After a few weeks working with the experienced Arkansas food pro, photographer Grav Weldon shares a hidden secret. And there's pie. Oh heavens is there pie.
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Friday, July 30, 2010
Hidden Pie at the Jenny Lind Country Cafe.
Labels:
Arkansas food,
Arkansas Pie,
Butterfinger pie,
buttermilk pie,
Classic Eateries of the Ozarks and Arkansas River Valley,
Gate Nine,
Gatewood,
Jenny Lind,
Jenny Lind Country Cafe,
pie
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Yes, the pie is really that good.
I kept watching for a bit, as more people arrived. By ten til there were more than a dozen, and a minute before eleven a couple of big vans pulled up. I realized my discretion at having parked so far away may have been ludicrous, so I went ahead and headed in.
The interior was comfortable, an old style storefront, one of the last remaining on the stretch of street bypassed by the highway some years back. Giant glass-front cabinets occupied two whole walls of the front room, and a significant barback with mirror graced the third. The tables were wooden topped cast iron affairs, and they were all dotted with hungry folks eyeballing the pie list. The cases held items for sale, like jams and home crafts and figurines.
My waitress flitted by like the breeze, taking orders from a nearby table of seven before sweeping over and delivering a menu to me. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized almost breathlessly. “Do you need a minute?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Need a drink?”
“Iced tea.”
“Sweet or un, hon?”
“Un, no lemon.”
She smiled and moved on to the next table, handing out menus to the three ladies there and soaking up drink orders. Then she disappeared into a hidden section of the restaurant.
Not that there weren’t people who gave up. I saw twice where groups of four to six came in, took one look and left. Their loss. There were a dozen people waiting in the front of the restaurant, and it looked like there were a good number of people outside, too.
“The Keo Klassic. Oh, and could you describe your caramel pie?”
“It’s a burnt sugar custard under meringue. I like it.”
“I’ll have that too.”
She grinned and turned to the next table to pick up its order. The pie had been a hard choice. The coconut pie at Charlotte’s has been ranked the top coconut pie in the South. Well, other people had talked about that. Then the chocolate -- well, I’ve had an awful lot of chocolate pie in my life. I love egg custard, too, but I hadn’t had a caramel pie before. I wondered if it’d be like butterscotch. I promised myself if I managed to make it through the repast I’d already ordered that I’d ask for a piece of egg custard, too.
My eyes were drawn to the delivery of a chocolate milkshake to the group table across the way. The tall glass screamed of dairy delights. It was the first dessert I had seen pass that morning, and it made my stomach rumble. Most of the tables were packed with people nursing beverages and none of the tables had real food yet. But that was fine, since most of the tables were abuzz with conversation.
It’d taken 15-20 minutes just to get that drink order and here it was 11:30 and I was really starting to feel hungry. I heard the hostess, Kimberly, taking orders over the phone. There seemed to be just as many call-in orders as eat-in ones, and I couldn’t imagine just how busy that kitchen must have been.
I just marveled -- all those people waiting, all the ones already seated wanting food, what kept them there? Was the reputation of the place really that good, or was it the food? For heaven’s sake, it was a Tuesday morning -- not necessarily the busiest time of the year, eh?
Kimberly came over and bussed the table next to mine as she took an order on the phone. My eyes wandered back over to the specials board, which was advertising a Fresh Fruit Plate with watermelon, strawberries, grapes, pineapple, bananas, cantelope and poppy seed dressing with a choice of chicken salad, tuna salad or cottage cheese and garlic biscuits to boot for $8.25. I was starting to see this special speed by me on its way to other tables.
In the back, it’s a different story, where the big tables reserved early on were being served. The noise level never dipped, conversations continuing in-between bites of sandwiches and salads and of course the inevitable pie.
Mere moments later my plate arrived, and I looked up at the waitress guiltily. She just smiled. I’m sure I’m not the first person who’s passed through the doors at Charlotte’s and eaten dessert first.
I was halfway through the first half of the sandwich, and watching the line up front. One of the waitresses announced “be sure when you get through the door you get your name on the waiting list.” You wouldn’t think of reservations for a down-home establishment like Charlotte’s, but it really is that popular. I heard my waitress tell the table next to mine that a church group of 22 had come in and had stalled up the orders a bit. The ladies at that table waved her off, not concerned about the time it had taken to receive their order. Time’s not a big issue for most diners here, I came to find.
“Egg custard, please. To-go.”
It’s amazing to me that such a humble place receives that sort of attention. I should have expected it -- after all, when I mentioned on Facebook that I was in Keo there was a collective swoon of pie lovers. But nothing prepared me for the volume of people I would see pass through those doors.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Dinner on the farm.
We took a mule-drawn carriage back to the main area and proceeded to the back of the house, where people wandered about gawking. My Yankee husband had to find some place not to melt in the 100 degree heat, so we followed others into the basement of the home, where the AC was on high and the company was friendly.
I left him there and did my usual curious gawking through all four floors of the structure. The lovely suite above the roof with the beds for the children was charming. I laughed at the Romanesque statue with the fedora in the master bath and marveled at the kitchen wing, airy with three sides of windows and a gigantic island. I want that kitchen.
We struck up a conversation with a couple next to us, and discovered that they were involved in the Heritage Poultry project. Fascinating, what you discover about things. We discussed my unfortunate pork allergy, and how genetic blandness and lack of deviation might be to blame (I still have no idea a certain cause to my allergy, just that I don’t have the same allergy for wild boar). The Moores (I hope I heard their names correctly -- it was loud and hot!) are out of Fort Dodge and had come down the night before from Lee’s Summit, MO for the event. They shared Iowa talk with my Iowa-born husband and I shared places they could visit in Arkansas.
The local bluegrass group Runaway Planet struck up and entertained us with ancient favorites from our state, completing the feel of the farm. I could hear toes tapping under the conversations around me.
Our dining companions were telling us about the chicken for the main course. Chef Joshua Smith (the chef from America’s first farm-to-table restaurant, Local Roots Café, had already told us about the savory preparation we’d be experiencing -- heritage farmed chicken that had been brined, grill charred and then baked at 200 degrees for four hours with potatoes from gardens on the ground, locally grown corn, leeks and onions from the garden on site. It sounded fabulous. When asked where this chicken came from, our companions were not just able to tell us where the chicken came from (a specific heritage farm just outside of Kansas City) but what sort of bird we’d be eating (a breed called the Jersey Giant).
The quickly emptied bowl sat there for a few minutes, and we mentioned to each other how we wish there were more. Like genies out of the darkness waiters appeared at our elbows with more bowls and more bird, more to share and lust over. I guess I went kinda crazy. Though the heat had previously zapped me and curtailed my appetite it had risen with the cooling winds and I found myself with more meat on my plate. I think my total came to a couple of thighs and three legs, three long legs you’d never encounter at a grocery store, almost as long as turkey drumsticks. Yes, my friends, the chicken was that good.
And I got more. A few minutes after everyone had been served the wait staff came around again with another round of the same dessert. Was I good? No, I was not. I consumed a second one with vigor and happiness. It was excellent and I would easily order it again.
The evening was waning. I was surprised to consult my timepiece and discover it was after 10 p.m. Unfortunately, our childcare time had run out and we needed to return home. We made our salutations and headed back out across the field to our vehicle. As we pulled out onto the gravel road that would lead us back to civilization, fireworks popped in the air behind us, white and pink and accompanied with the appropriate contented sighs of a well satiated crowd.
Yes, it was hot. I found that my dress had become somewhat plastered to my skin by sweat, and I know I wasn’t the only one. But the concept was sound, the meal was excellent and the setting was beautiful.
There will be another chance for you to enjoy the experience coming up this October. I bet it will be absolutely perfect. For more information, keep an eye on P. Allen Smith’s website.
Labels:
arkansas,
blogsherpa,
cuisine,
culture,
dinner,
festival,
fried green tomatoes,
heritage poultry,
p-allen-smith,
the-south,
usa
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Grapes betwixt my toes.
I make no bones about it; I’m a rather large fan of the homegrown small town festival. There’s something about walking amongst people who have grown up together, lived together, enjoyed life together that brings out the best in a community. Far better than the open alleyways of carnival barkers at fairs or rubbing elbows with the hoi polloi at high class society events for me.
One that holds a special place in my heart is the Altus Grape Festival. Held each year on the town square in the belly of Arkansas Wine Country, it’s an unassuming little festival dwarfed by bigger things on the calendar (this year, by the World Championship Cardboard Boat Races in Heber Springs). But it’s very special, and this year I’m going back.
I’m no stranger there. Many times have I parked my car along the square in Altus or in grass in a nearby lot, gotten out of the car and stretched and headed for the action. Action, in this case, takes place mostly on a single city block separated from Highway 64 by a small access road. Altus City Park is a nice piece of land, dotted with trees on its south edge and outlined with little community streets and buildings. There’s a gazebo, and across the street on the south side you’ll find Kelt’s, one of my favorite pubs in the world. Considering where I’ve been across these United States, that’s saying something.
The trick is to go early in the morning and make a day of it. The festival activities all get started Friday night around 5 p.m. and last all day Saturday. I like to go early Saturday morning, leaving the house before daybreak and arriving while there’s still dew on the grass, while everyone’s still waking up and getting about putting out their wares and their samples and stuff for the day.
There’s always grapes, even in spare years like 2007 when the late rain and freezes knocked back the crops to almost nothing. There are muscadines, big thick skinned Arkansas grapes that make you pucker and drool. I love muscadines with an eerie passion, recalling the days when finding a vine out in the woods meant not just quick joy but months of jelly at the table. There are always baskets of both for sale, from pints to quarts to half bushels if you want them. It’s prime picking for folks who want to put up their own jams and jellies or who want to try their hands at winemaking.
And the samples… the wineries have them, and plenty of them. While the cups are small, I’ve never seen anyone forced away from the counter, and I’ve sampled many myself.
And there’s the grape stomping, of course. It’s part of the Bavarian tradition, the same that brought the ancestors of the Post and Wiederkehr families across the ocean to settle in these rocky crags north of the Arkansas River. Close to two centuries ago the first settlers came through the River Valley and sent back word of the black soil, the strange temperance of the hills, the endless sunlight. The families came and took root here -- and through the generations those family ties have remained strong. A few years ago I was speaking with Joseph Post about the phenomenon, and he pointed out to me that there were family ties between all the wineries, some by blood and others by marriage.
But I was talking about the grape stomping, which usually takes place on a stage where the world can watch you. I’ve watched with envy the fun the participants have in the endeavor, no sense of shame holding them back from rolling up their jean legs and dancing around like purple-tinted banshees in the tubs. I’ve watched, but never joined them. Something kept telling me that there’s a sense of propriety that every television producer should have, to not become part of the story. So I abstained.
I realized something this year, though. I’ve been out of that medium for a while now. I’ve shared my experiences and explored this state and points beyond with relish, and the fears I had about embarrassing myself are long gone. So yes, I’m going back to Altus this year. And I’m going to join the dance where the juice dribbles between one’s toes. I’m going to the grape stomp, and I will do it without inhibitions. Because there’s a comfortable place you can find in the little burg of Altus, and this festival represents every piece of that comfort. Go, enjoy it.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
12 Hours in Dinerland.

I was working on assignments for a couple of my publications. It was late. We’d been run out of Joe’s Italian Restaurant, my friends Grav and David and I had been, after spending hours catching up together. We arrived around 10:30, picking up after parking our cars where we’d left off after boarding our vehicles and heading up Rogers Avenue. The lot was crowded but that was okay, there was parking next door. We walked right in and headed to the only free booth big enough for the three of us, back in the left-hand corner.




Benson’s reminds me of my college days, spending time in a diner and pissing the night away while enjoying the company of friends. It got rowdy from time to time, but never too much, and there was always someone standing on the other side of the glass from us, lighting up. As we reminisced, the restaurant filled and emptied around us a couple of times, like the tide and the stages of the moon.

We finally broke up about 1:30 that morning, having had one of those great seven hour conversations you don’t get many times in your life. We’d enjoyed it in the orange-and-brown interior of a kitsch loaded restaurant that smelled of grease and bread, and it had been fine.


I knew I didn’t have to worry about missing breakfast, though. Benson’s offers its entire menu, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. When I once again darkened the doorway it was at the end of the breakfast rush, a little before lunch rush would begin, and I had my choice of places to sit. I decided to take one of the little two-person booths. I also knew I didn’t want coffee. I hadn’t drank that much coffee in ages, and my stomach ached from the abuse.
I did know what I wanted, though, and when my waitress came over I didn’t even have to look at the menu.
“What’ll you have, hon?”
“Chocolate milk. And sweet potato pancakes.”
“One, two or three?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you want one pancake, or two, or three?”
I thought for a moment, then decided to split the difference. “Short stack. Two.”
“All right! Won’t be long.”

The crowd had changed. There were more professional sorts, some blue collar folks, They were here to grab a bite before heading somewhere to accomplish something. I’d been there a good 20 minutes before someone went and leaned on the jukebox and dialed up a tune. Heart’s Greatest Hits, I’m guessing, Barracuda followed by Crazy On You. There was a steady stream of customers who washed up to the register to pay up before sliding out through the foyer and into the real world.

A few minutes later the restaurant was all but empty. The ebb and flow of customers had reached low tide, and except for one booth’s worth of people on the far side of the place and a couple of folks at the bar, it was quiet. I picked up my camera and took a few shots here and there.
The waitress looked back over at me. “What are you doing?” “Just taking some photos. It’s what I do.”





Labels:
arkansas,
blogsherpa,
cuisine,
culture,
diner,
food,
fort-smith,
pancakes,
the-south,
usa
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