Buttermilk Graffiti Page 12
To prove this point, Ronni takes me deep into the heart of the Appalachian Mountains. We drive along a winding freeway of wild thickets and woodland, without seeing another car for almost an hour. Suddenly, we come to a historic landmark sign telling us we have arrived in Helvetia, an isolated village that painstakingly preserves the way of life of the original Swiss settlers who arrived here via Brooklyn in 1869. The population is purported to be sixty people. Everything about this place should scream “theme park,” except for the fact that people actually live here in the middle of the wilderness, embracing this antiquated way of life. There is a church, a small school, a few buildings that store dry goods and another where flour is milled, a pretty stream, and the log cabin–housed Hütte Swiss Restaurant. We dine on schnitzel, applesauce, and sauerkraut. We are the only ones in the dining room.
We must make for an odd sight, Ronni and I, an older white woman and a Korean American man in his forties dining together in the midafternoon, licking the last of the applesauce from our plates. After so many hours together in a car, it is impossible for us to keep up any disguises. With every passing hour, we reveal things to each other that don’t get said in polite conversation. It therefore seems perfectly normal for us to sit down for lunch and begin a conversation with “So, what is the meaning of authenticity?” or “Who owns the food of the South?” Hours later, along a stretch of unending highway, we are still going back and forth, laying the foundation for an enduring friendship.
Ronni wants the recipe for the applesauce. The owners of the Hütte say it is in their cookbook, which I suspect is not true, but I buy the book anyway. It is a small yellow booklet of typed pages stapled together. The title page reads:
OPPIS GUET’S VO
HELVETIA
Compiled for
THE ALPEN ROSE GARDEN CLUB
Helvetia, W. Va.
by
Eleanor Fahrner Mailloux
In addition to recipes for pretzels and Rösti, and regional favorites such as corn relish and apple fritters, there is an oddly titled recipe called Ammonia Cookies. The book gives an applesauce recipe, but I can tell it’s not the one served in the restaurant. At the back of the book are tips on how to wash black stockings and what to do in case you’re struck by lightning: “For a couple of hours shower in cold water. In case there is still no sign of life, add a cupful of salt and continue for another hour.” The book is full of amusing remedies and wisdoms, which I read out loud to Ronni as we drive out of town.
I fall asleep. Too much pork and sausages. It is almost dark when I am roused by the sound of tires on gravel. We are at a gas station in between towns. We have to find a place to get dinner soon or else resign ourselves to highway fast food. While Ronni is pumping gas, I run up the road to investigate a small restaurant. I tell her to meet me there. The sunlight is quickly sinking behind the lush trees. The restaurant is a gabled one-story building with a window obscured by a checkered curtain. There is only one car in the parking lot. I’m breathing hard. I open the door and walk in. There is a young cook in the kitchen cleaning up, a woman at the register, and a young man mopping the floor near the back. There are no customers, but the place is clean and smells good. Without a second thought, I ask, “Do you sell slaw dogs?” I say it louder than I intended, and with an unintentional drawl. After a few days with Ronni, driving through the region, I’ve started to pick up the accent.
Everyone is staring at me. No one says a word. The silence lasts a long time. Finally, the lady behind the register, who I assume is the mother, tells me politely but stutteringly that they are closed. I thank her and head back to the parking lot. Ronni is just pulling in. I think nothing of the information I’ve just been given, other than that maybe they want to close up after a slow dinner service. I hop into the van and tell Ronni to pick a fast-food joint. At that very moment, though, a young girl, about fourteen, comes running out of the restaurant and catches up to me. I roll down my window. She is blonde, with blue eyes, pigtails, and a smile as bright as the moon. She says, “C’mon back and have dinner. They din’ mean nothing by it.” The expression on her face tells me she will not accept no for an answer.
She seats us at the end of a long wooden table and hands us menus. She is talkative and distracted. She brings us water and takes our order. I ask for a plate of slaw dogs.
“We don’t call them slaw dogs in these parts,” she tells me in a sympathetic voice, and heads for the kitchen.
Ronni asks me in a whisper if I’m bothered by being here. I am not. As someone who has roamed freely through the small communities of America, I am always aware of being the odd person in the room, regardless of the room’s complexion, white, black, brown, or other. I was once in a traditional Korean restaurant in New Jersey and still felt the sting of suspicious eyes on me because I was not one of them.
We sit there in the dimly lit restaurant, enjoying a pleasant dinner, and one by one, the family comes by the table to say an awkward hello. The sky is now glowing dark. I wonder how often they get someone like me stopping at their restaurant. How odd it must have been for them to see me, a cowboy shirt–wearing Korean American man, crash through their front door breathlessly asking for slaw dogs. It makes me chuckle to think about it. Maybe their shock was less over my not being white and more about my daring to call their West Virginia hot dog a slaw dog. Maybe.
At the end of our trip, Ronni and I pop into an antiques store, and I’m moved by a piece of artwork that illustrates a two-dimensional image of the currents and overflows of the Mississippi River over time. It reads, “Geological Investigation of the Alluvial Valley of the Lower Mississippi River.” The turns and twists of the flowing river patterns are shown in faded colors that remind me of the arterial networks connecting our internal organs. River lines weave and tangle and eventually find their way out to the ocean. Some of the flow patterns don’t make sense. They seem to linger and meander in long curves as if they don’t want to leave. I see the conflict of Appalachia in this drawing. I see the necessity to flee but the instinct to remain. I see joy and hospitality and warmth and mistrust and fear and isolation. And it is no different from any small town in America, where the values of the old are being challenged by the temerity of youth. I purchase the drawing not knowing where I’ll hang it.
“Hey, buddy, you know what you just got, don’tcha?” Ronni lays her hand over mine to comfort me.
“No, what?”
“A map!” And she laughs for what seems like hours.
I return to Appalachia and the Shenandoah Valley as often as I can. Possibly my favorite food–road trip itinerary is Staunton to Roanoke to Wytheville to Bristol. Try Ian Boden at the Shack in Staunton; check out the Homeplace Restaurant in Catawba; go to Roanoke for the River and Rail and then have a bowl of chili at the Texas Parlour just a few blocks away. After that, drive on to Wytheville for the world-famous slaw dog, and end up in Bristol, where Travis Milton is planting a flag for Appalachian cuisine. Tune into Allegheny Mountain Radio as you drive through the mountains and take in some of the most breathtaking views you’ll ever see.
When I’m in Appalachia, my heartbeat rests, my breathing slows a little, my blood runs clean. I am smitten by wildflowers and the smell of biscuits. With every trip, I learn a few more things about the simplicity and resourcefulness of the dinner table. I eat humble food when I’m there, and I don’t ever feel that I’m missing out. When I get home, I create slow and provocative meals. I cook pork chops and find new ways to cook corn. I say things to my wife like “I’m going to get a house in the Appalachian Mountains one day and live off the land.” To which she responds by rolling her eyes. Maybe she’s right and I’ll never actually do that, but at least for a week after every trip to Appalachia, I recalibrate my priorities and make chili for slaw dogs and bake pies and listen to bluegrass music.
Each time I visit, I come away knowing that the people of Appalachia are not limite
d to one definition or stereotype. Every few years, a movie or a book comes out, as the memoir Hillbilly Elegy did in 2016, that reaffirms the stereotype that Appalachia is a troubled place full of people who can barely take care of themselves. This always sparks a great deal of backlash and anger from people such as Ronni, who see Appalachia as a place of deeply sacred traditions and strong ethics. Still, stereotypes exist for a reason, and nothing about Hillbilly Elegy is untrue. For anyone who believes that Appalachia is a godforsaken place, I would invite them to drive up to a mountain ridge north of Staunton at sunset and peer out over the lush treetops and witness the grace and beauty that is God-given in this part of the world.
My Version of a Slaw Dog
Don’t expect me to give you a newfangled “artisan” version of a slaw dog. Some things don’t need to be tinkered with. Also, in an age where everything is uber-organic and overscrutinized, it’s nice sometimes just to indulge in something that is store-bought and simple. By all means, use organic beef franks and even brioche hot dog buns, if you want. But this version, made with processed ingredients, which I normally don’t cook with, is what reminds me of West Virginia in all its faults and glory.
Makes 8 slaw dogs
chili
1 tablespoon canola oil
1 pound 85% lean ground beef
1 sweet onion, such as Vidalia, finely diced
5 garlic cloves, minced
¼ cup tomato paste
2½ tablespoons chili powder
1½ tablespoons ground cumin
2¼ teaspoons salt
1½ cups beer
1 cup water
slaw
½ head cabbage, cored and finely chopped
3 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons mayonnaise, preferably Duke’s
1 tablespoon distilled white vinegar
1½ teaspoons salt
8 all-beef hot dogs
8 hot dog buns
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
Yellow mustard
1 sweet onion, such as Vidalia, finely chopped
To make the chili: In a Dutch oven or other heavy pot, heat the canola oil over medium-high heat. Add the ground beef and onion and cook, stirring, until the beef is browned and the onion has wilted, 6 to 8 minutes. Add the garlic, tomato paste, chili powder, cumin, and salt, stir well, reduce the heat to medium, and cook for 5 minutes, or until the vegetables soften. Add the beer and water, bring to a gentle simmer, and cook for about an hour, until most of the liquid has evaporated and the flavors have merged together. Once the chili is done, turn off the heat and let it rest at room temperature.
Meanwhile, to make the slaw: Put the cabbage in a bowl, add the sugar, mayonnaise, vinegar, and salt, and stir well. Cover and refrigerate for 1 hour. Stir again just before using.
Bring a medium pot of water to a boil. Drop in the hot dogs and cook for 4 minutes.
Meanwhile, open up the hot dog buns and brush the insides with the melted butter. Add them buttered-side down to a large hot skillet (work in batches, or use two skillets) and cook until warmed and lightly toasted, about 3 minutes.
Reheat the chili until hot. Drain the slaw and stir well. Brush the toasted hot dog buns with a little mustard. Drain the hot dogs and add to the buns. Brush a little more mustard over the hot dogs. Spoon some chili onto each hot dog and top with a little slaw and a light scattering of diced onion. Arrange on plates and serve.
Fried Pork Chops with Miso Creamed Corn and Pickle Juice Gravy
The foods of Appalachia are robust and satisfying but not flashy. Much like the people I met on my journey, the food is humble. To try to elevate it would be disingenuous; it shouldn’t be fussed over too much. There are many wonderful family-run restaurants in the region that serve home-cooked meals like these fried pork chops, or schnitzel, which Ronni and I enjoyed at the Hütte Swiss Restaurant. Instead of the traditional Swiss accompaniments, though, I pair the pork with an earthy, umami-rich creamed corn made with miso. The briny pickle juice livens up the traditional gravy with a surprising but delicate acidity.
Serves 4 as a main course
4 rib or center-cut pork chops (about ¾ inch thick and 6 ounces each)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 large eggs
1 cup bread crumbs
3 large fresh sage leaves, minced
Vegetable oil, for panfrying
Pickle Juice Gravy
Miso Creamed Corn
Season the pork chops on both sides with salt and pepper. Set out three wide shallow bowls. Put the flour in the first one. Put the eggs in the second one and lightly beat them. Put the bread crumbs in the third bowl, add the sage to the bread crumbs, and stir to combine.
Pour ¼ inch of vegetable oil into a large skillet and heat over high heat. Lower the chops into the oil and fry, turning once, until browned and crisp on both sides, about 3 minutes per side. Adjust the heat as needed. Transfer the browned chops to a paper towel–lined plate to drain briefly, and season with a little more salt.
Arrange the chops on plates and serve with the gravy and creamed corn.
Pickle Juice Gravy | If you make Pickled Sweet Peppers, you will have some delicious brine. Most people discard the brine when they finish the pickles, but I never do. It is a great way to add flavor to vinaigrettes, braises, and this simple but addictive gravy. Makes about 2 cups
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus 1 tablespoon cold butter to finish the gravy
5 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1½ cups chicken stock
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
¼ cup pickle juice from Pickled Sweet Peppers, or to taste
Melt the 5 tablespoons butter in a medium skillet over medium-high heat. Sprinkle the flour over the top and whisk to combine, then cook the roux, whisking constantly, for 1 minute, or until a rough paste forms. While whisking, gradually add the chicken stock.
Bring the gravy to a low boil, then reduce the heat and season with the salt and pepper. Gently simmer until thickened, about 2 minutes.
Stir the pickle juice into the gravy. Finish it by adding the remaining 1 tablespoon cold butter and swirling it in the pan until it just melts. Serve hot.
Miso Creamed Corn | Creamed corn is a staple dish on family tables all over Appalachia. I love creamed corn, too, but this nontraditional version combines the bracing sweetness of corn with the salty richness of miso. The miso flavor isn’t pronounced; there’s just enough to add some depth and umami. Serves 4 as a side
5 ears fresh corn, husked
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
¼ cup chicken stock
¼ cup heavy cream
3 tablespoons red miso
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Slice the corn kernels from the cobs into a large shallow bowl. Use a large spoon to scrape all the pulp from the cobs into another bowl.
In a medium saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the corn and cook, stirring, for 2 minutes. Add the corn pulp and chicken stock, bring to a simmer, cover, and cook for 10 minutes. Remove from the heat.
Transfer one-third of the corn mixture to a blender and puree until smooth. Return the mixture to the saucepan, add the cream and miso, and stir well to combine. Bring to a simmer over medium heat and simmer, uncovered, for 5 minutes, until slightly thickened. Season with the salt and pepper.
Chapter 7
A Kibbeh in Clarksdale
I pull off the road in Tunica, Mississippi, to take a break from the monotony of miles and miles of identical farmland and the onslaught of the dusty casino billboards that I seem to pass every seven seconds. The sun is burning my eyes. Along Highway 61, you can behold the
dying casinos, like miniature castles in the distance, with names such as Hollywood, Gold Strike, and Isle of Capri. They are far enough away that you can’t see the poorly maintained structures, but close enough to be a temptation. This is the Delta. This is the land of cotton fields. This is the land of fertile soil over sandy loam nourished by the historic overflows of the Mississippi River. But this is not Mississippi, as many here will tell you. This is Coahoma County, the land of Parchman Farm prison, aka “a prison without walls” where they used to let prisoners work the nearby farmlands, practically daring them to escape. When the land is this flat and cleared of trees, there is no place for a convict to run and hide. I look around me at the flat earth and conjure up an image of an inmate running as fast as he can, trying to outrun the rifle sights trained on his back. It makes me shiver. I live in a valley of trees and low rolling hills. One can find solace in a creek by a riverbed in the hills of Bernheim Forest. Here, the land is bare and scalded. Here, I can see the entire sky from horizon to horizon. I am choking on the vastness.
I take a seat at the counter of the Blue and White Restaurant, an old diner beloved in the area. It is 1:00 p.m., and this is my first decent meal of the day. The posters on the wall tell the story of the blues musicians who came from the Delta. It is an astounding list of names, from Lead Belly to Robert Johnson to John Lee Hooker to Muddy Waters and so many more, all of whom came up through this one area of Mississippi. This is a sacred place for musicians, the birthplace of modern rock and roll. But I’m here for the food. I order a catfish sandwich, turnip greens, and coconut pie. I then strike up a conversation with a lady sitting next to me. She’s wearing a billowy white cotton dress that reminds me of a pillowcase.