A Southern Gallimaufry
I make a blond roux with butter and add enough whole milk to make a thin sauce, which I season with salt and white pepper. I then parboil waxy potatoes, peel and slice thinly, layer them in a glass or porcelain baking dish, spooning the sauce between the layers. This is baked in a medium-high oven (350 or so) until the potatoes are tender through and the top browned.
Egg salad screams of ladies’ luncheons and soda fountains. Pimento and cheese once simpered in such situations, but thanks to a Southern machismo ethic that makes eating a white bread Vidalia onion sandwich dribbling Duke’s mayo over the kitchen sink a valid display of white collar masculinity. P&C is even found served in micro-breweries where it’s paired with an unassuming yet authoritative amber larger and baked parsnip chips.
Still and all, the South is nothing if not traditional, and while egg salad might certainly be served on pumpernickel at some happy hour buffet in a Pensacola leather bar, for the most part it endures as a staple on occasions with a heavy distaff attendance such as christenings, weddings, and those endless, inevitable funerals. Though I’m certain some misguided, unbalanced, and violently boring individuals make egg salad with scrambled eggs, the rest of us use whole boiled eggs peeled and chopped or mashed (swear to God I knew a gal who used a baby food jar) with mayonnaise to bind.
I like it on the chunky side. Add chopped olives, finely-chopped celery, green onion, and pimentos for color. A dash of vinegar gives it bite, and a little olive oil gives a smooth meld. Top with ground black pepper and serve on rye toast with Pilsner, not lager, you knuckle-dragging Neanderthal.
In 1887, U.S. tariff laws imposed duties on vegetables, but not on fruits. Some smart lawyer (we occasionally stumble upon these fabled creatures) representing not only a particular commercial interest but Mother Nature Herself argued that the tomato is a (duty-free) fruit. Botanically, tomatoes are a type of fruit; a berry, to be precise. Alas for Mother Nature and the enlightened litigator championing her, on May 10, 1893, in Nix v. Hedden (149 U.S. 304), the U.S. Supreme Court ruled (unanimously) that “based use and popular perception,” under customs regulations the tomato is a vegetable, putting the court at odds with science, but in concord with commerce. With appropriate deference to hoards of potentially bellicose biologists across the globe, the court–by way of covering their collective asses–acknowledged its limitations by not purporting to define tomatoes beyond the rule of American law.
Cook shrimp with piquant seasonings to offset the olive oil and basil. Spinach provides balance and heft. Rotini carries it well.
Cut a chicken into quarters and simmer in a gallon of water with carrots, onion, and celery. When tender, remove and bone chicken. Return bones to the pot and reduce liquid by about a third. Strain and return to pot to simmer. You want a good, rich broth. Make a stiff biscuit dough with sweet milk; roll it out to about an eighth of an inch, cut into strips, and drop into boiling broth. As the liquid thickens, add the chicken meat, boil for another minute, then reduce heat and cover. After five minutes, cut the heat, and salt to taste. I like chicken and dumplings with a stiff dose of black pepper.
I recommend 21/25 ct. shrimp. Boil, peel, and if you’re the persnickety type, devein, but leave the tails on For five pounds of shrimp, mix well a cup of rice vinegar, a cup of vegetable oil, a small jar of capers (with liquid), two tablespoons of good Italian herb blend, a thinly sliced onion, and a teaspoon each of coarse black pepper and red pepper flakes (or to taste). Add a small white onion, very thinly sliced, two fresh bay leaves, and a cup of diced mild peppers. Toss until shrimp are coated, cover and chill overnight, stirring occasionally. In season, add diced ripe summer tomatoes before adjusting salt and spooning over leaf greens and drizzling with marinade liquid.
Sauté cooked pasta and blanched vegetables with a little garlic, scallions, and shallots in butter. Season lightly with salt and pepper, add heavy cream, and reduce to coat. Toss with a grated hard cheese.
Macerate 4 cups fresh or frozen blackberries with 1 cup sugar; mash and strain. This will yield about 3 cups of syrup. Sift together 1 cup sugar with a tablespoon of cornstarch. Drizzle this mix into a quart of warm half-and-half, add 2 eggs well beaten and a tablespoon of vanilla extract. Simmer until thickened, remove from heat, add 2 cups whole cream, another teaspoon of vanilla, and the blackberry syrup. Whisk until smooth. Refrigerate for at least an hour before processing in the ice cream freezer with a squeeze of lemon. This recipe works well with any berry or stone fruit.
During the heyday of Prohibition, the speakeasy districts of New York and Chicago became dazzling gathering places, filled with music, dance, and drink–as well as a few bullets, mind you–as did similar areas in the South, notably Beale Street in Memphis and the French Quarter in New Orleans, which doesn’t shut down for any damned thing. In Jackson, Mississippi, it was the Gold Coast. Also known as East Jackson or even “’cross the river”, the Gold Coast comprised the area of Rankin County directly over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge at the end of South Jefferson Street. Though barely two square miles, its infamy was nation-wide.
In 1939, H.L. Mencken’s The American Mercury, published a rollicking account of the Gold Coast, “Hooch and Homicide in Mississippi”, by Craddock Goins. “There is no coast except the hog-wallows of the river banks,” Goins wrote, “but plenty of gold courses those banks to the pockets of the most brazen clique of cutthroats and bootleggers that ever defied the law.” Goins cites Pat Hudson as the first to see the possibilities of lucrative gambling near the junction of the two federal highways (Hwys. 80 and 49) across the river from Jackson where before then there were only gas stations, hot dog stands and liquor peddlers. Then San Seaney began selling branded liquor at his place, The Jeep, which soon became a headquarters for wholesale illegal booze.
Others sprang up like mushrooms. The sheriff of Rankin County did his best to restore some semblance of law, but as soon as he cleaned out one den of iniquity another opened. Not only that, he was severely beaten and hospitalized for two weeks after one raid, and he simply bided his time until his term ran out. Goins reported that whites and blacks were often together under the same roof then, albeit shooting craps and whiskey on the opposite sides of a thin partition. This lawlessness did not pass unnoticed in the nearby state capitol. Governor Hugh White, who in December of 1936 ordered National Guard troops into a business on the Pearl owned by one Guysell McPhail. Liquor was seized as evidence that the place should be shut down, but a Rankin County chancellor later dismissed the case, ruling that the evidence had been illegally obtained and at any rate the local authorities, not the governor, should handle law enforcement. The Mississippi Supreme Court later overruled the decision, but by that time liquor was flowing and dice were rolling again.
In the late 40s, a thriving black nightclub culture was in place. Places like the Blue Peacock, the Stamps Hotel (the only hotel in Mississippi that catered to Negros) with its famous Off-Beat Room, The Blue Flame, the Travelers Home and others, where national jazz and blues acts performed. These establishments ran advertisements in The Jackson Advocate, including one that offered a special bus from Farish and Hamilton. By 1946, Rankin county was paying the highest black market tax in the state., but these high times came to a crashing end one hot day in August of 1946, when Seaney and Constable Norris Overby met at place called the Shady Rest and gunned each other down. Others had been killed, of course—often that big-ass catfish you hooked turned out to be someone you hadn’t seen in a while—but this double homicide so inflamed public opinion that illegal operations never dared be so blatant. In the 50s, black businesses withered in the backlash against Brown vs. Board of Education, and the Gold Coast became dominated by a white gangster named “Big Red” Hydrick, who brought area as securely under his suzerainty as a corrupt satrap. Red’s little kingdom withered with urban sprawl.
Beale Street is back–sort of–and the French Quarter will–Dieu merci!–always be the French Quarter, but the Pearl’s Gold Coast is gone, lost in a little enclave under the interstate, a puzzle of gravel, asphalt, and weathered walls.
