Some time ago, I contacted a fellow living in Los Angeles named John Howe for help with an article I was writing. We corresponded for a while, then he said he was going to be driving through Jackson to visit relatives in Tallahassee. We agreed to meet at the grocery store near my home and to decide on a place for lunch.
When I got to the store, John was excitedly running up and down the lunch buffet asking questions about the food. The people in line were smiling at this tall skinny white man with brilliant red hair. I could tell that his excitement over the food they eat every day tickled them, and they happily explained to him what was on the steam table.
“Now, over here is the peas and snaps,” one lady pointed out. “You gotta let them stew a long time for them to be good. And them smothered chops, too, they take a long time.”
“What’s in those bread sticks over there?” John asked.
“That’s Mexican corn sticks,” a fellow in work coveralls said. “They got peppers in ‘em but not hot peppers. They go good with pintos.”
“Are those turnip greens?” John asked.
Somebody barked and said, “No, them’s collards.”
John was stupified by the pile of fried chicken. “Do you sell all that?” he asked the lady behind the counter.
“Oh, this is our second batch,” she said. “We make one in the morning for the folks who come in for breakfast.”
“Fried chicken for breakfast!” John’s mouth was literally dropping to his chest.
“Yessir,” she said. “And we got another batch frying now ‘cause we always have a bunch of people coming in during the afternoon to pick some up to take home.”
After his turn to be served, John joined me at the booth under the window. He had two Styrofoam containers full. One contained Fried chicken—a breast and a leg—with peas and snaps, lima beans, and a cornbread muffin. The other plate had smothered chops with rice and gravy, green beans with sliced potatoes, and Mexican corn sticks. He also paid extra for a side of stewed cabbage and a container of peach cobbler. When he sat down, he opened the containers and sat looking at them and smiling.
“I wanted to get three plates,” he said, “But I thought better of it. I want to get to Atlanta before dark, and I didn’t want to have to stop and eat.” Tell me about their breakfasts. Grits and fried chicken? I never thought of it.”
“Two kinds of grits,” I said, “white and yellow, and they offer two kinds of bacon, curly and flat, link, patty, and smoked sausages, scrambled eggs, and pan after pan after pan of buttermilk biscuits.”
John was smiling and shaking his head. “You know, Jesse, when I stopped in Abeline I pulled up information on the restaurants here, you know, those, ‘top listed’ and ‘most recommended.’ I even went to the local tourism and social media sites looking for a place that told me I was in Jackson, Mississippi.”
“I really didn’t see any,” he said. “I found some white tablecloth places serving the same things you find in L.A.:, liver pâté, osso buco, burgers with Tillamook cheddar, Japanese beef filets and piccatas out the ass.”
He looked at the people standing in line. “But here is where people should come to eat when they’re in Jackson. This place, these people, this f! It’s magical.”
When John returned to L.A. (he flew back), he wrote and thanked me again for “taking him to lunch.” I pointed out that I had merely met him at a grocery store, and that he had paid for the food. “But you brought me to a place I never knew existed. I learned. That’s what going somewhere is all about. Otherwise you’re just dragging the same stuff around all over the place.”
