Weekend Down South

racheld · July 18, 2008

We were in Atlanta for a hurried weekend of family visiting, and seemed to drive for hours in rush-hour traffic in pounding rainstorms. Scary.

We also drove in search of Dreamland Barbecue, which DS had seen "somewhere" along one of the Peachtrees. I had, by coincidence, Googled it because of something someone mentioned in the Birmingham/Tuscaloosa area, so I was game to try it. We gave up and settled for (operative words) a place called J.R's Barbecue. Well, it had a good whiff of real smoke in the parking lot, and the heavy-wood booths were appropriately grimy.

Our server was an obviously new hire--a young woman named Reeka, whose eyes disappeared up into her skull when the guys mentioned "on tap"---she struggled to name them, deep high eye-roll between each as she slowly quoted "Corona" and "Michelob Light" as they marveled that a so out-of-the-way-place would have Corona on tap.

She corrected herself when they questioned. A little arm waving toward the neon, and a "that's what we have---it's all in bottles, but you CAN have any of it in a glass."

No pulled on the menu, but of sliced and chopped, they recommended chopped. So we ordered: Order of dry ribs for Chris, beans and slaw. Half order of Lion Ribs for DS; Brunswick and fries (he'd told us before we went that they had the "best Brunswick in Atlanta." Child's plate of chopped, fries for Gracie, with a teensy dipping-bowl of sauce on the side. She daintily pierced each tiny piece with just the far-left-tine of her fork and dipped gingerly, each and every bite. A chopped sandwich, with sides of slaw, beans and potato salad for me. It came with two, but I always like to taste the three standards.

Sandwich came in a foil-backed paper wrapper---flashback to Elementary School, with the same wrapping, same wafting of the scent of long-wrapped burgers and Sloppy Joes in the bright-lit cafeteria. Opening the packet revealed a very soft bun, misshapen from its cocooning and spilling little chunks of pork with a very red coating.

Very red means danger in more places than CNN---a bright barbecue sauce is the Kiss of Death. It needs the depth of the smoke and the long-cooked tang of good vinegar and a bit of brown sugar and some roasty peppery additions. Bright red is for Ketchup Ribs, of which there are legion up here and from which I flee in anguish at the waste.

I forked on slaw, maneuvered the soggy item, took a bite. The pork was tender, but could have been turkey or tofu, for bright sauce carried the day, obscuring everything but its Heinzy beginnings. The beans were anointed with more of the same, with no discernable additions of onion, peppers, meat, but they HAD been baked/simmered long, into that unctuously thick lumpy gravy which passes for baked beans late on Saturday night.

The slaw was a vinegary sort, but very yellow, and not in the good way that Smokehouse slaw is golden and rich and sweet and mysteriously wonderful, despite its common beginnings. The potato salad, however, was another story. It showed the wispy skins of freshly-cooked baby reds, with just a nip of minced onion and good rich mayonnaise---a dish worthy of any picnic, family reunion or Church Supper anywhere.

The guys' ribs were wonderful---smoky and richly porky, with a wonderful mouth-rip as you bit, and the little torn shreds evident on your tongue. Fall-off-the-bone is WAY over-rated---that happens when even pit-smoked ribs are confined under foil and steamed in their own heat, let alone those travesties STARTED in the oven.

You should have to work a little on good ribs---a gentle rip bringing the bites loose, having to maneuver the last shreds from the bone by baring your teeth and doing a little mouth-work, as age-old a ritual as the first stick-and-a-fire kitchen.

We'd been told that Dreamland offers RIBS and nothing but ribs. J.R.'s should have such a a reputation---those ribs would do Memphis proud. I wish I'd ordered those instead.

And the tea---sweet or not---came in quart glasses. Gracie ordered "sweet" and drank one and a half. I guess she'd missed the South.

racheld · July 19, 2008

Anybody in the Nashville area who hears me say, "It was just like walking into UNCLE BUD'S," will know what I mean. We had been told of a place called "Mike's Catfish" in Murfreesboro by the people at our hotel a couple of I-65 South trips ago. We had stopped in with all the grandchildren for a very late lunch, and found the place almost empty at that time of day.

Chris always goes for the whole catfish, and he was MORE than happy with the plate he received. He'd ordered a platter of "Catfish Chips" for the table, and even the little ones enjoyed crunching on the crispy, thin curls of sliced fish, dredged in a flavorful meal-based coating and deep-fried. The platter came out hot and sizzly and seemed enormous, looking like a three-inch pile of golden leaves.

The children, of course, most enjoyed forays to the big tank to watch the two "freshwater sharks" swimming their eternal dance with the bubbles. One lone little goldy-striped fish lurked amongst the plastic greenery, whether pet or companion or lunch, and was still peeping out from its hidey-hole when we left.

And then on last weekend's trip, it was just Chris and me, on the way home from a visit to the kids in Atlanta---again a late lunchtime, not too great a crowd. This time, walking in was a tiny jolt of nostalgia, for the black-and-white checked oilcloths, the silly "kountry" signs on the walls, the fragrance of fish and hushpuppies from the kitchen and surrounding tables---all quickened the anticipation, for the late, lamented Uncle Bud's Catfish of years gone by.

We sat, and further authenticity presented as a smiling waitress thumped down a bowl of white beans, a bowl of mayonnaise slaw, and a basket of hushpuppies with a still-audible fryer-hiss rising from their beautiful brown roundness. We looked at each other, hoping and remembering---and it was just the same. The exact flavors, the same onion-slice-and-pickle-wedge presented on a tiny plate, the same fat squeeze-bottles of tartar sauce with the tips shorn to accommodate the thick sauce.

Chris ordered "two whole" and I ordered a cheeseburger---I'm not at all a fish/seafood person, but I'm delighted to watch him enjoy it. It's the same with his fondness for sushi---I'll sit and watch the beautiful, colorful ballet of the knife, and enjoy his enjoyment. I appreciate the art of it, and don't have to taste it.

Burger was the usual for me---mustard, pickle, onion---a juicy, thick patty with a toasted bun and a cheese slice fresh from the plastic, drooping its corners properly over all. His fish was perfect. His first criterion is crispy tails, which he snaps off and crunches while they're still at their peak of crunch; everybody at our table at home always breaks off the fishtails and puts them on his plate. They passed muster, and he proceeded to fork-fillet the fish from one end to the other, lifting the whole thick steaming ribbon at once, neatly leaving a polished, shiny bone for the now-empty hushpuppy basket.

Refills were forthcoming, though the bowls of beans and slaw were way more than enough for two. In fact, I brought home half my burger, and he just last night finished the last cold catfish with pink sauce, alongside a shrimp salad---it's been in the 90's here for DAYS, and cold supper was perfect.

Mike's Catfish is at 1618 NW Broad St. in Murphreesboro, off to the right as we went in from northbound I-65, in a missable gray building which sports a "Pizza Hut" door handle, though the shape and color do not resemble any such building. Our waitress told us that Mike himself was in the house, and that he oversees all the food from start to finish, having been manager of one of the Uncle Bud's branches. I'm glad we found a step-child or a long-lost cousin or whatever Mike's is---it's nice to know it's there.

Edited July 20, 2008 by racheld (log)

onrushpam · July 19, 2008

Rachel, if we ever get to meet up, your DH and I will be fighting over those crispy fish tails!

Daddy would go fishing and then fry up his catch in an old electric skillet out on the patio. He'd break off the tails and hand them to his eagerly waiting little twin girls. I still love those crispy tails. My favorites are the tails of little crappie! :wub:

I've been to the Dreamland in Birmingham. Went with a bunch of friends after a long day at a dog show. I can't remember how many racks of ribs we ate, but it was a LOT. The guys just kept ordering more. Still, I found it strange they offered nothing but ribs, served with loaves of Sunshine bread still in its wrapper and beer, Co-cola or sweet tea. No slaw, no beans, no other choices. I seem to remember 'nanner pudding at the end?

racheld · July 19, 2008

We never found Dreamland in Atlanta---I was just going by a Google and word-of-mouth on this and other food sites.

JR'S did, however, have a prominently-large chalked-in "Nanner Puddin'" just above our heads, along with Cherry Cobbler and ice cream.

We'll be doing a "BBQ" for some visiting Brit friends in August, and desserts will feature Banana Pudding and Brownie Pie, along with watermelon, of course. I so badly wanted to do a lawn tea for their visit this year, but they've been craving Chris' wonderful mesquite ribs. We're down to about a tenth of a rick of the kindling-sized pieces, from a pickup-load brought up by Daddy from Texas the year before he passed on.

maf · July 20, 2008

The original Dreamland in Tuscaloosa serves only ribs, white bread, potato chips and banana pudding. No sides. The Dreamland in Atlanta (I've been to the one on Alpharetta Hwy in Roswell, but I think there's another) is very different, with all kinds of additional items. I've always assumed it is a franchise.

RAHiggins1 · July 21, 2008

We never found Dreamland in Atlanta---I was just going by a Google and word-of-mouth on this and other food sites.
JR'S did, however, have a prominently-large chalked-in "Nanner Puddin'" just above our heads, along with Cherry Cobbler and ice cream.
We'll be doing a "BBQ" for some visiting Brit friends in August, and desserts will feature Banana Pudding and Brownie Pie, along with watermelon, of course. I so badly wanted to do a lawn tea for their visit this year, but they've been craving Chris' wonderful mesquite ribs. We're down to about a tenth of a rick of the kindling-sized pieces, from a pickup-load brought up by Daddy from Texas the year before he passed on.
←

You can't make Banana Pudding any better then by the recipe off of the Nabisco brand "Nilla Wafers". My grandmother used to make it everytime we came to see her in her little white house on 305 White St., Boaz, Alabama. Her yard was cared for meticulously, as was all things in her house. Her appliances had been working in her kitchen since before the depression. Many great and wonderful dishes came from her stove. Fried chicken, pork chops, fruit salad made from the fruit trees in her own backyard. We would show up in the fall and the whole house would be lined with newspapers covered in apples drying in preperation for apple butter. We always left with a jar. Grandmama Brooks never took any shortcuts and it showed. She clipped and saved recipes from her whole lifetime. Her white cake with coconut frosting was always baked from scratch and was perfection. The mention of banana pudding always invokes these memories of her for me and you know what? It makes it taste all that much better to me when I make it.

Edited July 21, 2008 by RAHiggins1 (log)

nakji · July 21, 2008

Much like opening the South China Morning Post and reading the cricket scores, I only directly understood about half your first post, racheld, but the bit I did get was so evocative of a time and place, I feel like if I ever have the privilege to sit in front of a plate of barbecue, I will sigh and say, "of course, that's what she was talking about."

Hopefully I'll have enough room left over for some banana pudding, that sounds like a must.

And the tea---sweet or not---came in quart glasses. Gracie ordered "sweet" and drank one and a half. I guess she'd missed the South.

Strangely enough, my first encounter with tea and sweet tea came in the mess hall in Panmunjeom, Korea. The drink dispenser had nozzles labelled "tea" and "sweet tea", and neither appeared to be the heated urn that I generally associated with tea from my Canadian upbringing. I flagged down the nearest buzz-cut young GI and asked for a translation. He told me, "Miss if you like your tea plain, take some 'tea'. If you like your tea sweet, take some 'sweet tea'."

'Nuff said.

racheld · July 21, 2008

Much like opening the South China Morning Post and reading the cricket scores, I only directly understood about half your first post, racheld, but the bit I did get was so evocative of a time and place, I feel like if I ever have the privilege to sit in front of a plate of barbecue, I will sigh and say, "of course, that's what she was talking about."

Any and everything I could clear up for you, I'll be glad to translate. Southern Barbecue is a thing unto itself, a long-cooked, Heaven-scented, fall-apart bit of Glory here on Earth. Any shape or size or amount of pork, parked on the rungs of a long-used pit, and given the time and attention of a master pit-man---that's entirely a food group on its own.

From the first rub, be it dry with salt and ground pepper and whatever other spices and dried herbs please the cook (and whose esoteric, exacting combination of special flavors have probably been in the family for a LONG time) or wet, with a rag-on-a-stick mop dipped into vinegar-oil-lemon-juice-garlic and any of myriad combinations (but never sauce---not 'til the end; tomato and/or sugar, the basic components of any Deep South sauce will burn black from the get-go, giving even the smoke a tang of bitter regret at the travesty). It makes me shudder to see even Miss Ina, champion cook that she is, douse raw chicken parts entirely in a whole bowl of red stuff, then slap it on the grill. It just 'taint fittin.'

And the wood---that's a debate amongst barbecue lovers all over the world. Most swear by a bit of hickory, some by apple or mesquite---but always wood, for the best. We drove up to a much-touted barbecue place in Kentucky a couple of years ago, and got into a quite-considerable line a-waiting. I stepped around the corner toward the scent, and walked between four-foot walls made entirely of bags of Kingsford. Then I knew. It was OK---but it wasn't Barbecue.

The meat goes onto those pit-rungs with the care and placement of a ritual sacrifice, and I suppose it's as close as it comes in the modern scheme of things---meat sizzle and the anthem of good smoke rising to Heaven. The time, the covering and uncovering, the shovel-shuffling of the coals and the wood and the blaze into the proper proportions and temperature---all these go into making up a good batch of barbecue.

You can be invited over to a neighbor's house for "a barbecue" and be served burgers straight off the charcoal, the unholy aura of starter-fluid tainting each mouthful---THAT'S not a Barbecue---that's a cookout.

The only barbecue comes from a real pit; night-long tending for a whole pig that will be served WAY up in the day to follow; conversation and sandwiches and beer and hoopcheese and crackers, beer and more beer, maybe some cans of Viennies or sardines---those are proper sustenance for the pit-folk, age-old tastes for the REAL taste of home.

The meat is turned, turned again, with a sissssss of water to the coals now and then when they rage too hot; a sussssshhh of the bellows to re-kindle the red when need be.

Ribs are either dry-rubbed to start, then sometimes rubbed again, the seasonings gilding onto the surfaces like brazen armor, or they are swabbed at the last, with the red sauce of choice, then left just long enough for the deep burgundy glaze to meld to the meat in a shiny shellac like the paint-job on a well-loved Camaro.

The butt-or-shoulder-meat comes from the pit naked as it went on, the only change the night-long tenderness and the perfection of smoke all through. It can be shaken from the bone, which slips out like fingers from a glove. The great chunks of steaming fragrance are then pulled (my favorite---the long, tender strands separating with the grain, one of the few times true tenderness is achieved that way) or chopped, which means just what it says---sometimes two-handed cleaver-chopping worthy of an Asian kitchen.

Meat is piled onto grilled or toasted buns, anointed with sauce, with a little haystack of good crisp, vinegary coleslaw shreds atop. Top on, little salute from greasy grill spatula, and a miracle is born.

Brunswick is Brunswick Stew---a conglomeration of lots of kinds of meat (originally mostly game, but could include terrapin, shrimp, beef, pork, or chicken), with too many finely-chopped vegetables to name. It's a hunting-camp dish, sometimes made over an open fire, the boiling mass in the big black pot stirred with a boat paddle. It was usually done well before the meat came off the grill, and bowls were passed around to the hungry bystanders to quell the uprising until the pork was done.

Slaw is just the Southern word for coleslaw, of which there are several camps, the main two being mayonnase or vinegar. It's a shredded or chopped head of cabbage, with any additions customary to the locale---green onions or peppers or grated carrot; fancy-dancy folks have been known to add chopped apple or a little can of crushed pineapple or even sunflower seeds. I like both kinds of dressing, and I like it "ON" which means a spoonful actually ON the sandwich, as well as some to eat with a fork alongside.

Baked beans are most usually started with a sizzle of onion and chopped bell pepper, then any amount of barbecue sauce and brown sugar that pleases the cook. Beans of choice where I'm from are cans of Showboat Pork 'n' Beans, drained of their extra liquid, and divested of that clammy little white waxy bit of "pork" which they sport in deference to their name.

All this is stirred together in the skillet, then poured into a baking dish; top that with a nice lattice of bacon strips, stick it in a 350 oven for about 45 minutes, and you've got the perfect Southern Side for anything from burgers to barbecue to fried catfish. Nirvana is reached when some of the crispins and messy meat from the pulled or chopped pork are stirred in before baking.

Potato salad---that's a hard subject to discuss, especially if there's more than one Southern cook in the conversation. Talk gets hot and heavy, always including, "Well, the way I make MYE Potato Salad. . ." and ranging on to pickles, dill or sweet; onion, yea or nay, and if Miracle Whip ever rears its ugly head, the WAR is on.

It's usually just nicely boiled small potatoes, skins on or off, cut up warm into a bowl, salted, and left to sit a few minutes while you chop a bit of sweet onion, some sweet pickles, a hard-boiled egg or two, and a bit of cold crisp bell pepper. A big clop of Duke's mayo, a squirt of French's mustard, a little handful of celery seeds, and serve when you want---right now, warm, or cover and chill.

And sauce---I won't get into the sauce debate. Every section of the country has their own tradition, and I'm from the darrrrrrk-red, brown sugar section, though I DID have some beef ribs in a place on the Riverwalk in San Antonio that still haunt, dry ribs though they were. And I just now saw Bourdain watching a South Carolina pit-man take off the pork, break it apart with his hands, and pour on what looked like a pint of yellow mustard. My tongue is curling just thinking about it.

And I have NO idea what "Lion Ribs" are---that was in Atlanta, two states removed from my raising, so I don't know what-all they do over there.

But I'd be honored and delighted to have you sit at our table for barbecue or anything else, anytime.

Edited July 21, 2008 by racheld (log)

nakji · July 21, 2008

Any and everything I could clear up for you, I'll be glad to translate. Southern Barbecue is a thing unto itself, a long-cooked, Heaven-scented, fall-apart bit of Glory here on Earth. Any shape or size or amount of pork, parked on the rungs of a long-used pit, and given the time and attention of a master pit-man---that's entirely a food group on its own.
From the first rub, be it dry with salt and ground pepper and whatever other spices and dried herbs please the cook (and whose esoteric, exacting combination of special flavors have probably been in the family for a LONG time) or wet, with a rag-on-a-stick mop dipped into vinegar-oil-lemon-juice-garlic and any of myriad combinations (but never sauce---not 'til the end; tomato and/or sugar, the basic components of any Deep South sauce will burn black from the get-go, giving even the smoke a tang of bitter regret at the travesty). It makes me shudder to see even Miss Ina, champion cook that she is, douse raw chicken parts entirely in a whole bowl of red stuff, then slap it on the grill. It just 'taint fittin.'
And the wood---that's a debate amongst barbecue lovers all over the world. Most swear by a bit of hickory, some by apple or mesquite---but always wood, for the best. We drove up to a much-touted barbecue place in Kentucky a couple of years ago, and got into a quite-considerable line a-waiting. I stepped around the corner toward the scent, and walked between four-foot walls made entirely of bags of Kingsford. Then I knew. It was OK---but it wasn't Barbecue.
The meat goes onto those pit-rungs with the care and placement of a ritual sacrifice, and I suppose it's as close as it comes in the modern scheme of things---meat sizzle and the anthem of good smoke rising to Heaven. The time, the covering and uncovering, the shovel-shuffling of the coals and the wood and the blaze into the proper proportions and temperature---all these go into making up a good batch of barbecue.
You can be invited over to a neighbor's house for "a barbecue" and be served burgers straight off the charcoal, the unholy aura of starter-fluid tainting each mouthful---THAT'S not a Barbecue---that's a cookout.
The only barbecue comes from a real pit; night-long tending for a whole pig that will be served WAY up in the day to follow; conversation and sandwiches and beer and hoopcheese and crackers, beer and more beer, maybe some cans of Viennies or sardines---those are proper sustenance for the pit-folk, age-old tastes for the REAL taste of home.
The meat is turned, turned again, with a sissssss of water to the coals now and then when they rage too hot; a sussssshhh of the bellows to re-kindle the red when need be.
Ribs are either dry-rubbed to start, then sometimes rubbed again, the seasonings gilding onto the surfaces like brazen armor, or they are swabbed at the last, with the red sauce of choice, then left just long enough for the deep burgundy glaze to meld to the meat in a shiny shellac like the paint-job on a well-loved Camaro.
The butt-or-shoulder-meat comes from the pit naked as it went on, the only change the night-long tenderness and the perfection of smoke all through. It can be shaken from the bone, which slips out like fingers from a glove. The great chunks of steaming fragrance are then pulled (my favorite---the long, tender strands separating with the grain, one of the few times true tenderness is achieved that way) or chopped, which means just what it says---sometimes two-handed cleaver-chopping worthy of an Asian kitchen.
Meat is piled onto grilled or toasted buns, anointed with sauce, with a little haystack of good crisp, vinegary coleslaw shreds atop. Top on, little salute from greasy grill spatula, and a miracle is born.
Brunswick is Brunswick Stew---a conglomeration of lots of kinds of meat (originally mostly game, but could include terrapin, shrimp, beef, pork, or chicken), with too many finely-chopped vegetables to name. It's a hunting-camp dish, sometimes made over an open fire, the boiling mass in the big black pot stirred with a boat paddle. It was usually done well before the meat came off the grill, and bowls were passed around to the hungry bystanders to quell the uprising until the pork was done.
Slaw is just the Southern word for coleslaw, of which there are several camps, the main two being mayonnase or vinegar. It's a shredded or chopped head of cabbage, with any additions customary to the locale---green onions or peppers or grated carrot; fancy-dancy folks have been known to add chopped apple or a little can of crushed pineapple or even sunflower seeds. I like both kinds of dressing, and I like it "ON" which means a spoonful actually ON the sandwich, as well as some to eat with a fork alongside.
Baked beans are most usually started with a sizzle of onion and chopped bell pepper, then any amount of barbecue sauce and brown sugar that pleases the cook. Beans of choice where I'm from are cans of Showboat Pork 'n' Beans, drained of their extra liquid, and divested of that clammy little white waxy bit of "pork" which they sport in deference to their name.
All this is stirred together in the skillet, then poured into a baking dish; top that with a nice lattice of bacon strips, stick it in a 350 oven for about 45 minutes, and you've got the perfect Southern Side for anything from burgers to barbecue to fried catfish. Nirvana is reached when some of the crispins and messy meat from the pulled or chopped pork are stirred in before baking.
Potato salad---that's a hard subject to discuss, especially if there's more than one Southern cook in the conversation. Talk gets hot and heavy, always including, "Well, the way I make MYE Potato Salad. . ." and ranging on to pickles, dill or sweet; onion, yea or nay, and if Miracle Whip ever rears its ugly head, the WAR is on.
It's usually just nicely boiled small potatoes, skins on or off, cut up warm into a bowl, salted, and left to sit a few minutes while you chop a bit of sweet onion, some sweet pickles, a hard-boiled egg or two, and a bit of cold crisp bell pepper. A big clop of Duke's mayo, a squirt of French's mustard, a little handful of celery seeds, and serve when you want---right now, warm, or cover and chill.
And sauce---I won't get into the sauce debate. Every section of the country has their own tradition, and I'm from the darrrrrrk-red, brown sugar section, though I DID have some beef ribs in a place on the Riverwalk in San Antonio that still haunt, dry ribs though they were. And I just now saw Bourdain watching a South Carolina pit-man take off the pork, break it apart with his hands, and pour on what looked like a pint of yellow mustard. My tongue is curling just thinking about it.
And I have NO idea what "Lion Ribs" are---that was in Atlanta, two states removed from my raising, so I don't know what-all they do over there.
But I'd be honored and delighted to have you sit at our table for barbecue or anything else, anytime.

Thank you, ma'am. I've printed this off, and I'm folding it up to put in my wallet as we speak. I think you lost me at "Brunswick", because where I'm from, that's one province over. My life list includes touring the Southern US and trying to find out which state makes my favourite barbecue.

As for potato salad, well, I've already come out for the non-traditional side - I wouldn't dare enter the fray on what makes a proper potato salad. And slaw, well, I prefer the vinegar kind, but my husband prefers the creamy kind. It's bad enough I'm a Canadiens fan, and he loves the Leafs.....

racheld · July 21, 2008

My goodness---what a honor. I've been in print, but this is the first time I've been folded and carried around. Can't wait to tell Chris :smile:

demiglace · July 22, 2008