Viennas

Vienna sausages—along with (it must be said) potted meat—are the South’s signature blue-collar noshes, indispensable companions to the purple worms and Little Rebels in your tackle box, but it’s the rare household of any ilk in this part of the country that doesn’t have one or two pop-top cans of these little meaty treats stashed somewhere.

Like most iconic American foods, Vienna sausages were brought to America by immigrants, and it should come as no surprise that they hail from German-speaking Europe. Sometime around the turn of the last century, “wiener”—from Wien, the German spelling of Vienna—came to be used interchangeably with sausages like hot dogs and frankfurters. Properly speaking, the Vienna or Vienna-style sausage (Wienerwurst) is a frankfurter-style mixture of meats sold in braided links, but in America it transformed into a canned sausage, becoming an early example of convenience food.

Commercial canning of sausage came about in the mid-19th century and became mechanized in the 1860s. At the turn of the century Chicago-based Armour, Swift, and Libby, along with Hormel in Minnesota, dominated the market. The term “Vienna” or “Vienna-style” referring to a canned sausage—skinless after the 1950s—cut into two-inch lengths, appeared around 1900. In the South, where canned meats appeared in the 1890s, the first commercial meat processor in Mississippi, Bryan Packing Company of West Point, unlike northern companies, began canning sausages in oil. It wasn’t long before Bryan “vy-ennas” became legendary.

Vienna consumption has declined since its heyday in the middle of the 20th century; Armour, which introduced the pop-top aluminum can, remains the industry sales leader. Viennas—like Spam—seeped into international cuisines through U.S. military bases. The sausages are used in Filipino pancits, and a popular Cuban dish consisting of Viennas cooked with yellow rice (arroz amarillo con salchichas) no doubt came about courtesy of Guantánamo Bay.

Painting by Jean Townsend

Penny Eggs

Anyone who bellies up to a Bible-Belt bar on a Sunday morning drinks in the certainty that their stool is just as comfortable and congenial as any pew.

Bartenders who work Sunday mornings know their customers well, and more often than not the hearkening faces at the rail know a thing or so about the bartenders, too. They’re always telling on one another, and if it’s a really friendly bar, they’ll do it aloud, especially when not that many people are in the bar and the music’s low. It’s a special sort of bonding ritual that you just won’t find along an aisle.

Jake and I enjoy basking in these secular exchanges. We manage to steer clear of most petty imbroglios; oh, we’ll put our two cents in on something especially outrageous (or at least I will), but most of the time we just talk to each other.

Jake grew up in upstate New York; I grew up in north Mississippi. He was probably pulling my leg when he told me that his parents once sent money to a charitable organization whose mission was to improve the lot of ignorant, parasite-infested Southerners, but I bristled anyway and reminded him that they did that once already (with taxes) and a less than charitable intent towards the majority of my ancestors.

He in turn reminded me that his folks came over on the Concorde and that his parents don’t pay taxes. At this point, I should have bolted, but bearing in mind Faulkner’s mandate of love despite faults, we both endured and have come to learn that we have much in common.

Take Vienna sausages, for instance, an iconic Southern nosh if there ever was one. Never in a million years would I have thought Jake knew of (much less ate them) as a child. But one Sunday morning at the bar he told me about penny eggs.

“My mother,” he said, “would take Vienna sausages, slice them crossways and put them in our scrambled eggs. She called them penny eggs.”

Suddenly I could hear a woman’s voice from a kitchen down a hall. “Do you want penny eggs for breakfast?” Or: “Hurry up or you’re going to miss your penny eggs.” What child would not be stirred? Little fists would begin to rub sleepy eyes, and soon the breakfast table would be surrounded by mouths eager for spoonfuls of eggs strewn with penny-like slices of mild sausage.

If I live for another 800 years, I don’t think I’ll ever feel anything as warm or hear anything as charming as that childhood memory coming to light in a dingy, musty bar on a rainy Sunday morning. Of course, he found nothing endearing about my Vienna memories, which involved fishing for crappie on Grenada Lake and untangling barbed wire from bush hogs that had run over an old fence.

“You were sweating,” he said. “They were like sodium suppositories.” After reminding him that we ate them, I tried to interject some romance into my remembrances.

“Jake,” I said. “Imagine that you’re in a leaky aluminum boat with a stuttering motor in the backwaters of a north Mississippi reservoir. It’s an early Saturday morning and sunny.

“You’re eight years old, fishing with a couple who have been married for forty years. You have your little baseball cap on, but your nose gets burned anyway. You catch one fish, a little one, to their twenty big ones. You get to drink all the Cokes you want, and pee off the side of the skiff. And for lunch, well before noon, you get saltines, a big piece of rat cheese, sardines if you want them, and a can of Vienna sausages.”

“Surrounded by venomous snakes no doubt,” he said. “And please tell me you didn’t eat the fish.” At this, I realized romanticizing barbed wire foul-ups on bush hogs was useless.

I keep Viennas on hand, but Jake, despite his admission of a childhood fondness for them, has consigned them to what the calls the redneck corner of the cupboard, where he puts my sardines, pink salmon, and saltines.

He lets me keep my red-rind cheddar in the fridge, bless his heart.