The South, while bad when it comes to politics, ain't bad when it comes to food. On a road trip from D.C. to New Orleans, my friend Hilary and I (yes, it has one "L" --it's the "right way," she'll tell you-- though she's much resigned to having it miss-spelled for the rest of her life thanks to our next president) took in a lot of American landscape, American culture, and American food. While we kept our driving snacks to rice cakes, kashi bars, fruit, and the occasional Swedish Fish, there was no stopping us once we made it to our destination. Not that we pursued a taste of another uniquely American quality, the Obesity; no, we just wanted the best of each town, and in some cases, the obesity just happened to be sprinkled on top. (See exhibits A, B, D, E, and F).
A. Roanoke, Virginia
Totally civil, right? Well technically, VA is a Mid-Atlantic state, and also for lovers. Anyways, we exercised restraint when the dessert menu came after the most surprisingly authentic and satisfying Indian meal (Indian aficionados, we are... the place was Nawab, if you ever find yourself in Roanoke). I neeeeeded rice pudding, and the gulab jamun was calling out too but no, we promised, in an effort to taste (literally and figuratively) as much as we could of each city we passed through, to get dessert somewhere else. And we did: three desserts, each $2, and each packed with flavor that there tinyness would belie. At the bar, looking down onto Cafe Metro's mesmerizing open-kitchen, we were served these three little wonders: Irish Crème Brulee, a Banana Bread "Twinkie," and Chocolate cake with sour cherries, the most sophisticated, diverse, and confidently executed desserts that $6 could buy.
B. Asheville, North Carolina
This night we splurged ($80/night) on a hotel that had wireless internet AND a deluxe breakfast. It doesn't get fancier than that in Asheville, unless you're G.W. Vanderbilt, in the Biltmore Estate (divine!), in the Gilded Age. While very well advised in Roanoke (Nawab was the Days Inn Registrant's suggestion), we seized the free wireless as an opportunity for due diligence, and after considering others, decided on a Caribbean restaurant called Salsa's for dinner. Above is our appetizer- a trio of salsas we selected from a list of about 8. They were: Pineapple Salsa (upper right of the peace sign), Guacamole, and on the left, Banana Nut. Anyone who knows anything about my eating preferences would be able to tell you that I would love this; I simple believe that there is no -nor has ever been- so great a union, I repeat, EVER, than that of sweet and savory. Not the Stars and Moon, not the North and Confederate South, not even Brad and Angelina. I'm a chocolate covered pretzels, pineapple on pizza, pad-Thai kind of gal, and could not have asked for a more consummate materialization of sweet and savory, than the one you see above.
C. Charleston, South Carolina
Call the press, ring the alarm, do whatever you need to do to alert others that the world has just been dramatically improved. This is my blog, right? Thus, I shall let my self-centeredness go forth unabashed, burning holes in the humble persona you know.
You don't understand what a big deal this is for someone who, for their entire adult life, looked with envy (and slight disgust... not gonna lie) at those who cared not that the anatomy of what they ate could hardly be deciphered and cared not that in a single bite they would be ingesting the entire body of an animal. When I learned that there is a correlation between intelligence and willingness to explore foods, I denied it ardently, but secretly cursed my food prudishness as an impediment to reaching greater intellectual potential. Well, to those who've justified their gastronomic cowardice with arguments like "there's just something more humane about just eating its breast, or leg,” I must say that besides having an embarrassingly faulty argument, you have lost a disciple. I now eat mussels. This wasn't my first time- I tried one before, but it was tiny, and almost swaddled in bread dipped in the broth it was served in. The texture just about killed me. But on this occasion, a new leaf was turned. On New Years, I resolved that I would at least try all the foods that historically I refused to, and that never again would I hear the words "Just try it!" from my super cool, will-try-anything little siblings. When the steamy mussels were set down before us, I followed through... only I couldn't stop. I just wished my siblings were there to gasp with surprise, then applaud my new found adventure.
D. Savannah, GA
To me, like most of her viewers, Pawwwwla Deen is a friend. She's a nurturing figure; a grandma perhaps, whose house has a rocking chair on the porch, knitted blankets draped on the seat-backs of every couch, and always smells like apple pie. Well, in my pursuit of absolute comfort, we sought out the Lady and Son's, her restaurant in Savannah, and found nothing like it. Take Sizzler quality of food and ambiance (if you can even call it ambiance), and cross it with Disneyland scale and traffic control, and the result would be this restaurant. Shattered by the mystery casseroles featured on the stale $4.99-looking buffets that we passed as we followed the arrows to the elevator to the hostess who we hand our seating assignment on a yellow laminated card, I tried, in vain, to find something appetite whetting on the menu, tried to make light of where we were despite Hilary's repulsion. We were served the above; a garlic roll and a pancakey thing, each made 85% of butter, and agreed that while we wanted to leave, it would be rude to just then. We each ordered a side salad, and got the hell out.
Breakfast made it all better though; I had the moistest, soggiest breadpuddin' from a darling baking company we walked forever to get to. It had huge pieces of bananas in it, the top was crispy, and it was drizzled with caramel sauce. Delish.
E. Montgomery, Alabama
The ubiquitous breakfast food of pancakes, was, for some reason, impossible for us to find until we came to Montgomery. From day one, that's all we wanted for breakfast. We asked around, looked online, and the closest we came to pancakes in the previous 5 days of the trip was arriving at two restaurants within ten minutes after they stopped serving breakfast, and the waffle maker we enjoyed as part of the "Deluxe" breakfast at the hotel in Asheville. Then came Montgomery, when, as Hilary so aptly put it, we had the "Holy Grail" of breakfasts. The place was a former farmers market turned restaurant whose clientele seemed to have had their breakfast there everyday since it was desegregated; same booth, same order, same waitress, same $4 check. I had grits for the first time, and this prompted a vow to activism against any alternative oil production involving corn; if it isn't a sin to waste any of the grits making potential of corn by, say, using some of it for ethanol, than I don't know what is. The pancake? Heavenly. The price? Including the windex-tasting biscuits (a fluke, I'm sure), totaled $4.30.
F. New Orleans, Louisiana
Part of what made the culmination of this trip (3 days in New Orleans) so extraordinary, was that I got to experience it with Hilary, whose Mom is from New Orleans. To see this city of mythic hedonism through the eyes of someone who grew up there, and someone who's been there countless times growing up confirmed my preconceptions of the extent and authenticity to which the people there value leisure. The Dionysian, hedonistic electricity that runs through everyone I encountered there also runs through the food. Above, the hickory burger from Bob's; a local burger joint whose original location, destroyed by the storm, is mourned, but whose burgers Hilary's mom said haven't changed. Coated in a sweet and spicy hickory sauce and chopped white onion for a bite, each bite was explosive. The tang, the sweet, the onion, and the cheese on the seasoned beef was tantalizing, and while decently sized, ended entirely to soon.
Rounding out this culinary adventure were New Orleans' legendary beignets. The day that I was leaving to fly back to NY, Uncle Bubba, Hilary's great-uncle and perhaps the sweetest man I've met insisted that breakfast be beignets at Morning Call. Uncle Bubba, Hilary and I each had an order of three and a coffee for dunking, already sweetened and with milk. They were divine; firm on the outside, but light and pillowy, almost hallow inside with only sparse webbing. Imagine sitting in a hammock supported at each end by frolicking cupids, your weight suspended into a cloud, almost floating; eating these beignets is the closest you will get to that experience here on Earth. 
So, dear reader, you now understand my recent affinity for elastic waist pants. If the next time(s) you see me I'm trying to pull off sweat pants, have mercy, and go with it.
The South, while bad when it comes to politics, ain't bad when it comes to food. On a road trip from D.C. to New Orleans, my friend Hilary and I (yes, it has one "L" --it's the "right way," she'll tell you-- though she's much resigned to having it miss-spelled for the rest of her life thanks to our next president) took in a lot of American landscape, American culture, and American food. While we kept our driving snacks to rice cakes, kashi bars, fruit, and the occasional Swedish Fish, there was no stopping us once we made it to our destination. Not that we pursued a taste of another uniquely American quality, the Obesity; no, we just wanted the best of each town, and in some cases, the obesity just happened to be sprinkled on top. (See exhibits A, B, D, E, and F).
So, dear reader, you now understand my recent affinity for elastic waist pants. If the next time(s) you see me I'm trying to pull off sweat pants, have mercy, and go with it.
