THE
FOOD KING
by
The
Food King
"Food
is Good"
--
the Food King
Howdy
folks, and welcome back
to the Food King, your
Oxford Town guide to
good grub, wherein we
attempt to steer you
where you need to be
driving, food-wise, that
is. Just remember, the
Food King'll set you
straight. He'll tell
you what's up, what's
not, and where you ought
to be eating, if you
don't know already. He'll
try to point you in the
right direction, and
generally keep you up
to snuff on local restauranteering
and such. Just remember,
we ain't out to be pernicious,
we just out to eat.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Recently,
the Food King was trying
desperately to rouse
himself at the crack
of noon with a staunch
cup of Joe from ye olde
Bottletree Bakery, when
he overheard something
that just broke his cold
little heart; a beautiful
woman lamenting the fact
that she didn't know
where to go in this town
for a country breakfast,
with grits, biscuits,
the whole works. Upon
further investigation,
I discovered that this
poor lost lass had just
recently moved here,
and was not yet acquainted
with many of our local
treasures. Well, those
little brain cogs started
a spinnin' as the Food
King remembered the days
when O-Town editor emeritus
Chico Harris would con
gorgeous women into going
out for food or drinks,
all under the pretext
of journalism. (The Food
King knows a good scam
when he sees one, and
remember, genius must
always be acknowledged,
no matter the source.)
What kind of self-respecting
Southerner would I be
if I allowed this situation
to continue unabated?
It was my sacred duty
to save this fairest
of Southern flowers from
wandering endlessly in
a sea of chalky grits,
watery eggs, and soggy
toast instead of biscuits.
Naturally, I invited
her to Smitty's for breakfast.
I know. I'm such a sweetheart.
Smitty's
(located 1 door south
of Square Books) is one
of Oxford's most venerable
eateries and has been
dishing up good ol' fashioned
country breakfasts for
as long as the Food King
and most of his kin can
remember, so he was confident
is his mission to secure
some first-rate breakfast.
He met his dining companion,
Grayson Splane (who's
article on author Nancy
Kincaid appeared last
week) for a late breakfast
(although 10 AM is pretty
dadgum early for the
FK, lemme tell ya'.)
As the FK ordered his
traditional bacon omelet,
he mused on the possibilities
of ordering a side of
red-eye.
"What
do you do with red-eye
gravy?" she inquired
innocently.
I gasped
internally in horror
as the inference of the
question began to sink
in. "You mean you've
never had red-eye gravy
and molasses on a biscuit
before?"
Grayson
Splane, the pride of
Leland, MS, aspiring
writer, and all-around
fabulous babe, nodded
a demure "no." This was
going to be cool; I love
it when I get to do missionary
work.
Red-eye
gravy (for those of you
that don't know) is one
of the most revered of
Southern breakfast staples,
ham drippings mixed with
(when prepared authentically)
a little coffee. You
dribble a spoonful onto
your biscuit and then
top it with molasses
for a flavor so country-fied
and fulfilling it'll
allow a Chicago yankee
to imagine he's from
Calhoun County, at least
temporarily.
While
we sipped our coffee,
Grayson regaled me with
stories of the years
she spent in Italy (now
that's a country that
knows how to enjoy good
food) and told me about
taking Barry Hannah's
creative writing class
(one of the finest offerings
available from Ole Miss,
in the FK's opinion.)
But then, the moment
of truth arrived, the
red-eye express rolled
in, and the education
began. She eyed me warily
(always a good idea)
as I showed her how to
dribble the gravy and
drizzle the sorghum just
right. Then trepidation
turned to culinary joy
as her eyes popped wide
from the realization
that she'd been missing
out on something so good
for so long. That's OK,
I get that a lot.
It's
funny, but every time
I bring folks to Smitty's
for the first time, they
have the same reaction;
they like it lots and
lots. Griddle-style omelets,
thick and appropriately
salty ham steaks, golden
pancakes and waffles,
big fat country fried
steaks (you get two!)
with a bowl of gravy…this
is breakfast like my
grandma used to sling,
and there ain't nothing
wrong with that. Meals
are served with grits
and a basket of biscuits
(all you can eat, within
reason) accompanied by
a plate of honey, syrup,
and molasses. (Personally,
I like to doctor my grits
with Tabasco and black
pepper and pretend I'm
Jake Brigance in A
Time To Kill. Hey,
we all have our little
fantasies.)
From
time to time the Food
King will hear a local
speak disparagingly of
Smitty's, saying the
service can be slow or
the food can be a little
greasy. To those people,
the Food King replies, "Good,
that's just one less
person I have to stand
in line behind for a
table this morning." Smitty's
serves up true Southern
comfort food in large
portions in an environment
that is equally suited
to either a meal with
the parents or nursing
yourself back to coherence
through that wretched
hangover.
It's
easy for us to take a
place like Smitty's for
granted. It's been there
forever and doesn't change
much. But therein lies
its strength. I do long,
however, for the old
days when they would
serve an assortment of
locally-made homemade
jams and jellies with
your biscuits. A plate
of fig, blackberry, or
muscadine preserves would
just be heaven, and I
can't help but think
that there's plenty of
folks around here that
could help them out.
But
minor quibbles aside,
Smitty's is a bastion
of comfort and consistency
in life's passing parade
of maddening transition.
Every time the Food King's
foreign friends invade
from the north, he makes
sure they all get a Smitty's
fix, and they're always
just as grateful as Grayson
was for aiding in her
newfound discovery. By
the end of breakfast,
she had even managed
to get a little molasses
in her hair, a sure sign
of a satisfying and successful
meal.
Our
intrepid O-Town editor
asked if I could find
another woman of equal
charm and beauty for
my next column.
The
Food King should be so
lucky.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Happy
Birthday Mr. Bill…
Although
the Food King's not really
sure what the statue
would do if it were to
come to life (although
that old Bible story
about the merchants in
the temple comes to mind,)
he guesses that Mr. Faulkner
would be more than a
little embarrassed by
all the hullabaloo and
would probably just shake
his head and sneak off
for a little toddy. In
honor of our most famed
resident's centennial
birthday, the FK's staff
did a little digging
out at Rowan Oak and
found several old family
recipes, many dating
from the 1800's. Despite
last column's assertion
that this is not a recipe
forum, we thought we'd
make another exception
this week. Special thanks
to Cynthia Shearer out
at Rowan Oak for the
help.
This
is exactly how the handwritten
recipe appears, so best
guess as to amounts of
flour and ginger.