherry
2 cups raspberries, fresh or frozen
2 cups chicken broth
1 bay leaf

1 cup mint jelly
1 /2 tsp balsamic vinegar
1 tsp creole mustard
1 Tbl fresh mint, chopped

In a small sauce pot, heat olive oil over medium-high heat and cook shallots 3-4 minutes. Stir in garlic and seasonings, and cook 3-4 more minutes, stirring often. Do not let garlic brown. Deglaze with sherry and reduce by half.

Stir in raspberries, chicken broth and bay leaf and simmer 15-20 minutes, until reduced by half. Stir in mint jelly and cook three minutes more, stirring constantly. Remove from the heat and stir in the vinegar and fresh mint.

Serve at room temperature.


Lamb Rub

Works on venison, too.

2 Tbl lemon pepper
1 Tbl dry oregano
1 Tbl dry basil
1 Tbl black pepper, fresh ground
1 Tbl brown sugar
1 Tbl garlic salt
1 /2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp dry ground rosemary
1 Tbl paprika
1 Tbl onion powder

Combine all ingredients and store in an airtight container

Easy Bake Oven 2007


When I was six-years old, I asked Santa Claus for an Easy-Bake Oven.

He gave me one.

My brother his friends gave me a hard time about it, but they always ate the miniature cakes and pizzas that came out of the plastic, cyan-colored cooking toy. They might have ribbed me, but they were doing so with their mouths full.

Last week I ran across a Reuters story on the internet with the headline “Hasbro recalls nearly 1 million Easy-Bake Ovens.” After reading the short news brief I learned that children had been getting their hands and fingers stuck in the oven’s opening.

Wait a minute. Hasbro has to recall one-million toys because 21st Century children aren’t smart enough to keep their fingers out of the oven. Today’s kids need corks on their forks. What do they do at home when a parent tries to cook real food in the real oven? Are they sticking their fingers in there, too? I’ve got news for you. If you can’t pass the toy oven test, you certainly can’t pass the real-live at-home kitchen test. Go back to your Playstation.

At first I figured that the toy company might not be including the long, plastic pan passer that allows one to push the pan through the oven without sticking your hands inside. So I went to amazon.com and looked up a photograph of the Easy-Bake Oven. There was the pan passer along with two small tin pans, two plastic measuring spoons, and three packets of yellow-cake mix.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that I never read the directions of any toy I received between the ages of six and 16. But I certainly knew what the pan passer was used for.

The manufacturer’s recommended age for the Easy-Bake oven is 8-12 years old. Folks, my son is five. He can’t tie his shoes, he thinks he can mentally control the weather, and he has yet to master the legible writing of his name. But I guarantee you, if he had an Easy-Bake Oven, he would know not to stick his fingers inside it. Of course, he might try to drop-kick it across the room, but he would at least be smart enough to unplug it first.

The photograph of the Easy-Bake Oven on the website disturbed me. It doesn’t look anything like my 1967 edition. It was pink and looked like a space-age microwave oven. If I was a six-year old boy, and Santa brought me a pink, outer-space-looking microwave oven, I might find the nearest elf and stick his nubby little fingers inside the toy.

A few years ago someone sent me a cookbook that included grown-up recipes to be prepared using an Easy-Bake Oven. The recipes were developed by a dozen or so superstar chefs. I flipped through it, but wrote it off as a novelty publication. Easy Bake Ovens are for kids and they’re not made to cook dishes with exotic mushrooms and free-range chicken breasts. They’re made to cook cakes, and brownies, and bad-tasting pizzas. No matter how modern and space-age they make the design, that’s the way it was meant to be and that’s the way it should stay.

Nothing else in this world smells like cheap cake batter cooking under the heat of a 100-watt light bulb. Nothing. A small whiff and one is instantly transformed to childhood.

Today, my Easy-Bake Oven sits on a shelf in my office next to a lava lamp and an old trophy. It is there to remind me that you’ve got to start somewhere. No matter how simple things are in the beginning, all of your goals can be accomplished if you don’t worry about what others think, and you keep your eye on the ball. But first someone’s got to teach you to keep your fingers out of the oven.




Italian Cream Cake


1 cup Butter, softened
2 cups Sugar
5 large Eggs, separated
2 1 /2 cups All-purpose flour
1 tsp Baking soda
1 cup Buttermilk
2 /3 cup pecans, finely chopped
1 tsp Vanilla extract
1 can Flaked coconut (3 1 /2 oz.)
1 /2 tsp Cream of Tartar
3 Tbl Grand Marnier
1 recipe Cream Cheese Frosting

Grease and flour three nine-inch round cake pans. Line pans with wax paper;grease paper, and set aside.

Beat butter at medium speed of an electric mixer until creamy; gradually add sugar, beating well. Add egg yolks, one at a time, beating after each addition. Combine flour and baking soda. Add buttermilk and flour alternately, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Stir in pecans, vanilla, and coconut.

Beat egg whites at high speed in a large bowl until foamy. Add cream of tartar; beat untilstiff peaks form. Gently fold beaten egg whites into batter. Pour batter into prepared pans.

Bake at 350 degrees for 25 or 30 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Let cool in pans 10 minutes, remove from pans; peel off wax paper; and let cool completely on wire racks. Brush each cake layer with 1 tablespoon Grand Marnier. Let stand 10 minutes. Spread cream cheese frosting between layers and on sides and top of cake.



Cream Cheese Frosting

1 (8 oz.) pkg Cream cheese, softened
1 (3 oz.) pkg Cream cheese, softened
3 /4 cup Butter, softened
1 1 /2 Powdered sugar, sifted
1 1 /2 cups Pecans, chopped
1 Tbl Vanilla extract

Beat first three ingredients at medium speed of electric mixer until smooth.Gradually add powdered sugar, beating until light and fluffy; stir in pecansand vanilla.

Angels, and Devils, and Diets, Oh My!



I picked the wrong month to go on a diet.

Like a million other slugs out there, I started dieting the day after New Year’s. Since then, business travels have taken me on several waistline-expanding trips.

For the first several days I walked around with a diet angel and a diet devil on each shoulder. The diet devil kicked back and told me that onion rings would be O.K. Then the diet angel would whip out a picture of me at the swimming pool last summer.

Around two weeks in, the diet devil spread a map on my desk, pinpointed all of the locations that would tempt my palate, and handed over the airline tickets.

During this period the diet-angel was not on my shoulder encouraging me to "do right and eat well" because— as all angels know— it's not polite to speak with your mouth full of cheesecake.

The diet-busting journey began in New Orleans at Restaurant August. It continued to Las Vegas where I sampled several of that town's finest. The diet devil made it easy to get reservations at all of the restaurants I wanted to visit. The diet angel was nowhere to be found— probably playing blackjack in the casino.

The next week, business took me to Columbus, Miss to tour the Jubilations Cheesecake factory (details in a future column). I don't know if you've ever toured a cheesecake factory, but the diet devil and I suggest you do so, sometime soon.

The next week I found myself in San Francisco— again on business— yet this time only in town for 48 hours. At the request of one of my associates I called the French Laundry in Yountville to see if I could secure a table with only 36 hours notice. "You're dreaming," I told my him. "I have people calling me for help two months out. There's no way we'll get in."

Obviously the diet devil has access to the French Laundry’s reservation book. Two nights later I was seated among a six-top in the French Laundry that included three business associates, the diet devil, the diet angel, and me. The six of us participated in a 14-course bacchanalia that one rarely ever experiences. Actually, our web guy from New Orleans— the pickiest eater on the planet— mostly ate bread. Therefore the diet devil and I, not wanting to waste any of Thomas Keller's brilliant offerings, picked up his slack and ate at least 12 courses off of his plate(we didn't share any with the diet angel).

Safe at home, but not for long, a Frenchman has opened a bakery directly across the street from my office. How much can one man take? There are several bakeries in my hometown but most are miles from my office. Out of sight and out of mind equal out of stomach.

The new bakery, C’est La Vie, is exactly 97 steps from the front door of my office, and on top of that, everything there is good. As a matter of fact, everything is fantastic.

The bakery is owned by a French-Polish man named Janusz. That is what his business card states, just "Janusz," like Elvis, Bono, or Sting, one word: Janusz. And folks, Janusz is a rock star when it comes to baking pastries and cakes.

He and his wife are from France and Poland respectively, but he is a bread-baking, cake-making journeyman who has pulled many stints as a pastry chef in multi-starred kitchens all over the world. As a matter of fact, I found out that he trained the pastry chef that is currently working at the French Laundry.

The new bakery has a true European sensibility. The pastries are light and not-too sweet. The cakes are world-class, and the man makes the lightest and best-tasting quiche I have ever eaten. My entire family eats there, often. The diet devil is usually somewhere near the pastry case pushing the chocolate croissants.

During my first visit to C’est la Vie, the diet angel was sitting on my right shoulder and constantly ranting about bread and carbs. By the second visit I made him wait outside while the diet devil and I enjoyed a custard and raisin-filled croissant.

Now I’m back to square one. Willpower was along for the ride during the first few weeks, safe and warm in a secure spot in my back pocket. Then the diet devil found him, shivved him like a jail-yard stooge, and sent him packing.

They say that life is all about timing. It appears that dieting is about timing, too. So now the question: Lose 20 pounds or eat freshly baked pastries and quiche from an extremely talented French baker’s kitchen? Well, I wasn’t ready to buy a bunch of new smaller-waisted pants, anyway.

As for the dieting angel, in the words of Don McLean, “He caught the last train for the coast.”

I have to go now. My friend the diet devil is saving a table across the street for our mid-morning pastry.

Blackstrap Molasses Muffins

3/4 cup hot water
1/2 cup molasses
1/4 cup milk
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup sugar
3 tablespoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups coarsely chopped pecans, dry roasted

In a medium-size bowl combine the hot water and molasses, stirring until well blended. Stir in the milk until blended.

In a large bowl sift together the flours, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt.

With a rubber spatula, fold the liquid mixture and pecans into the dry ingredients just until flour is thoroughly incorporated; do not over mix. Spoon into 12 greased muffin cups. Bake at 300 degrees until done, 45 minutes to about 1 hour. Remove from pan immediately and serve while hot.

Makes 1 dozen muffins

The Mississippi legislature is banning fried foods from our school cafeterias.

At least we’re better off than Rhode Island. In that postage stamp of a state they’ve banned talking in the school cafeteria during lunch. Well actually only one school has barred talking, but you know how these things work— once one falls the others are sure to follow.

The legislature has been trying to outlaw soft drinks, too. Fried steak fingers and imitation veal cutlets, I can understand, but I might have to draw the line at Diet Coke.

The legislature is citing our number-one-in-the-nation obesity rate as reason for the fried-food ban. Go figure, we’re always number 49 or 50 in every other statistical category, then we finally reach number one and the politicians want to take the designation away from us. We’re fat. So what, where’s the Lard Lobby when you need them.

My elementary school, Thames Elementary, had a great line-em-up-in-the-back-of-the-room-and-grab-your-tray-for-butter-beans-and-lime-Jell-O, and-a-yeast-roll cafeteria. We ate vegetables, cornbread, strawberry shortcake, and turnip greens on days when they mowed the playground. I don’t remember an inordinate amount of fried food being served, but that was in the 1960s, maybe things have changed.

In the sixth grade I was sent to a small private school in town. There, free of state regulations, we ate hamburgers and pizza and something called a steak sandwich, though I don’t think any form of steak was used in its preparation.

Note: The statement you are about to read is 100% accurate (I have friends who will verify it)— For four consecutive years of high school I ate a small frozen pepperoni pizza, two Coca Colas and an oatmeal cream pie every day, day in day out. Occasionally I would eat a Richeyburger (named after the lunch lady Mrs. Richey) with hot fries. Not French fries that were sliced from real potatoes and fried in grease, but light crunchy fried bits of potato parts, formed into French fry shapes and seasoned with some type of spicy powder, a side item in which— in the words of John Lennon— nothing is real.

The Richeyburger was cooked from a frozen state in one of the earliest examples of a microwave. The school microwave was as large as a desk and most of the mothers were a little suspicious of it. “How can it cook so quickly? It can’t be good for you. Don’t watch the food cook, you’ll go blind.”

My high school years were during the Cold War. No one had a microwave in their home kitchen in those days. The father of a friend believed that microwaves were a communist plot to embed radioactivity into everyday American civilization. My friend brought his lunch everyday.

The pizzas were made by a food vending company; they were frozen, and then shipped to the school to lay in wait in the deep freeze before being placed into the communist cooking apparatus. My friends at the public school were eating fish sticks, chicken fried steak, and fried burritos with a wiener in the middle. We were surviving on a steady diet of Richeyburgers, hot fries, oatmeal cream pies, and Coca Cola.

The man who owned the local Coca Cola bottling plant was on the board of directors at the school and all three of his children were enrolled there. We had Coke machines and snack machines in every hallway and break room. It was great. Public schools didn’t have vending machines in those days. Oatmeal crème pies were there for the taking, along with tubular packets of peanuts for adding to your bottle of Coke. There was no Diet Coke in those days, although some of the teachers drank Tab.

Ten years ago, I would have a field day writing a column against this new piece of legislation. Today, I as a father of two children and in the middle of a three-month diet, it seems like sound reasoning, though I could be suffering from a lack of sustenance.

I don't want my kids eating hot fries, microwave pizza, and burritos with a wiener in the middle. Could we amend the bill to include a once-a-month serving of fried chicken? Actually, that should be a requirement in every Southern school, though I will officially go on record as being in favor of doing away with steak nuggets forever.

At least our children can talk while they eat, hopefully not with their mouths full.



Fried Chicken


3 lb Whole Chicken (fresh)
3 cups Buttermilk
2 tsp Salt
1 Tbl Black pepper
2 cups Flour
Crisco for deep frying

Wash chicken well in cold water and cut chicken. Place chicken in a bowl with ice water to draw out excess blood. Pat chicken dry and sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper and marinate in buttermilk for two hours in the refrigerator.

Season flour with salt and pepper. Heat Crisco in a large cast iron skillet to 350 degrees on a deep-fat thermometer. There should be just enough grease in the skillet to come up just around the edge (halfway) of each piece of chicken. Drain chicken thoroughly and dust with flour shaking off all excess.

Place chicken, skin side down, in oil and make sure none of the chicken is touching. Cover the skillet and cook for approximately five to seven minutes, turn and cover for another five to seven minutes. Uncover the skillet and continue cooking for 10 to 15 minutes. Only turn the chicken once.

Cook chicken in smaller batches if skillet is too small. Drain on a wire cake rack with a paper bag or paper towels underneath the rack to catch excess grease (draining straight to a paper bag causes the chicken to sit in the drained grease). Yield: 8 pieces

Olives


When Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast, the Beau Rivage hotel and casino was inundated with water and its future changed forever. Its restaurants were completely wiped out and the entire operation was shut down for one year. In 99.9 percent of the cases, that was a bad thing. For that .1 percent there is Olives.The Beau Rivage’s parent company, MGM Mirage, had a clean slate with which to work and they obviously sunk a sizable portion of the $550 million rebuilding budget into their restaurant operations.

Before the storm, the Beau Rivage offered a mediocre Italian restaurant, an on-again, off-again fine dining restaurant whose atmosphere was dictated mostly by huge saltwater aquariums that lined the walls, a Japanese concept that never seemed to decide what it was, and, a Chinese concept— the only concept Steve Wynn sent down from his Las Vegas mothership, The Belagio— Noodles.

Noodles was my favorite Chinese restaurant in the state, and certainly the best of the original Beau Rivage concepts, but it didn’t make the cut.

Lucky for us, and in a situation that might possibly our first opportunity to say, ”This is better than it was before the storm,” The Beau Rivage has brought celebrity chef, Todd English’s Mediterranean mega restaurant, Olives, to town.

Olives is possibly the most visually appealing and tastefully decorated restaurant in the state of Mississippi. The dining room was designed by architect Jeffrey Beers and is designed to look like an ancient olive mill. It, along with the exposed kitchen, are prime examples that casinos can and will spend money to get the very best. The room is exquisite.

I have never eaten at the original Olives in Boston, but I enjoyed an excellent meal at the Aspen Olives a few years ago. The coast restaurant, at least appearance-wise, is better.On the night of my visit the restaurant had been open one month, the casino was packed, yet the restaurant was only three-quarters full. It should be noted that the waiting line to acquire a table in the all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant stretched about half the length of a football field.

The amuse bouche, a basket of freshly baked breads, two tapenades, and a small assortment of the restaurant’s namesake kicked the meal off with a bang. Both versions of the tapenade were subtly flavorful and probably the best this writer has tasted.

As I am wont to do, I ordered several courses— five from the appetizer menu— and all were first-rate. The fig and proscuitto flatbread and one of the most visually stunning presentations of carpaccio were the best of the bunch. The tuna was a hit-and-miss proposition with each bite as some were flavorful and spicy and others were bland and boring.

The pastrami seasoned ribs were an example of a dish brilliantly conceived yet average when produced. The portion was a little too large. The ribs were melt-in-your-mouth tender though, at least on this night, were the victims of a heavy hand holding the pepper shaker.

The final appetizer— a crab gnocco— was delicate, flavorful, and made perfect use of the classic crab-avocado pairing.

The service at Olives was attentive yet spotty at times with several long drags between courses, though nothing that couldn’t— or shouldn’t— be written off to a restaurant still in it’s honeymoon period.

Halfway through the meal I began to wonder if the three-quarters full dining room was a result of disinterest or of the managers short seating the dining room in a restaurant that was four weeks old hoping not to tax the kitchen. Hopefully, the latter was the case.

We ordered three pasta dishes the best of which was a ravioli that I would certainly order again. The other two weren’t executed to English’s standards but were miles ahead of anything served in the Italian restaurant that previously occupied the space.

The exposed kitchen is a chef’s dream and is one of the best examples of how to incorporate an open kitchen into a dining room that I have ever seen.

The restaurant was filled with a strange mix of casino slot junkies and local members of the upwardly mobile. The man seated next to me asked for steak sauce to accompany his $47 steak and when none was given, settled for a ramekin of ketchup.

By 9 p.m. the music had been turned up a notch with a steady techno beat that screamed “big city” and I almost forgot I was home.

Olives, should immediately be listed among the state’s top restaurants, and is a welcome addition to the Coast’s new restaurant offerings. I anticipate eating there often.


Lasagna with Spinach

1 Tbl Olive oil
2 Tbl Garlic, minced
1 10-oz package Spinach, frozen, then thawed and excess moisture squeezed out
1 10-oz package Spinach, fresh, cleaned and roughly chopped
1 /2 tsp Salt

2 Eggs
15 oz Ricotta cheese
1 cup Romano cheese, shredded
1 1 /2 tsp Black pepper
1 1 /2 tsp Salt

12 Lasagna sheets, cooked until al dente in boiling salted water
2 cups Mozzarella, shredded
1 recipe Tomato sauce (recipe below)

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

In a large skillet, heat olive oil over medium heat. Sauté garlic for 30 seconds, add fresh spinach and cook until wilted. Season with salt. Add drained spinach and set aside. In a mixing bowl, combine the ricotta cheese, Romano cheese, eggs, salt and pepper. Stir well.

Ladle two cups of tomato sauce into a three-quart baking dish. Place a layer of three pasta sheets on the sauce and top with half of the ricotta mixture. Spread half of the sautéed spinach on the ricotta mixture. Lay down another layer of pasta sheets and top with two cups of sauce. Spread out evenly. Sprinkle the sauce with half of the mozzarella cheese. Repeat these two steps again. Cover the baking dish tightly first with plastic wrap and then foil. (The plastic will not melt. It will prevent the cheese from sticking to the bottom of the foil). Bake covered for 1 hour. Remove foil and plastic and bake for an additional 10 minutes. Allow lasagna to set 20 minutes before serving. Spoon the remaining sauce on top of lasagna just before serving. Yield: 8-12 servings


Tomato Sauce 2

1 /4 cup Olive oil
2 cups Onion, small dice
2 cups Carrots, shredded
1 /3 cup Garlic, minced
2 tsp Basil, dry
1 tsp Oregano, dry
2 Bay leaves
2 tsp Salt
2 tsp Black pepper, fresh ground
6 oz can Tomato paste
2-28 oz cans Tomatoes, diced
28 oz can Tomatoes, crushed
1 1 /2 cups Water
1 tsp Balsamic vinegar

In a large heavy duty saucepot, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onions, carrots and garlic. Cook vegetables 10 minutes stirring often. Add herbs and tomato paste and cook for five to six minutes (This helps to caramelize the tomato paste resulting in a sweeter tomato sauce). Add remaining tomato products and the water. Turn heat to low (very low). Allow sauce to cook for 3 1 /2 hours, stirring often. Add vinegar. Yield: approximately three quarts.

Sauce is best after two or three days in the refrigerator. Sauce freezes well.

Viva Las Diet


LAS VEGAS— So much for the diet. I was on a two-week roll with eight pounds lost, good eating habits formed, and metabolism ginning like a gnat’s— then came the Christmas present.

Christmas morning my wife gave me a trip to see the new Cirque de Soleil show based on the Beatles’ music here in the town that never sleeps.

An early Friday morning flight prompted me to book a Thursday night room near the French Quarter and a reservation at one of my favorite restaurants— and now Zagat’s favorite New Orleans restaurant— August. Your honor, it was sometime around 8:15 on the night in question that my diet was blown all to hell.

Chef John Besh’s able kitchen crew— a crew that helped him win a 2006 James Beard Award for Best Chef Southeast, and a spot on Gourmet magazine’s Top 50 restaurants in America— prepared a nine-course indulgence that was worthy of every accolade that restaurant has earned over its seven-year run.

The highlights at our four-top were mostly Besh’s signature items. The heirloom beet salad with crabmeat, mustard greens, black-eyed pea croutons, Allen Benton’s cherry wood smoked bacon, and a quail egg is an item I eat every time I dine in August. My wife’s favorite is the subtle, yet brilliant, gnocchi with lump crab and truffle. The agnolotti with chestnut sage butter and country ham and the sugar and spice duckling with grits, roasted foie gras, and quince brought to an end another perfect evening in one of the South’s greatest culinary treasures.

Note: Two weeks ago Chef Besh purchased the famed North Shore French institution, La Provence, from his former mentor Chris Kerageorgiou. I look forward to having a Besh-run restaurant 40 minutes closer to my hometown as we once did when he manned the stoves at Artesia in Abita Springs.

Back to the diet. I defy anyone to eat healthily in an airport. Sure they’ve got bananas, apples and a few muffins at the coffee kiosks, but those cinnamon roll chains guilefully lure avid calorie counters with the strong scent of cinnamon and vanilla that wafts through the air of every terminal. Between the Crescent City and Sin City it took every inch of will I could muster to fight back the desire to jump behind the Cinnabon counter and dive face first in the cinnamon rolls while rubbing pecan sticky buns all over my body. I ate carrot sticks, instead. Good for the eyes, yes, but the junk food joints certainly have the aroma advantage.

Our first meal in Vegas was at Chef Thomas Keller’s French bistro, Bouchon, another one of Gourmet’s Top 50, where I OD’d on bread, butter, and steak frittes. Later that night— sometime around 5 a.m.— after a Prince concert in his new nightclub 3121, I ordered chicken and waffles at an all-night breakfast joint.

I have always wondered about the chicken and waffle combination. Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles in Los Angeles institutionalized the chicken and waffle craze that started in Harlem in the 1930s. I have often driven past restaurants promoting chicken and waffles on their shingles, yet I have never eaten a serving ,and have never understood the appeal of those two seemingly opposite foods. Being somewhat of an adventurous diner— and having been awake for more than 25 hours at that point— I took a leap. It was at that point that I realized that my diet had not only ventured way off of the beaten path, but was headed down a the long and bumpy gravel road that leads to a guest spot on the next edition of The Biggest Loser.

Lucky for my waistline, the chicken and waffle offering was pretty bad due to a strange tasting syrup that was thicker than an Elvis impersonator’s waistline, so I ordered scrambles eggs and wheat toast and veered back onto diet’s main highway.

The next day brought fruit and toast from room service, a wonderful Moo Shu pork at a noodle house, and that day’s only dieting faux pas— a late-night pepperoni pizza after the Beatles Cirque de Soleil show.

I’m not a drinker, and I’m not a gambler, but I am a world-class eater. Las Vegas has slowly turned into one of the country’s top dining destinations. So much for “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”


Waffle Batter

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 /4 cup Milk
1 /4 cup Melted Butter

Mix dry ingredients thoroughly. Gently add liquid ingredients including 1 /4 cup of butter, and stir until just incorporated. Do not overwork the batter.

Diet Diary Week II


Welcome to week two of dieting hell.

I hesitated to write about this subject two weeks in a row for fear that new readers to this column might think that the only topics ever discussed within these paragraphs are my eating habits (or lack thereof). The hesitation only lasted a few seconds though, as the hunger pangs emanating from my stomach broke my train of thought and I began typing fortuitously.

I am in the early stages of a three-month diet and all I can think about is food. Not all foods, just unhealthy foods. I was walking through the grocery store yesterday looking for healthy alternatives that I could incorporate into my diet plan when a strange phenomenon occurred. I call it a diet mirage. It struck me as I was reading the nutritional information on a Pop Tarts box.

Innocently enough, I had started in the oatmeal section and, before I knew it, I had inched my way past the breakfast bars and wound up in W.K. Kellogg’s pre-packaged, toaster-ready answer to French breakfast pastry— the Pop Tart (according to the label there is nothing nutritious, healthy, or dietetic in a Pop Tart, but I already knew that— that’s the point).

The diet mirage kicked in as soon as I walked through the automatic doors. Like a parched man in a barren dessert, at every turn of every aisle I envisioned a cool, palm-laden, water-filled oasis— though these oases took the form of junk food. Fact: Foods that are bad for you have much better packaging. They jump off of the shelves and beg to be purchased. Healthy foods, on the other hand, are wrapped in dull, boring, and unappetizing containers.

Case in point: the gosh-almighty Pop Tart. I haven’t eaten— or wanted to eat— a Pop Tart since I was in elementary school. Yesterday I was debating whether I should rip the box open and eat a few on the way to the cash register, or rub them all over my body. I did neither. I kept walking down the aisle looking for whole grains, fiber, and sugar substitutes.

The diet I have chosen this time around is one of my own making: a low-sugar, low-fat, nothing-fried, high-fiber hybrid diet I will heretofore now call the St.John Plan. I lost six pounds last week so something must be working.

The St.John Plan is a method I have developed over 10 years of failing at Sugar Busters, South Beach, The Zone Diet, calorie counting, no-fat diets, and Atkins.

I once tried Dr. Atkins’ torturous method of carbohydrate deprivation, and three weeks into the diet wrote this paragraph in my journal: “Everyday I get an afternoon craving for a Milky Way bar. ‘Just eat some pork rinds or beef jerky’ they say. I tried that. Pork rinds are smelly and greasy, and it takes approximately 37 hours to chew one single piece of beef jerky. Note to future Atkins dieters: 50 pounds of dried beef or fried pig skins can’t come close to one tiny bite of a chocolaty, silky, heavenly, wonderfully delicious Milky Way bar— Pure joy in a brown wrapper.”

An obvious side-effect of the St.John Plan is the grocery-store mirage phenomenon. Sweet rolls never looked as good as they did yesterday in my local market. At one time during the visit I actually wondered what a chocolate-covered donut filled with Fritos would taste like. Note to reader: Don’t sign any wills, loans, or other important legal documents while you are on a diet.

Another side effect of my dieting is that everyone who reads your column knows you’re on a diet. Three times in the course of my grocery store visit I was asked how the diet is “coming along.” One lady asked that question while I was holding the Pop Tart box. “How’s the diet coming along, Robert?”

“Take a guess,” I said, as I picked up a box of Strawberry Milkshake Pop Tarts.

As of this writing I have been dieting exactly 198 hours. That’s 11,882 minutes without a french fry, 7,132,920 seconds without an onion ring. No chips, dips, candy bars, cake, pie, or fried fish— many of the things that make life worthwhile. Keep me in your prayers and— come April— pass the Pop Tarts.


Vegetable Beef Soup

3 Tbl Olive oil
1 1 /2 lbs Beef shoulder, small dice
1 1 /2 tsp Salt
1 tsp Pepper
1 cup Onion, small dice
1 cup Carrot, small dice
1 cup Celery, small dice
1 Tbl Garlic, minced
1 /2 tsp Dried Thyme
2 tsp Steak Seasoning
1 Bay leaf
15 oz can Tomato, diced
1 1 /2 quart Beef broth
1 cup Corn, fresh, scrapd from the cob
1 cup Potato, peeled and diced
1 cup V-8 Juice
1 Tbl Kitchen Bouquet
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce

Heat 1 tablespoon of oil over high heat in a large skillet. Season the meat with half of the salt and pepper. Brown the meat in olive oil. Do not overload the skillet. Over loading the skillet will cause the beef to steam instead of brown. Brown meat in batches, add more oil when necessary then place cooked meat in a large stockpot.

Add one tablespoon of oil to skillet and sauté the onions, carrots, celery and garlic for five minutes over medium heat. Add thyme, steak seasoning and bay leaf. Deglaze the pan by adding the canned tomatoes (with the juice) using a wooden spoon to remove any stuck-on proteins. Cook five minutes on high, and add to the meat in the stockpot. Place beef broth in the stockpot and cook over low heat. The soup should just barely simmer. After 1 hour, add V-8, corn and potatoes. Continue cooking another 45 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in remaining salt, pepper, Worcestershire and Kitchen Bouquet. Yield: one gallon

2007

New York has banned trans fats, Chicago has banned foie gras, and my hometown of Hattiesburg has just banned cigarettes.

That is how I intended to start this week’s column. Typically, I would use the next several paragraphs to make fun of the overzealous food police, vegetarians, and New Yorkers in general— some of which fit all three categories— easy targets, all. Next I would use a few paragraphs to humorously point out what would happen if the trans-fat food police came down to Mississippi and tried to shut down our catfish shacks and barbeque joints.

I would then use the closing paragraphs to take a few final jabs at vegetarians, diet junkies, and members of PETA before finally delivering a humorous knockout blow to those who are trying to regulate every aspect of our lives.

Unfortunately, I am writing this column on New Year’s Day and I have resolved to lose 25 pounds in the next four months. A trans-fat ban is actually looking pretty good right about now.

Full speed ahead, Captain, straight into dieting hell.

I have been on an eating spree since June of 2006. I once read an article that stated one’s taste buds change every seven years. At 45 years old, I must be on the cusp of another one of those changes as I have developed an abnormal and obsessive love of onion rings. Like a pregnant woman craving asparagus cupcakes, it has come from nowhere. Three years ago I endured the same phenomenon— that time with turnip greens— though turnip greens are much healthier than onion rings.

Recently, I have felt like a teenager on a growing spurt, though the only way I have been growing over the last six months is— out.

The catalyst for this most recent food-inspired resolution is pure vanity. My publisher is sending a photographer down from New York for a two-week food and lifestyle photo shoot in May and I don’t want to end up looking like the Mississippi version of Paul Prudhomme circa 1982 in my next book. Up until now my published works have featured beautiful watercolor paintings, self-deprecating cartoons, or vintage photography. Now the subject matter has taken a definite turn for the worse: Me.

A published book is as close to permanent as almost anything in life. Once it goes to the printer, it’s as final as final gets. Scary, yes. Motivating, double yes.So I have resolved to dust off the old diet books, remove the stacks of cookbooks that are piled up on the treadmill, stop using the exercise equipment as an alternate clothes-hanging closet, and throw out all of the chips and sugary kids cereal in my pantry.

I am not quite sure which route I will take to drop this excess poundage. In the past I have counted calories, eliminated fat, used Sugar Busters, and spent a few months with Dr. Atkins’ and his sadistic slow torture method of carbohydrate deprivation. No matter what I end up doing, I know cardio persecution will be a major part of it. I hate cardio.

So I, along with the millions of other slugs who waited until New Year’s Day to make the decision to drop excess poundage, will now be eating healthier. Even still, I am comforted by the fact that I made the choice on my own. New Yorkers have to rely on their local government.

For the immediate future, the catfish houses, barbeque joints, and meat-and-three cafes of South Mississippi will be serving one less customer— no onion rings, less bread, and bland chicken breasts are on the horizon. Sayonara, trans fat. I’ll miss you (at least until June).

Robert’s Top Ten 2006

As is the tradition in this column, each year 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 I have listed only meals eaten away from home. As loyal readers know, I would choose eating my wife’s spaghetti with my children at my dining room table— or any meal eaten as a family— over a dinner at any of the world’s finest restaurants.

10. Breakfast at John Besh’s Home, Slidell, LA— While filming the pilot to a television show I am developing, Besh— in a true act of culinary improvisation— prepared a crawfish etouffee using heirloom tomatoes served over stone-ground grits and topped with a fried egg. It was accompanied by Allan Benton’s bacon, Besh-made andouille sausage, biscuits, and fig preserves from. Beautiful.

9. Ina’s, Chicago— Breakfast at two in the afternoon with my friend Art Smith. We arrived as the restaurant was closing (a no-no in the restaurant business). Nevertheless, Ina insisted we stay, sent the chefs back into the kitchen, and served us a dozen of her best breakfast offerings, the most memorable being whole wheat oatmeal pancakes. Afterwards Art, Oprah’s personal chef, threw in a behind-the-scenes tour of Harpo Studios just down the street.

8. Nobu, New York— Sushi perfection.

7. Asiate, Mandarin Oriental Hotel, New York— Lunch with my publisher, editor, and agent at a restaurant of my publisher’s choosing. The highlight being a non-sushi filled Bento Box.

6. Tie: Bouchon, Las Vegas; Aureole, Las Vegas— Vegas is quickly becoming a major food destination.

5. Gary Danko, San Francisco— I am still amazed by a fine-dining restaurant that will allow customers to select their own tasting menu from an offering of 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.

4. Geronimo, Santa Fe— The multi-course lunch began with sautéed morel mushrooms served with an English sweet-pea potato cake finished with first press New Zealand olive oil. A second course of macaroni and cheese, was the highlight of the meal, it consisted of Eliche semolina pasta, aged Asiago, Sage Derby, and Fontal cheeses, a julienne of smoked country ham, white truffle essence, English peas, and fresh herbs. A mesquite-grilled flat-iron steak with New Mexico roasted chilies, pommes frites, and veal sauce was the main course, and a banana tart ended the meal.

3. August, New Orleans— Just my wife and me. Nine courses, all dictated by John Besh. The top three being: 1.) I will forever call this dish “Death by Foie Gras.” On one plate I received four unique and inventive treatments— seared, grilled, smoked, and wrapped in the thinnest of five-layered pastries. 2.) Gnocchi with lump crabmeat and black truffle. 3.) Agnolotti filled with a crawfish reduction and tossed with fresh peas, sweetbreads, morels, and a small dice of smoked bacon. The pasta was tossed in a delicate cream-infused fish fumet.

2. Per Se, New York, NY— Eleven courses featuring jet-fresh foods flown in from all over the world. The most memorable offering being a pan-roasted sirloin of Australian Wagyu beef that was served alongside a Wagyu brisket that had been braised for 48 hours, a roasted potato gratin that was 16 layers thick but less than one-inch tall, a forest mushroom duxelles, crisp haricots verts and sauce bordelaise.

1. The French Laundry, Yountville, CA— A humbling, 32-course culinary bacchanalia at the hands of Thomas Keller. It is the only meal I have ever eaten that needed a halftime break. We started with salmon crème fraiche in a tuille cone, moved to oysters from Greece, poached in butter and served over a savory sabayon of pearl tapioca with Russian Sevruga caviar and it only went up from there. In conclusion, 32 courses, five hours and 15 minutes from start to finish, brilliant food, excellent service, good friends, and the country’s greatest culinary institution made for a most memorable evening.



Snookie’s Chicken Salad

Next to my grandmother’s chicken salad, Snookie Foote’s recipe is the best. Snookie was my surrogate grandmother, so I guess that’s fitting.

2 pounds chicken breasts2 tsp poultry seasoning 1 onion, quartered 2 celery stalks 1 cup chopped celery
1 bay leaf
1 1 /2 quarts water
4 eggs, hard-boiled, chopped 2 teaspoons Creole seasoning
1 tsp Lawry’s Seasoning Salt3 /4 cup mayonnaise
2 Tbl creole mustard
1 can water chestnuts, roughly chopped
1 /2 cup pecans, toasted
1 /2 cup minced celery
1 /4 cup red onion, minced1 Tbl lemon juice, freshly squeezed 1 /4 teaspoon black pepper, freshly ground 2 to 3 tablespoons chicken stock

Place the chicken poultry seasoning, onion, celery, bay leaf and water in a large stock pot and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer until the chicken is cooked through. Remove chicken from pot, reserve broth and cool.

Dice the cooked chicken and place in a large bowl to cool.

Add the remaining ingredients and mix well.
Yield: 1 1 /2 quarts

Ravioli and Sweet Tea in NYC



I bit the bullet. Actually, I bit the Big Apple and took the kids to New York.

Over the last 18 years, my visits to the island of Manhattan have focused on one thing: eating. Each year my schedule is dictated by restaurants, business meetings and theatre, in that order. Every detail of every minute of every visit is planned, plotted, mapped out, and determined by restaurant reservations.

I spend hours devising my restaurant strategy so as to squeeze in every possible dining experience available. I eat for a living. I love food and I love restaurants, they’re my hobby, so when one is in the top restaurant city in the world he must make every meal and every moment count.

This visit my wife and I had three extra passengers on board: my daughter, son, and mother-in law (actually, the boy should be counted as two people). Priorities change, restaurants change, and theatre schedules change. Change is good, right?

I have now seen New York restaurants through the eyes of a nine and five year old (make that two— very active and energetic— five year olds rolled into one).

Theatre, not restaurants, was the main focus of this visit. Our hotel was in Times Square; therefore all of the restaurants surrounding Times Square were fair game.

Twice we ate fairly good Chinese food at a restaurant named Ollie’s on 44th and Broadway where my daughter— a devout sweet tea drinker— had her first experience with hot tea. On the second visit, a late night meal after a show, there was no iced tea available and the waiter poured hot tea over ice and watched intensely as my daughter tried to choke the watery liquid down with the addition of several sugar packets. A spicy orange flavored chicken dish was the highlight of that meal. It was a dish that could hold its own in any joint in Chinatown.

My daughter never gave up on her quest for sweetened tea in Manhattan. At every meal at every restaurant, deli, and café, she asked the server for “sweet tea” only to have the request denied each time.

More than anything else this visit will be known as the trip my son learned about ravioli and gnocchi. In Carmine’s, a bustling, tourist-laden, family-style Italian restaurant (also on 44th), my son ate a platter of ravioli large enough to feed a family of four. He talked about it for the rest of the trip. Whether we were in a deli, bakery, or toy store, he asked whoever would listen, “Do you have ravioli here?”

In Danny Meyer’s Union Square Café, he fell in love with gnocchi. Union Square was the one “nice” restaurant we braved with the kids. I had two business meetings away from the family that mostly satisfied my craving for fine dining: Meyer’s Eleven Madison Park; and Asiate on the 35th floor of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel where I ate from the most creative and stunning bento box I have ever seen.

Every time I visit the city I like to sneak away one morning and walk the streets. I’ll usually have breakfast at a locals-only joint and “take in” the city. I feel like a New Yorker for a brief moment, and then it’s out of my system until the next visit. This trip I took the subway to SoHo where I ate breakfast at Balthazar. I have spent several late-night dinners at that French bistro on Spring Street. Some of the city’s top chefs dine there after their restaurants have closed. However, I had never eaten breakfast there.

I enjoyed a breakfast of brioche French toast, apple wood smoked bacon, freshly baked croissants, and scrambled eggs with mushrooms and asparagus in puff pastry. The latter being the culinary highlight of the trip.

Was it fun? Was this trip worse than others due to the limitations? In the end, I learned a lesson that should have known from the outset. I would much rather eat in New York tourist joints with my children than alone in any of that city’s finest restaurants.

Late at night, driving home from the airport after a grueling day of travel, the car was quiet. Separately, we were all reflecting on the previous six days. As we passed a highway sign that stated the remaining mileage to Hattiesburg, my hometown, an excited voice broke the silence. It was my daughter. “Sweet tea, hallelujah, thank you, Lord!”




Breakfast Casserole with Spinach and Bacon

1 lb Bacon, thick-sliced, diced
2 cups Onion, diced
1 cup Red bell pepper, diced
1 Tbl Garlic, minced
5 ounces Spinach, frozen, thawed and dried well
10 Eggs
1 cup Half and half
1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp Dry mustard
1 tsp Salt
1 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 tsp Black pepper
6 slices White bread, crusts removed
6 slices Wheat bread, crusts removed
1 /2 cup Butter, softened
2 cups Swiss cheese, shredded

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

In a large skillet, cook bacon until it begins to brown, drain excess fat. Add onion and continue to cook until onion begins to brown. Add red pepper, spinach and garlic and cook two more minutes. Set aside.

In a mixing bowl, combine, eggs, half and half and seasoning. Spread the softened butter on both sides of each slice of bread. Cut the buttered bread into small cubes. Combine all ingredients and mix well.

Place in a buttered two-quart baking dish. Bake for 40-50 minutes. Remove from oven and let rest 15 minutes before serving. Yield: eight servings

Of Fires, Dogs, and Fruitcakes

Every year we close the restaurant early one Sunday before Christmas and host a large party for all 150 of our employees. Each employee brings a guest and we open the bar, hire a band, and prepare a feast from the kitchen. I host a dinner for all of the managers in the immediate hours before the party. This is where we get a chance to visit with each other outside of the restaurant, share a meal together, and I give them their Christmas bonus checks.

For years I served the managers at my home. When we outgrew my house we began visiting various independent restaurants. When we made that move, we also included the manager’s significant other. Last year we ate at my favorite barbeque place. This year we planned to eat at one of my favorite steakhouses.

We reserved the entire restaurant. The 30 of us were gathered around a large table ready to eat our salads when the room filled with smoke. As we evacuated into the parking lot we saw flames shooting out of the exhaust fan on top of the roof.

The entire management team immediately shifted from festive and jolly into professional crisis prevention mode. Luckily the steakhouse’s grill man was thinking quickly on his feet and grabbed a water hose, scaled an exterior building, and doused the fire on his own.

The restaurant had filled with smoke, the hood system was broken, and the dinner was called off. I passed out bonus checks in the gravel parking lot and we all headed to the company Christmas party with empty stomachs and grateful hearts. Grateful that the steakhouse— after enduring a restaurateur’s worst nightmare— was still standing, grateful that we have a management team that works so well together, and grateful for Christmas bonuses.

In the end I learned it doesn’t matter if I pass out bonus checks in my home, in another restaurant, or in a gravel parking lot. In high school I worked for a company that passed out fruitcakes to their employees for Christmas. I can’t think of a less grateful statement or more clichéd gesture than to hand out a fruitcake to your employees. It’s a big collective holiday up yours.

Never— I repeat never— visit Santa on pet night.

The local mall in my hometown has a great Santa this year (well, actually it’s one of Santa’s helpers) who works hard day and night posing for pictures with children. My wife and I decided to take the children so they could sit in his lap, tell him what they want this year (we needed to listen to that part), and have a photograph made. Unfortunately we went on pet night.

Pet night is the weekly occasion when anyone who so desires can bring one or all of their pets into the mall to have Santa pose with Fluffy, Fido, or Spot. Folks, it’s a little piece of holiday hell on earth. Some in line were normal family people with children and pets, others were typical pet owners, but some were those freaky pet people. You know the type. They speak baby talk to their animals, assign them human characteristics and personality traits, and probably have 300 cats climbing on their furniture at home.

The line for Santa was long. Dogs and cats were everywhere. My son, who at times can be classified as having animal behavior, was restless. There was barking, and howling, and meowing, and all manner of mayhem. One family with two large dogs spent 15 minutes getting the animals to pose correctly. An Airedale left a steaming pile of presents for Santa’s elves, and a Tabby cat got stuck in Santa’s beard and almost clawed the big man’s eyes out. All this in the first few minutes.

On second thought, it was actually an event I might like to attend— for observations sake— without my two impatient kids in tow.

In the end we have learned that a healthy hood system is vital to a restaurant’s success, receiving bonus checks in a gravel parking lot is better than not receiving checks at all, and fruitcakes suck, period.See you next week on pet night; I’ll bring the popcorn.

A few weeks ago I wrote a column about dining in joints. In the column I asked readers to e-mail their favorite joint. Before I publish the reader’s submissions and comments, I would like to revisit the definition of a joint.

At first glance, a joint might not look like a restaurant one wouldn’t even want to step into, much less dine in. The atmosphere has accidentally evolved over the years. Nothing is contrived. The food is above average and mostly consistent. The wait staff is efficient enough to take care of your needs. A joint is clean in all of the places the count and is usually run by a family, or co-workers who have worked together so long that they consider themselves family. A joint is usually located in what a realtor would consider a B or C location, but it wouldn’t have the charm if it were located anywhere else.

There is nothing corporate about a joint. It is full of character and is usually operated by characters. Most specialize in one particular food item. It is usually that particular food that has put them on the map. It might be one individual dish or it could be a broad category of food such as steak or barbeque. A joint might even specialize in a particular meal period such as breakfast or late-night dining. The one universal characteristic of a joint is that it is casual. A joint wears its casualness as a badge of honor.

There are joints with good food, bad food, and excellent food. They key is to find the ones with excellent food and put them into your dining rotation.

Note: The following list is listed in no particular order and is comprised of reader’s submissions along with selected comments from their submissions. The author has not visited any of these establishments (but looks forward to checking them out in the near future) and can make no claims as to their authenticity or excellence.

Jacques’ Café, Vicksburg— “I have eaten there wearing everything from ripped jeans to a formal dress.” Hopefully this was sent in by a woman.

Ol’ Hickory, Columbus— “Cindy is always my waitress. Everyone is ‘baby’ or ‘honey’ to her.” A true joint waitress.

Doe’s Eat Place, Greenville— “Doe's has the best steak, cut and grilled right in front of you when you order and hot tamales that are out of this world!”

Edd’s Drive Inn, Pascagoula— “Not exactly organic, tasty burgers and dogs, same location for 50 years.” I received multiple submissions on this one.

Tate’s, Clinton, MS— Try the “Shamburger, a smoked hamburger served only when there's some smokin' goin' on.”

Davey's Restaurant, Montrose, MS— “Miss Earline serves everything: steak, ribs, fried chicken and pork chops, spaghetti, peas, green beans, okra, cabbage, collard greens, turnips, rutabagas, rice and gravy, and potato salad...as well as numerous desserts.”

Stonewall’s BBQ, Picayune— “…the most tender and juicy baby-back ribs… but it is only open two days a week.” Again, multiple submissions.

The Mexican Kitchen, Columbus— “Robert, be sure to get a couple of the homemade coconut candies on the way out the door. They take care of the after effects of the hot sauce very nicely.” I’ll try to remember that.

Shady's New World Cuisine, Biloxi— “Where else can you go at midnight and get Thai curry, gumbo, charbroiled steaks, fried pork chops with grits and gravy, Pad Thai noodles, homemade pasta Bolognese, Creole crawfish pasta? On Thursdays its $1 Margaritas for Ladies and free Belly Dance Lessons.” They haven’t seen my belly.

Beatty Street Grocery, Jackson— “Every governor since Ross Barnett has eaten at Beatty Street. Governor William Winter is still an occasional client.”

The Shed, Vancleve— “I have never had a bad rib there.”

Home Town, Inverness— “Frog legs, steaks, seafood, veal cutlets, fun.”

Port au Prince, Monroe, LA— “The best bean soup ever, hushpuppies, and a great ribeye steak.”

Lonnie and Pat's Cafe, Meridian— “They are famous for their cheeseburgers.”

Red Door Barbecue, Meehan, MS— “(owner) Ms. Jean McWashington does not advertise and does not need to.”

Far Away Places in Marion, MS— “The building is actually a double-wide trailer with a porch that runs the length of it. They feature live entertainment (everything from a guy with an acoustic guitar to the Queen City Gypsies belly dancers, of which I'm one). If they're not too busy Tim (the lady who owns the joint) will come out of the kitchen to visit with her guests, discussing everything from shopping to quantum physics.” Belly dancing, I see a future trend developing.

Liuzza’s,New Orleans— “The BBQ Shrimp Po-Boy is to die for.” But I want to live.

Elizabeth’s in the Bywater, New Orleans— “The breakfast po-boy is awesome.”

The Tune Inn, Washington, D.C. — “It is honestly the only place that I can remember routinely eating an omelet with a beer.” Enough said.




Garlic Cheese Spread

Garlic is listed first for a reason. Store in the refrigerator, serve at room temperature.

1 /2 pound sharp cheddar cheese, grated
1 /2 pound cream cheese, softened
1 /4 tsp salt
1 1 /2 tsp finely minced garlic
1 1 /2 tsp hot sauce
1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
2 tsp mayonnaise
1 /4 tsp dry mustard
1 1 /2 tsp paprika


In a food processor or mixing bowl with a paddle attachment, blend all ingredients together.

Wrap and refrigerate for 3-4 hours before serving.