Down at the Crossroads

by Courtney Watson

“You’ll be wanting some pie.”

It wasn’t a question. At Leatha’s Bar-B-Que Inn in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, it was never a question. I was so full of their smoky-sweet pork ribs that I could feel my own ribcage crying ‘uncle’, and yet, I couldn’t say no. Gluttony be damned, of course I wanted some pie.

You haven’t lived until you’ve tried the pecan pie at Leatha’s. I’d happily spend eternity rolling around the third circle of hell with the rest of the gluttonous if only I could have a whole pie to myself. It’s that good. With a flaky, buttery crust and golden pecans suspended in syrupy goo, it has a taste that I can only describe as warmth. I still remember the first time I tried it, not long after I moved to Mississippi for grad school. Like an amateur, I ordered the barbecue chicken plate which, though very good, pales in comparison to Leatha’s rich, savory ribs and pulled pork—but that was a lesson for another day. That night, I was comfortably full and ready to enjoy a warm, lazy Southern evening when I heard those magic words, “You’ll be wanting some pie.”

The thing was, I really didn’t want any pie, and, after eating half a barbecued chicken with a full complement of sides, I sure as hell didn’t need it. For whatever reason, I nodded my assent and after that nothing was ever the same again. Original sin, that pecan pie. Once I knew of its existence, I could never un-know it. It was my apple, my forbidden fruit. Expel me from the Garden of Eden, fine, whatever. Do what you will, but the pie comes with me.

“The crust, it’s so…perfect. It must have a lot of butter in it,” I hedged, picturing my internal calorie counter pulsing red, the sirens blaring like a nuclear reactor going into meltdown. The waitress laughed loudly enough to shake the walls of Leatha’s ramshackle barbecue paradise.

“Bless you’re heart, sugar, that’s lard.”

Bless my heart, indeed.

No one does sin like the Deep South, especially where food is concerned. Let’s be clear on that. Something about the way the humid steam that passes for air captures a scent and holds it close, so that the smell of barbecue, or whiskey, or smoke lingers. It’s a place that demands immersion, surrender—a land that lets your id run wild and succumb to your basest desires for salt and bread and fat and more. Always more. Have a drink, then have another—steamy evenings in the Deep South never end. Everyone knows that.  Guns and butter are revered with the fervor of the saved, and the most egregious sins of the flesh involve the sheer amounts of it that are fried or slathered in sauce and consumed after church on Sunday. The degree of indulgence would make Caligula blush and your cardiologist tremble. Eat to the point of pain and then have just a bit more. We’re talking temptation and decadence and surrender to culinary delights so dangerous that you may need a safe word. Or at least some beta-blockers.

While we’re on the subject of sin and barbecue, I would be remiss not to mention my own brush with the devil while traveling through the lonely town of Clarkesdale, Mississippi. Like the legendary blues man Robert Johnson, I too found myself down at the crossroads of 61 and 49. Legend has it that, in a fit of Faust, Johnson made a deal with the devil and exchanged his soul for musical prowess and, some say, a guitar strung by Satan himself. It was a deal that gave birth to the blues, and I was curious to see where it all went down. Instead of meeting the devil at the crossroads, however, I was greeted by Abe’s Barbecue Drive-In.

After touring the Delta Blues Museum, I was the sort of hungry that can only be satisfied by a lot of something, and nothing sounded better than barbecue. Abe’s didn’t disappoint. The restaurant, which was, interestingly, founded by a Lebanese family in the 1920s, serves up piles of meat drenched in a rich, tangy tomato-based sauce that I would happily drink. Apparently, Abe’s also serves tamales—great ones, I’m told—but there was nothing getting between me and that barbecue. The smell of this place alone is irresistible enough to send the staunchest vegan tumbling off the back of the tofu wagon: liquid fat crisping pork skin over a low, smoky flame for hours and hours, rendering charred black bones and tender flesh.  If the Devil had a dinner party, you can bet that Abe’s pulled pork would be on the menu with buckets of sweet tea and Robert Johnson singing the blues as we all settle in for a nice, toasty evening.

Though Southern food is sinful enough on its own, in order to truly be a heathen you must partake of Dixie’s finest libations. While living in Mississippi, I learned three important lessons about drinking in the South. The first came courtesy of a poet named Miranda, who cautioned that, “moonshine doesn’t mix.” She’s right. The second is that, below the Mason-Dixon line, the preparation of a mint julep has been elevated to an art form. The third, and perhaps most important bit of wisdom I gleaned while living in the Magnolia State, is that bourbon goes with everything.

One of my best memories of grad school is of a road trip to Oxford with my Southern literature class. We stuffed ourselves with the best po-boys this side of New Orleans and then trekked over to the local cemetery where we drank a fifth of Gentleman Jack while sitting around William Faulkner’s grave. It was the witching hour when my friends and I settled ourselves on the steps surrounding the author’s plot, which was littered with offerings to old Bill’s drunken spirit: cigarettes and lighters and bottles of booze. We poured a splash—just a splash—of bourbon on his headstone in deference to that great man of letters and in the pearly moonlight, amidst the mossy cypress trees and cold gray headstones, we remembered Faulkner (who was, by many accounts, quite the bastard) in his own words.

Everyone had a different beloved passage, remembered with a clarity that some people recall Bible verses. For Jennifer, it was a line from The Sound and the Fury (that seems particularly apropos to the topic at hand): “I’m bad and I’m going to hell and I don’t care. I’d rather be in hell than anywhere you are.” For Dan, it was shouts of, “Caddy! Caddy! Caddy!” as the ever-lighter bottle of bourbon made its way around our misfit crew. And then there was mine, a quote from Shreve in Absalom, Absalom, my personal favorite: “Tell me about the South. What’s it like there. What do they do there. Why do they live there. Why do they live at all.” It’s a deep question to wrestle with, but the night was long and we had plenty of bourbon.

The following night was cold, and we were on a witch-hunt in Yazoo City. We brought flowers from Eudora Welty’s garden in Jackson to place on Willie Morris’s grave, but we had trouble finding it. We wandered around the cemetery for an hour or so, passing around another bottle of bourbon. There was no moon that night; liquor and excitement were the only things keeping us warm. The bourbon tasted like smoke and fire and oak, with a devilish hint of sweetness. It gave me the feeling of being lit from within. My friend Fred ran between headstones with the spring of a gazelle, and we finally found the small monument dedicated to the beloved children’s book author. Not far from it rested his greatest creation, the Witch of Yazoo City, her long tombstone cracked in two and surrounded by broken chains, her wicked spirit freed.

I enjoyed many such weekend excursions throughout Mississippi and the Deep South, led into temptation time and again by the delectable local specialties. Crawfish season is never long enough, and I now find myself craving the tender, spicy bites of those delightful little monsters all year round. And don’t even get me started on Mardi Gras. The road to hell surely travels right down Bourbon Street, and I must confess to eating King Cake for breakfast every day for the duration of Carnival season. The doughy cake with white icing and bright bits of citrus is a slice of carbohydrate heaven, and I prayed at the altar of C’est La Vie bakery every morning, promising to repent my sins at the gym after the damage was done. Laissez les bons temps rouler, and all that…

Southern food is simply too good to be resisted, and I certainly didn’t put up much of a fight. There’s a reason why it’s called soul food; the flavors get into your blood, your marrow, feeding your spirit. And your ass, but that’s another matter entirely. Of all the culinary demons residing in the South, though, the one with whom I transgressed the most is the Archangel Canola, the creator of fried things. And how. From po-boys in New Orleans to catfish in Biloxi and fried chicken everywhere in between, my desire to sin with Southern-fried favorites was exceeded only by the opportunities to do so. However, none of these foods (not even the pie!) inspired my lust like the seemingly-humble fried green tomato.

The first time was an accident; we were at the Crescent City Grill and I agreed to split an order of fried green tomatoes to be polite, but I was skeptical. My friend, born and raised in Arkansas and Southern to the bone, made a case for them while we waited for our order.

“Are they really green? Like a tomatillo?” I asked.

“Yes, they’re really green. But not like a tomatillo. They’re just picked early.”

“So they’re not ripe?”

“Well, no, I guess not. But when they’re fried, the flavor mellows. You’ll see.”

I doubted that. At the time, I still wasn’t on board with regular tomatoes. I didn’t like the seeds, the wetness, the watery flavor. I imagined that our forthcoming order would be a soggy mess, and I was glad that I had also ordered the gumbo, a new discovery. I didn’t have high hopes for those fried green tomatoes. I’ve never been so wrong.

They were magnificent. The tomatoes were just soft enough to give beneath the crispy golden coating and they were tart in a bright, surprising way. It’s the avarice-inspiring sauce, though, that makes them truly sinful. In an act of voodoo that makes the dish nothing short of transcendent, the fried green tomatoes are topped with sautéed shrimp, mushrooms, and a spicy creole buerre rouge that is so good you’ll want to lick the plate. The result is sublime, and even now I would do very bad things to get my hands on those tomatoes.

The fried green tomatoes at the Crescent City Grill really are extraordinary, and for a long time I remained faithful to them. Sure, I strayed occasionally when another restaurant’s version sounded particularly appealing (I’m only human), but they were never as good as the ones served by the Crescent City Grill, where my friends and I wiled away many an evening at the restaurant’s Mahogany Bar after our seminar classes and writing workshops. We drowned our sorrows and fed our souls in the bar’s ivied secret garden, worn-down grad students seeking the comfort of our vices: cigarettes, alcohol, and all manner of tempting menu items. Among my friends, favorites included Creole nachos with crawfish and fried jalapeños, oysters grilled on the bar’s patio, and vast quantities of seafood gumbo. For me though, it was always the fried green tomatoes.

My loyalty to the Crescent City Grill’s fried green tomatoes wasn’t truly tested until a recent adventure to Monroeville, Alabama. My friends and I were on a literary pilgrimage to the hometown of Harper Lee (and childhood haunt of her best friend and next door neighbor, the ever-wicked Truman Capote) to visit the courthouse where Lee set her novel To Kill a Mockingbird and poke around the archives. After taking pictures in the courthouse and visiting the ruins where Capote’s family home once stood, we headed to a restaurant recommended by a local. It’s called Radley’s (as in Boo) Fountain Grill, and once we were seated the waitress told us about a sandwich that is surely the devil’s handiwork.

“It’s called the BLT Supreme, and it’s on a list. 1000 Sandwiches to Eat Before You Die,” the waitress.

My traveling companions and I looked at each other. Whose list? Did it really matter? If someone thought highly enough of a sandwich to put it on their culinary bucket list, it probably deserved our attention.

“What’s on it?”

“Well, it’s like a BLT, except with fried green tomatoes, bacon, and remoulade sauce on a croissant.”

We were sold, naturally, and the sandwich didn’t disappoint. There’s something extra-sinful about fried food being served on bread, and I swear the tartness of the tomatoes brought out the buttery richness of the toasted croissant. The tomato slices were big, with patches of verdant green peeking through crispy deep-fried coating. There was a chewy saltiness to the bacon and the whole thing was held together with a spicy remoulade, which is basically mayonnaise and Cajun spices living in sin. It was so good, so decadent, and if it were the last sandwich between me and eternity, well, I’m okay with that.

Writing by Courtney Watson has recently appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review (online), 100 Word Story, One Forty Fiction, and more. She has also previously been published by The Inquisitive Eater. She is an Assistant Professor of English at Jefferson College of Health Sciences in Roanoke, Virginia.