|
| |
2004-08-28: Chicago Eatathon, Part 1 -- Superfly Soul Food
Posted by extramsg on Wednesday, September 15, 2004 @ 20:04:21 PDT
Contributed by extramsg
My mom has a class picture of me in kindergarten when we lived in Sacramento. We lived in a trailer park off of Northgate and Del Paso Blvds. In the picture, there are a dozen black kids, half a dozen Hispanic kids, and me, the only white kid. But when you're six, you don't know that you're supposed to care about such things, that you're supposed to live in different parts of town, be suspicious of one another, and so on. You just know that Jamal makes you laugh and Maria makes you blush when she tries to kiss you on the bus.
By the time I started taking the red line to south Chicago, I knew better. And they, the African-Americans who live there, knew better. They knew that in 1926 the Supreme Court ruled that deeds could restrict what races could purchase the property in the future. They knew that in the '30s and '40s the FHA had encouraged separating "incompatible racial groups". They knew that in the progressive '60s and '70s -- and even today -- that real estate agents only showed them housing where they'd be "comfortable". They knew it, and I knew it.
But my belly is no respecter of persons. It knows no race. It knows no history. It just knows good food. So when my belly heard "ribs", it directed me south.
Photo Album
Of over two-million blacks in Chicago, most live on the south side. At each stop as I rode the train south, the non-black riders thinned, until finally, like in kindergarten, I was the only caucasian. I had my sunglasses on and I could watch people stare without disturbing them. Standing at a bus stop, the stares fell into two categories: 1) Genial curiosity: "What's that white boy doing here?" and 2) suspicious enmity: "What's that white boy doing here."
Literally, I was probably the only white person for blocks, maybe miles. I guess it's a peek at what a black American feels walking the streets of white America, the center of attention and suspicion, especially in the southern states. (My dad, when he lived in Arkansas, asked an employee why they didn't have any advertising in an area, and was told: "That's nigger town.").
As soon as I got off the bus, I could smell the smoke. Race relations, Jim Crow, living briefly in another man's shoes -- that all dissolved from my mind. My belly was in charge and my feet made double-time to Lem's. But it was only one-thirty and they weren't open yet. The drool running down my face nearly turned to tears.
I had passed by another South Side food destination, though, on the way to Lem's: Army and Lou's. I like soul food and Southern home cooking, so I backtracked for a little tummy stretching exercise before the main course.
The inside of Army and Lou's is a jewel compared with the rough streets outside. The tables are covered with crimson and white cloths and crowned with flowers. African-American art adorns the walls and the fat and happy chef stood in the back chatting with patrons. The waitress told me I could sit anywhere I liked and I chose a single spot near the cash register.
The menu has all the basics: fried chicken, catfish, ribs, roast turkey, chicken and dumplings, chitterlings, etc. The waitress struggled to give me a recommendation, but finally admitted that the fried catfish is her favorite. So I ordered it.
Across from me sat a couple of older black gentlemen in suits, gold rings and watches. Politicians or businessmen, perhaps? Maybe local celebrities? I had heard that well-to-do African-Americans in Chicago often dine there. I listened quietly as I waited for my order. The two gentlemen needled each other and the staff. The staff returned the razzing. But it was playful. I grew up watching the Huckstibles on The Cosby Show and these people lent authenticity to that supposedly idealized sitcom. One of the gray-haired men in a suit reminded me of Cliff's father, always with a smile, always with a calm and wise countenance. Their witty exchanges weren't so far from me and my friends. Though I think they were more clever.
The food arrived and took up the entire table -- buns and my two chosen sides, mashed potatoes and gravy, and dressing, plus the crispy catfish. The sides were largely forgettable. But the catfish -- oh, the catfish. The crunchy cornmeal crust encased a moist and perfectly cooked filet. It was a huge piece of fish, maybe 10 ozs or more, without any off flavor. I devoured it.
A waitress came by only minutes after the fish was set down in front of me. She stopped, looked at the empty plate, looked at me, looked at the plate, and looked back at me with a shocked expression. "So, you didn't like it, I see?"
"Nope, not very good," I responded with a grin.
From that moment on, I wasn't just some white guy who accidentally found his way to Army and Lou's. I was a customer. And at Army and Lou's, a customer is a friend. Another waitress came over and the first one showed how the piece of fish was missing. "You sure he got his meal?"
"Yeah, I gave it to him."
"I guess he didn't like."
"No, didn't like it at all."
Then one of the ladies noticed that I had only picked at my sides. I explained that I was about to head over to Lem's for some BBQ and needed to save room for ribs. At this, the chef came over, "We got ribs. Best ribs in the city. They fall off the bone."
I wiggled my way out of the trap, endured some lighthearted barbs, and returned a few. I thanked everyone and left quite happy.
A line had already started to form at Lem's. The windows are Plexiglas and a wall of Plexiglas separates the customers from the workers, making it a little difficult to interact and ask questions. (Even the smoker's doors are Plexiglas.) You basically have a choice of three things: ribs (of course), chicken, and shrimp. Everything comes with fries.
I knew I wanted ribs, but there were several choices: a slab, center cut, the small end, and then something I was less familiar with: tips. I asked about tips, but couldn't really hear what the person behind the counter was saying. However, she held up some and they looked great.
"Have the tips," someone in line ahead of me said.
"You gotta have tips," said another person.
Everyone else was ordering them. So I ordered them.
"You'll be back now," said the first person.
"Oh, yes sir, the tips will bring you back," said another.
We all smiled and joked as we waited for our orders. New people came in behind and joined the bandy.
I grabbed the bag and walked out, again being told I'd be back. Across the street at the bus stop, I opened the bag to reveal the caramelized tips. They're the pork ribs equivalent of burnt ends, crusty on the outside, tender and smoky on the inside, covered in a tangy sauce. I'd put them in a class with the ribs I had in KC at LC's and Arthur Bryant's, less smoky, but still quite good. I crouched there over the meaty bits finding pieces cool enough to shove in my mouth, spitting out the left-over cartilage. My hands were covered in the sauce and I kept licking them clean. A minute or two later, I heard someone jogging towards me and I looked up to see one of the ladies from Lem's with tin foil and another bag.
She hassled me a little about not being able to wait, asked me where I was from, and I explained the whole trip to her, including the catfish I just had at Army and Lou's. She just sort of laughed. She helped me wrap up the rib tips so that I was able to keep them from getting all over and still eat them.
The bus was running late, which gave me lots of time to make a mess of myself. Lem's employees quickly realized this, too, and moments later, a guy came jogging across the street with a handful of napkins and wet wipes. "Are you guys making fun of me?"
"No," he laughed. "We just didn't want you making a mess on the bus."
My clothes still smelled of smoke. Though I kept the rib tips put away so that I didn't drip sauce on the train, I sniffed my hands regularly, craving the flavor that went with the smell.
As much as I felt like a sore thumb when I arrived in South Chicago, I now felt welcomed. We shared something, like a construction worker and a lawyer who suddenly become buddies at a sports bar while cheering for the same team. It's not much. It's not going give anyone a job. It's not going to stop a father from getting upset when his white daughter marries a black man. But it was something to me. Like I said, the belly is no respecter of persons. I'd like to buy the world some ribs...
|
|
| |
|
|
