Who loves bologna? I love bologna.

I'm not going to apologize. I love bologna. I have loved it ever since I ate my first bologna sandwich on Wells Beach when I was just a little kiddo. It was all warm from the sun. I was cold from playing in the ocean for much longer than I probably should have. It was on soft, white wonder bread and it had full fat mayonnaise on it. The processed meat was sweet and salty and so so so delicious.
When I grew up, bologna was vilified by doctors and health experts and my healthy husband. But what do they know? They have never had a bologna sandwich with crunchy potato chips inside. They have never run home from school starving for a bologna sandwich. They have never had fried bologna and mashed potatoes for their hot lunch at school. They have never had to solve the debate over mayonnaise or miracle whip with their siblings. Bologna has a place in my heart...(a literal place probably) and I truly believe that my affection for it will protect me from its terribly unhealthy side effects.
This is why at Central BBQ in Memphis, Tennessee, I had to try the smoked bologna sandwich with BBQ sauce and coleslaw. I had an obligation to my younger self to honor the little girl on the beach. And this is also why I had to finish the half that my healthy husband couldn't manage to finish eating. Yes. I love bologna and true love lasts a lifetime.

BBQ and Boiled Peanuts

I'm traveling south this winter. Not India, just America, but this foodie is going to to investigate the BBQ all along the way. We got to check out Black's BBQ in San Antonio, Texas a couple years ago and it was pretty awesome. It was there where I learned the true meaning of "moist".  But Black's spoiled me. I expect brisket to be that delicious every time.  So I was a little disappointed in Full Service BBQ in Maryville, Tennessee. Not terrible by any means, but for my first BBQ of this adventure, I was hoping for more MOIST. I take comfort though in knowing it will be getting better and better. A bit of advice. ALL BBQ tastes better after you have taken a five mile hike in the Smoky Mountains.

But what I really want to whine about is boiled peanuts. I guess it's a popular country snack in North Carolina. We saw it advertised on the side of the road a bunch of times. Finally, when we stopped for gas, I discovered a couple of crock pots in the store with boiled peanuts and "hot" boiled peanuts. I suppose a gas station isn't the best place to buy them, but I scooped out a few of each and we snacked on them in the car on our way to the Smoky Mountain Parkway.
They were strange indeed. The usually hard shells were boiled so they were soggy, but still hard to open. In fact, they were even harder to open. They were super salty and the wet peanuts inside were strangely spongy and slippery. I shared them with John as he drove and it was hard to give him nuts that were intact and not falling apart into a soggy mess. It makes me wonder who decided to boil peanuts the first time. I imagine it's a snack that grows on you, but it wasn't my favorite eating experience. Or perhaps John's vivid description of the peanuts being like "squeezing a tick" added to my dismay.

Mexican Street Food

We have been in Mexico for two full days now. Yesterday we attended a "free" breakfast that turned out being a five hour sales pitch...there are no free breakfasts😫😩

We have been eating expensive, bland resort food and I have been questionIng whether I am really a foodie. Eating just seems boring here.

But tonight my foodieness was revived by delicious Mexican street food. 

The only good thing that came out of the sales pitch on Monday was the suggestion of a street in Playa del carmen that had good, local food. We found this little open air restaurant that had just sopes and quesadillas. Frankly, I'm not sure what the difference is. 

It was a simple set up with a griddle in the corner where several women were making tortillas by hand. There were plastic bins with different fillings. All the ingredients were written in Spanish, so John and I asked for a couple we knew like chorizo and poblano. But after we devoured those, we noticed another sign that had the ingredients in English also. Once we saw the choices we had to try the squash blossom and the braised pork cracklings. 

Usually I'm a meat lover, but the poblanos and squash blossoms were so good. They were bursting with flavor and perfectly spiced. The resort food was politically correct, but really dull and absent of ownership. 

The older woman making the sopes was clearly the owner. We were unlikely guests in this establishment. None of the employees spoke English, and communication was primarily made by references to the receipt. She would bring the receipt over and refer to it then point to the dish. She gave me this box of clotted cream and said, "crema" and gestured what I was supposed to do with it. The second time around she just put it on for me. We ate one round of sopes and, like good Americans, ate another round. John and I agreed that it was the best food we had since we arrived, and it cost us in total less than five bucks!

As we were leaving, I hugged the little Mayan woman (they're all little) and said " mucho, mucho, mucho gracias". In her best English she responded, "Good morning" and we walked off into the night.

Moist

My last few eating adventures have evolved around the Texas staple, barbecue. If you want to eat barbecue, just close your eyes and follow your nose. Everywhere there is a hunk of some kind of meat smoking its way to deliciousness.

I did a little research and found out that the mother ship of barbecue can be found in Lockhart. In fact, folks have a hard time exclusively recommending one of the three places in Lockhart that make barbecue. I made the final decision based on the detailed analysis involving the complex steps of-- pulling into Lockhart, looking up and following the giant arrows pointing to Black's 

My companions included Thom, my nephew;  Sally, my daughter; and John, my husband. We strolled in the front door and were quickly cued up in front of heating trays with all sorts of asides that included; potato salad, cole slaw, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, green beans and ...banana pudding. I passed on everything but the cole slaw. Sally opted for the green beans, which are her favorite vegetable.

The next decision was much more,difficult. There before us was a giant butcher block that looked like it was about 50 years old. On top of it was an assortment of meats. There were giant beef ribs, smaller pork baby back ribs, links of smoked sausage and there in all its splendor, the brisket that I had been hearing about and seeing on TV for the past six months. The man with the knife layed out a sheet of heavy brown paper and asked, "So, what would ya'll like?" What followed was a flurry of hesitations and blurted suggestions.

 Finally John said, "What do you suggest?" 

I quickly added, "We've come here all the way from Maine and we don't want to miss anything."

"Well welcome," said the friendly woman on the other side. "We're pretty famous for our brisket and sausage."

So we easily ordered both. The next decision was the simplest one to make.

"Would ya'll like your brisket lean or "moist"? 

This was nicest word for "fatty" that I'd ever heard. It's so much easier to say, "oh yes. I'll have the moist brisket than I'll have the fatty brisket." In fact, I think moist brisket tastes better than fatty brisket. It certainly sounds better. In fact, for the rest of the day...and still...I used the moist euphemism repeatedly. "Look at the moist cow out in that field", "That woman is rather moist", etc.

Now there was a minor disappointment at Black's...the string beans. Being in the company of an expert string bean eater, I quickly learned that the Black family barbecue establishment was not the Black family fresh vegetable farm. Sally made it clear that meat smoking and vegetable steaming did not fall into the same galaxy of food perfection. As I gazed across the table at Sally's disappointed eyes, I scanned the table before her and there sat the grayish green string beans, barely eaten. Her disappointment was the bittersweet reminder that even fresh green beans deserve a place in the meat dominated foodie universe.

But, speaking of meat, our server recognized the tell tale tourist qualities of our crowd, which included the oooohs and ahhhs and mmmmms and finger licking that the others seemed capable of foregoing. After I effusively thanked her and asked if I could take here picture next to the butcher block, she looked at me affectionately and asked, "Would y'all like a tour of the smoking ovens?" I was delighted and my guests politely came along for the ride.

We ended our day back in Austin at a food truck called Gourdough's that served yet another incredible  "doughnut". We shared the grilled banana doughnut and the strawberry shortcake doughnut. Both were topped with an amazing cream cheese frosting. The banana one had bananas grilled with brown sugar and the strawberry one had fresh sliced strawberries. But the doughnut on the bottom was delicious-- crispy on the outside and "moist" on the inside. We were all happy to share, but I was secretly willing to increase my own moisture a bit more if I had the opportunity.

 

Improvisation

Ever since we decided to go south for our travel adventure for this year, I have spent an inordinate amount of time watching foodie shows like Bizarre Foods and No Reservations and reading Travel Channel blogs and websites. In fact, I have become a bit of a devotee to these sources. As I mentioned in my previous blog, "From Away: Rants, Raves and Rhapsodies of a Fledgling Traveler", the guidebooks are not always right. Sometimes you have to just explore.

As one might presume, "foodie travel" can be expensive, so I have tried to choose my eating venues carefully. There are five thousand billion restaurants out there and I will not be able to go to them all unless I win a fifty thousand billion dollar lottery.  

But whenever you travel, the locals start to offer up all sorts of suggestions about where to go and, more imporantly, where to eat. I started to get nervous as the suggestions started flying. "Oh this barbecue is better than that barbecue" or "You've got to try this place". What about my carefully calculated plans? What about the less than fifty thousand billion dollar budget? 

Fortunately, this fledgling foodie stayed open to all the possibilities. So when my niece said her colleague suggested "Swift's Attic", I said "yes". 

And yes, what a great night! We all sat down to a creative and fun dinner. I started with a cocktail that was impossible to pronounce, but delicious. It had "silver something tequila", a muddled jalapeno and St. Germaine liquor. It was smooth, sweet, salty, hot...and perfectly balanced. Then came the dinner experience. I very intentionally say experience here because it was clearly that for everyone at the table. The food was served as "plates" which is family style...on steroids. It is family style where every single dish is amazingly fascinating and so complex each dinner partner is trying to define the experience. The table conversations sounded like a voice over dream sequence. "Is that cinnamon I taste?", "No, I think it's cardamom...or not", "Maybe anise?". "Oh my God...here try this!. 

I tried to control my controlling and solicited everyone's input, but I insisted on sweetbreads, which I have been wanting to try ever since I took a bite of John's twenty years ago at a restaurant in northern Maine called "13 Stanley Avenue. These were amazingly prepared with a miso glaze. The conversations were raised to a whole new level as each table mate added an adjective... creamy, sweet, delicate, smooth. 

The menu itself was so enticing...and it was frequently just a list of ingredients. But the combination of them were what was so intriguing. Who could resist trying..."Charred edamame. chili oil. pop rocks" or "Braised Windy Hill goat shoulder, ricotta gnocchi, smoked fig, tomato ragout"! The only trauma was that we were all too full to try the incredibly playful dessert "Popcorn and a Movie: Butter Popcorn Gelato, house made candy bar, caramel corn, root beer gel". 

 It is absolutely wonderful to enjoy this family dinner adventure with my niece and nephew in their new home town. After dinner we went downstairs to listen to a jazz jam that included Tommy's guitar improvisations. The whole night was filled with great improvisations.

He's the young guy on the left in the plaid shirt!

A Few Lessons in Timing and Articulation

Part of being a fledgling foodie is that the learning curve can be very frustrating. For instance, the Glenda's debacle was frustrating because we got there too late to get to try several of the dishes recommended by my sources. I woud not have had the okra if the smothered pork steak was still available. Realistically, I question whether any experienced foodie would choose okra...ever. I have eaten it the past and it has always had a slimy mouthfeel that is not compensated by it's taste in my opinion. Of course, this didn't stop me from devour two thirds of it.

But to return to my point...timing matters in this traveling food journey I'm taking. These places I'm eager to explore are not fast food franchises that can repeatedly create the exact same food again and again. These artists are using limited fresh local ingredients. They are only able to provide a finite amount of smothered pork steaks or braised pork cheeks as in the case of our visit to Dai Due butchers at the Farmer's Market in Austin.

I have been fascinated with those parts of the animal that most folks just throw away, but, (as I have learned from Andy Z), are frequently the most delicious morsels to consume. I have seen Andrew pop more than a few cheeks, eyeballs, tongues, ears and toes into his mouth and roll his head and rave about the wonderful textural and taste sensations these parts evoked. I have more to say about this, but to make my point about timing first. We arrived at the Dai Due kiosk at the farmer's market too late for the cheeks. In fact, as if in slow, dramatic motion, I watched the guy there put up the "sold out" sign for the cheeks. Add music and it's the climax of a foodie tragedy. I realized this was twice now that casual attention to timing has interfered with the carefully calculated food experience I was seeking out. And it's not like I can just go there the next day. Nope. This fledgling foodie better get on the ball with her priorities. Check the schedule. Check the menu. Decide what's really important... like spending time with the ones you love... or eating pork cheeks! 

I have also realized that I need to start focusing on the food a bit more. John said, you wrote about Glenda's, but you didn't write much about the food itself. My nephew Thom gave me the idea that I need to gather my thoughts about the actual eating experience closer to the moment of impact. One thing I've learned about food experiences is that shortly after the experience has ended the details dissipate. I've learned from energy work that vibration doesn't span memory. And with food, the vibration changes drastically after it enters the digestive tract and starts to turn into sluggish, nap inducing energy. Unfortunately, it seems to be true that with many of the foods that fascinate me, the energy they trigger AFTER the eating experience is not the bliss that they evoke BEFORE I eat them. This may be a deal breaker in the experienced kingdom of foodies, but eating lots of fat has a cost. OH MY GOD! This may be the beginning of the end of my foodie identity. Soooo, let us not venture further down that pathway.

Let's talk about parts. Yes, I mean animal parts, offal. I experienced the marriage of two new foodie practices at an imperfect time while out in Austin recently.  My niece, Jess took us to a spot called Lucy's. It got rave reviews from her local friends for it's fried chicken.  When we got there I was surprised to see calf fries or "mountain oysters" on the menu. Now, I knew that they were calf testicles, but Jess did not. I told her and her eyes got wide and I could see a frightened look on her face when I said we had to try them. The only expression that exceeded her's was John's, who looked personally threatened by the prospect of eating these particularly delicate parts. But, a true foodie cannot simply succumb to the weaknesses of her dinner mates. I may never have this opportunity again. No, I pressed on and the crunchy little morsels arrived at our table with a ranch style sauce accompanying them.

 

It was delightful to try them, but equally enjoyable to watch Jess and John wade into the dark pool of part eating. Also unfortunate was the timing of the recent conversations about being more articulate about analyzing the flavors and textures of the foods I ate. John, picking up on this detail about more articulation and, being ever so helpful, offered the articulate words, "creamy" and "kinda spermy" as his analysis of the experience. He did this just at the moment that Jess popped one into her mouth. Oh the suffering in her eyes as she politely tried to chew and swallow what had become a vivid ordeal in nearly absolute reality. Jess politely swallowed and opted not to try another, but rather bring the leftovers home to torture her little brother. John was also a little traumatized by the experience, which had obviously struck him on a more personal level. I was actually a little disappointed by the triumphant moment of eating balls for the first time. As is often the case, the anticipation of an eating experience can be more blissful than the eating itself. I will have to try them again when they are not deep fried and crunchy, since anything deep fried and crunchy is delicious and undistinguishable for anything else deep fried and crunchy. And as for articulation in food descriptions... timing is everything.

Glenda's or ...not?

We got up early on Friday and began our second leg of the southern trail. We were headed to Austin, Texas. But first we had an important mission. 

We had to drive to Breaux Bridge for a meal at Glenda's Creole Kitchen. It was featured in Anthony Bourdain's Cajun Country episode and it was such an authentic example of the real deal we knew we had to try it. It wasn't a simulation of or a spin off of country cooking, it was just that ...country cooking. And, of course, all of the enthusiastic exuberance was helpful. And, of course, pork chops smothered in gravy just needs to be eaten whenever possible. 

So we were confidently on the road. I had timed everything carefully and we would arrive at Glenda's around 2 or 2:30 for a sort of late lunch dinner combo. We stopped at the Nottoway Plantation and had a great tour. I'm really impressed with tour guides. They are so knowledgable and engaging. I might be one when I grow up.

I was navigating brilliantly thanks to Siri, my iPhone GPS queen. I was also surfing for reviews of Glenda's. One of the Yelp reviewers crackled us up. He said her cooking was like his mom's cooking when he was little...except his mom didn't cook that good! He also said the dining room closed at 1! Oh my God! I panicked. My brilliant navigation was all for naught. We would miss lunch! this could not happen. When would we ever be in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana again?!?  But there was a brief hope that we could get there before 2 which was when the drive thru window closed. Siri said our ETA was 1:41. I begged John to drive faster. We were lucky that the speed limit on Louisiana highways is 75. We drove in a frenzy and made it to Breaux Bridge in what we thought was the nick of time. But Siri (that bitch) told us to go right at Poches. We drove down the road and she kept saying "You have arrived, you have arrived." But we had not arrived. No Glenda anywhere. I saw a woman fetching her mail and I jumped out of the car and approached her.

 She must have sensed my anxiety because she said, "Now Honey, you just go back down this road and you'll come to a place called Poches. You just go past that place for about three miles and she's right there on your left. Just a little white building. You won't miss it." I imagined that she has had a few other panicked fledgling foodies desperately scrambling to retrieve their lost time at Glenda's. We turned around and raced down the road. There were few houses and lots of fields around us. There it was. A little bitty place with a hand painted sign and a tattered flag. We pulled in and I jumped out and tried the door! Locked! A woman was getting into her car. 

 "You can still get food at the drive thru around to the other side" she said. 

I walked around and John drove next to me. I think I scared Glenda cause I was not in the car but standing next to the window instead.

"All we have left is "shrimp and crab smothered okra" and "fried catfish". 

We said yes please and got our meals to go. 

We added two pralines for dessert and settled onto the picnic table for our lunch. Siri had not completely sabotaged our plan.