Rhoda's Famous Hot Tamales and Pies Are Worthy of a Pilgrimage to Lake Village.

There’s been many a time I ended up on the doorstep of Rhoda Adams, the proprietress of a local establishment in Lake Village known as Rhoda’s Famous Hot Tamales. She and her husband James run this place on St. Mary’s Street, and you can smell it a block away, the smell of spices and fried things luring you off Highway 65 if you let it. If you don’t roll down your windows and never leave the highway, you’ll never find it.

10 Arkansas Dishes You Have To Try (and 11 More to Satisfy Your Natural State Cravings).

Arkansas food is starting to gain recognition outside of our state. But what dishes best showcase our unique cuisine? Here are ten dishes you absolutely have to try.

Classic Eateries of the Arkansas Delta - An Introduction.

The Delta is not a melting pot, like what was conceived of at Ellis Island for all the immigrants that came in at the end of the 19th century. Rather, with its waves of immigrants from Germany, Sicily, Italy, Greece, Mexico, China... it more resembles the mud of the Mississippi alluvial plain: soft, almost indistinguishable layers atop even more layers of French, English, African, Native American, a slurry of cultures tilled together on a land where the topsoil is 200 feet deep, where the fallow ends burn in fire and the people are sun scorched and swamp steamed, a vast sweeping flat broken only by the spine of Crowley's Ridge, all equal but struggling in the mire to eke out a good life.

Crowley's Ridge from Highway 14 near Weona, January 2014, sunset.

On this flat plain lies nothing but horizon and that ridge, which can be seen from 10 miles away, a punctuation for the eye of the traveler. Otherwise, the sweep of land is met with ditch upon ditch criss-crossing at perpendicular angles across northeastern Arkansas, while lower down the big fat swaths of the Black, Cache, White and Arkansas Rivers meet their conclusions pouring into Big Muddy, cut through with its oxbows and levees, hugging on Lake Chicot right before sliding out of The Natural State.

Fields north of Grady viewed from the Arkansas River levee,
August 2014.

On the far side from the Great River, a long cut runs south from Pine Bluff. Occluded by trees, Bayou Bartholomew marks an end and so many beginnings; once a furiously busy expressway for getting goods up north, it now sits swampish along the western side of the plain, butting up now and again with the first rise of the Ouachita Mountains and the undulating hills of the state’s Timberland region.

The fingers of the Delta stretch right up the Arkansas River to Little Rock – even to its State Capitol Building, which looks out on the long flat from the first rise in town, the first undulations of mountainous terrain behind it and on through the city’s Hillcrest and Heights neighborhoods.

To the north, the long endless plain knocks up against the first low ridge of the Ozark Plateau, just to the west of old U.S. Highway 67, its new expressway laying on the flat from Bald Knob on north, the roadbed only rising to clamber over the White River and the occasional overpass to where it still lays
incomplete, its original route still busy but quieter than its decades past, smooth and unbent up through to Pocahontas and the Black River, then calm again on its straight shot through Corning to the Missouri Border.

Sunset from Highway 49, just north of Louisiana Purchase
State Park, October 2014.

This is the land of the Arkansas Delta… still, after all these years, a harsh abode where the stubborn survive in rural towns and along endless highways. It is not romantic, nor is it the great fictional set of some extraordinary writer (though both Ernest Hemingway and John Grisham have found great inspiration here). It is the birthplace of two distinctive forms of music – the blues and rockabilly – and it has fostered generations of great musicians that have defined the offshoots of these styles, from the boogie-woogie to the jump blues, ragtime, hokum, country blues, Delta blues and blues-rock. Its native sons have included Levon Helm, Al Green, Louis Jordan – and daughters such as Sister Rosetta Tharpe. Its most notable resident may be a man who came from the Timberlands – though, considering his young age of immigration to the Dyess Colony with his family, many could argue that nature and nurture make Johnny Cash a pure Delta boy.

Woody's Bar-B-Q at Waldenburg.

On this long plain, cities still survive, tied together by highways pressed onto the fields, bridges fording swamps, most following the few paths that brought people across the expanse a century ago. Unlike in Classic Eateries of the Ozarks and Arkansas River Valley, you’ll find few places called “Hilltop” or “Cliff” or “Mountain.”

Jones Barbecue Diner in 1964, before the construction of a
second level.

Here, barbecue and catfish reign supreme and you’ll have a hard time finding a locally produced restaurant meal on Sundays. You’re as likely to find fans of the Red Wolves as you are Razorbacks – though some will grumble about how Arkansas State University was far better served by its old mascot, Injun Joe. Some years you’ll find the landscape

Cotton ready for harvest near Pine Bluff, October 2012.

dotted by cotton to the furthest horizon – corn other years. Rice soaks in flooded dyke-impounded cloisters that turn the landscape an impossible shade of green, winter wheat comes up bright neon lime; soybeans and peanuts deepen verdant hues, and pecan groves appear roadside as the miles click under your tires.

Lackey's Tamales at Smokehouse BBQ
in Newport.

Here is the heart of the Delta, secluded from Deep South ideals of southern cliché. It is the home to rice, ducks, minnows, catfish, crawfish, sweet potato pies and deep-seated thoughts on how tamales should be created. Its isolation from the demands of popular culture have left it authentic, southern with an Arkansawyer accent, a deep regard for what comes from the gumbo soil that everyone comes from, and at the end, to which everyone is returned.

***

I didn’t grow up in the Delta. I was forcibly introduced to it by circumstance.

As a child, I grew up between the wood-knitted environment of my parents' homegrounds in Clark County and the budding urban sprawl of Little Rock. Family vacations were invariably taken to the west, either north up to Jasper and Dogpatch U.S.A or south to Texas. There were summers spent in Hot Springs. My college years, I planted myself happily in Russellville, savoring my first stretch of adulthood in the River Valley, making those Scenic Highway Seven runs up to Harrison and back or down to the Spa City, summering along Lake Ouachita and venturing as far out as Fort Smith to meet and spend time with new friends.

The summer I graduated college, I threw my lot to the wind. I was a radio broadcasting major, and I was ready to cut my teeth beyond my Little Rock hometown and see where I would land. I sent out 90 cassette tapes and resumes to places as far away as Wisconsin, Michigan, New Orleans and St. Louis. 89 of these tapes, I assume, went to program directors and news directors at radio stations. The 90th tape went to a station called KAIT, which had placed an ad in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette for a news producer.

I didn’t know until I pulled up for my interview on a September day in 1995, that I had applied to a television station in far-off Jonesboro. I apologized to news director Harvey Cox for taking up his time. He asked me if I knew how to tell a story, and when I answered yes, he told me he was looking for storytellers, not “people who do TV.” That lead to three years on Crowley’s Ridge, in the largest city of the Arkansas Delta – which didn’t hold anything to the upbringing I’d had in Little Rock.

Sunset in Dumas, March 2014.

My eyes were open to many things those years: cattails in ditches, straight roads that suddenly darted at right angles to their next destination, sunsets that went on forever. Mosquitoes, oh gawd, the mosquitoes, and the mosquito-spraying trucks that went by at night; pulling catfish out

Pickles, peppers and such on the counter at Gene's
Barbecue in Brinkley.

of Lake Frierson; running through corn fields during a thunderstorm, taking shelter from an oncoming funnel cloud, or at least what looked like one; rummaging through flea markets and swap shops.

I was also awakened to a dining scene unlike what I’d left behind. While yes, I did try about every restaurant in Russellville in my time there, the fare was very much focused on the diner culture merged with a quiet college scene and rural, country tastes. Jonesboro offered something far different – especially in its wide array of Asian restaurants and its extraordinarily low food prices. In those three years, I sampled many a restaurant.

The lone Dog N Suds holdout in
Paragould.

KAIT was a great place to learn the television business, and I saw my happiest times there when I was working on its morning show. When I left work each morning, I would often head out in one direction or another to see what the world around me had to offer, sometimes driving as far as Walnut Ridge or Monette before turning back and coming home to sleep a few hours. When I really missed home or the curves of Scenic Highway Seven, I’d make a fast break up Arkansas Highway 141 to Crowley’s Ridge State Park and back, relishing the curves.

I left Jonesboro in September 1998, roughly six months after the terrible tragedy at Westside Middle School – the shooting of kids by other kids there the hardest blow to my young news seeking sensibilities. Though I visited a few times in the following year, it’d be another decade before I’d truly explore it again, and then it’d be something entirely different.

An old postcard for the still-operating Country Kitchen.

Through my eight years at Today’s THV (now THV 11) in Little Rock, I didn’t spend much time in the Delta. I was on hand for the opening of the new depot, the second part of the Delta Cultural Center, back in 2000 – and I crossed the Delta many times heading other places like

Mammoth Orange Drive-In in Redfield.

Memphis and Jackson and New Orleans. I even spent time in Pine Bluff. But until I left the station in 2007, I didn’t see much reason to get out and find what was there.

Shooting a plate of Rhoda's Famous Hot Tamales,
March 2011 (photo by Grav Weldon).

When I did, I learned a lot. This eastern third of Arkansas had plenty to explore – with its own separate ideas of identity and cuisine from the rest of Arkansas. As I got to know it better, I realized that it wasn’t like any other part of Arkansas – nor was it a mirror to Mississippi’s Delta region. Arkansas’s Delta had its own flavor and music.

After the success of Arkansas Pie: A Delicious Slice of the Natural State in 2012, History Press entrusted me to write a second book about the oldest restaurants in the state. The project got out of hand. When I realized that I was maybe halfway through with the book and well over my word limit, I contacted my editor and pleaded for a change – to make this overall effort into more than one book. 

The first, Classic Eateries of the Ozarks and Arkansas River Valley, came out in November 2013, and the reception was warm. Seems there’s a real desire by food lovers to find out not only where their food comes from, but where their food traditions come from as well.

Lunch at Kibb's BBQ, Pine Bluff.
Digitally manipulated photo by Grav Weldon.

Mind you, this isn’t a story about farms and family traditions – at least, not those straight from the garden plots. There’s an excellent book by my colleague Cindy Grisham that covers the home side of Arkansas Delta cookery called A Savory History of Arkansas Delta Food: Potlikker, Coon Suppers and Chocolate Gravy – and if you’ve interested in my new book, chances are you’ll want that one, too. This new book,

Elvis Presley had breakfast at The Coffee Cup in West
Memphis before reporting to Fort Chaffee to serve with
the Army.

Classic Eateries of the Arkansas Delta, contains the stories of the folks who feed us through their diners, cafes, coffee shops, tamale stands, barbecue joints, chicken places, catfish houses and homegrown restaurants throughout this wide swatch of the western side of the Mississippi River alluvial plain. It’s a guidebook for the epicurious – laid out along highways divided by the three sections of the Arkansas Delta – Lower, Upper and Middle.

It’s an effort to preserve this particular moment in the state’s restaurant history. This never became clearer to me than on a particular weekend in March 2014, when photographer Grav Weldon and I tackled the Upper Delta over a three day weekend. Restaurants that I had begun research on just a year earlier had suddenly closed up shop, in some cases completely disappearing from the landscape. More than two dozen of the restaurants originally intended for the book have evaporated into history. Classic Eateries of the Arkansas Delta notes an effort to save that history before it is gone.

Cotham's Mercantile at Scott.
Digitally manipulated photo by Grav Weldon.

The general criteria for the restaurants: they have to have made their mark on the culinary landscape and have been around 20 years or better. I have squeezed those guidelines a little – partially because of the passing of some restaurants from one culinary state or family to another. I've also included stories that aren’t specifically about restaurants – such as that of the Gillett Coon Supper, Duck Gumbo at the Wings Over The Prairie Festival and tales concerning the history of the Delta – because they represent bits of the food culture that can’t quite be replicated in a restaurant story.

I hope you enjoy Classic Eateries of the Arkansas Delta and utilize it in your efforts to familiarize yourself with the Arkansas Delta. The many weekends of research across its span have opened my eyes and drawn me into discussions I’d never thought I’d have about preserving and protecting this cuisine and these extraordinary spots on the food map.

Postscript:  When it came time to submit my manuscript, I was way over in length and had to cut something.  There were hundreds of nicks and tucks throughout the book, but I couldn't bear taking out the restaurants featured within, nor slicing through the narrative of highways and the stories of the towns throughout the Arkansas Delta.  So I did something different.  I removed the introduction to the book.  Rex Nelson's foreword was more than sufficient for covering most of the points I was trying to make.

Here, for your enjoyment, is that introduction in its entirety.

Conceptions About Arkansas That Are Wrong.

This is Arkansas.

I tend to get up in arms about things that the average human being considers trivial. And sure, there’s adequate support for not being concerned about our state’s chosen native dessert, or the location of the most incredible Arkansas doughnuts, or why someone got our most prolific and representative chain restaurants wrong.

Still, what’s a blog for but to celebrate the trivial and entertain the masses?

This is also Arkansas.

Recently, the real estate website Movoto – which, as far as I’ve been able to tell, doesn’t really have any other reason for posting these lists about Arkansas than to drive people to its site to purchase homes – created a new piece of junk called “10 Signs You’ve Lived in Arkansas 

This too is Arkansas.

Too Long.” Now, other than not being a really good motivator for individuals considering The Natural State to find a home (what are you doing, Movoto? You’re drunk, go home), it’s actually a pretty offensive piece of sputum that doesn’t deserve the wide dispersal it’s received across the Internet. In fact, it saddens me that such a purulent article has found its way to postings on many of my friends’ social media pages. Alas.

Yes, Frank Bonner's from
Arkansas.  No, we don't
dress like that.

So, Movoto, since you obviously dredged your information about Arkansas from ancient Southwestern Conference football program flyers, old Herb Tarlick suits and classic episodes of both the Beverly Hillbillies and Hee Haw, here’s some education for you.

A Southern Arkansas Mulerider (courtesy RantSports.com)

1. We did not all grow up, and do not all now speak, what you call “Hog Speak.” Nay, though many of us native to this state have rooted for the Arkansas Razorbacks, represented by that fine porcine beast, Arkansas also celebrates its other great schools and their mascots, including the Red Wolves, Trojans, Muleriders, Golden Lions, Boll Weevils and Cotton Blossoms, Wonderboys and Golden Suns, Bears, Reddies, Bison, Warriors and all the rest. Herb Tarlek may have carried around an Arkansas Razorback mug on WKRP, but his attire and attitude weren’t indicative of all of us.

Yes, there are many, many Razorback fans. But this “hog speak” is not practiced in schools by our children, nor is it common to just walk up to someone and ask them to call the Hogs. There’s a time and a place: in a football stadium, for instance. At a pep rally. In a bar full of sports fans, even. I hardly think you’ll hear “woo pig sooie” hollered in a communion or a movie theater. Hasn’t happened in the ones I’ve been to.

2. The Arkansas Delta tamale is not Mexican food. Honestly, bring a tamale from Mexico and serve it alongside one of the moist, fat-soaked tubular miracles from Rhoda’s Famous Hot Tamales or the hearty, beef-rich smooth and juicy packages from Pasquale’s Tamales. Heck, even alongside one of Lackey’s Tamales from Smokehouse Barbecue or a stack of golden marvels from Tamale Factory… they are as similar as Indian fry bread and Taco Bell.

Nay, immigrants and ethnic influences have elevated Arkansas’s Delta pride from a mere masa-cased meat-filled corn husk empanada to a sustaining, irresistible meal staple that, alongside duck and rice, marks the trinity of all that is holy in Delta foodstuffs. This writer apparently never journeyed west of the Mississippi into an endless plain broken by Crowley’s Ridge’s majesty, where roads run straight and sunsets last eternities. Better go learn about the history of the Arkansas Delta tamale before making such aimless assumptions.

3. Movoto’s writer decided to poke fun at the strong religious roots of many Arkansas families by posting this beauty:

The sign in question, by the way, stands hundreds of miles from our state’s borders. It’s actually located on I-65 in Alabama, between Birmingham and Montgomery. Way to check your facts there, Movoto (thanks, David!).

That's it. (Courtesy Shelli Russell)

There are signs encouraging church attendance, sure, but none of this sort. In particular, there is a longstanding sign in Benton that was once in a roadside field, now surrounded by homes and businesses, that simply states “WARNING: PREPARE TO MEET GOD.” Whether this sign was posted to welcome you to the Saline County burg or to inform you that God has made residence in the city, is open for interpretation.

The text that accompanies the photo, however, is equally as misleading. “You have lived here so long, that you hardly notice how, after just meeting someone, the first question they ask is your name and the second is what church you attend. It’s come to be expected,” the weblog says. Both are incorrect. Usually in a social setting, the first question is “do you require sustenance?” or, in some local vernaculars, “y’eet yet?”

4. The idea that randon gunshots have ceased to make natives flinch is misleading. There are times to flinch at gunshots, particularly when in the city or on a date. Certainly, the seasoned hunter waiting patiently in a tree stand for deer or sitting quietly in a duck blind fails to flinch when the first round goes off. But we aren’t so desensitized to hearing firearms as to dismiss them lightly.

Also, what is that, a pop gun? You can get a really good air rifle in Rogers at Daisy.

The insinuation that “most Arkansans own a gun or two, and sometimes they like to shoot at random things throughout the day” is incendiary, and is like to get you shot. Not all of us are big on firearms use. For instance, longswords and crossbows are the weapons of choice in my household.

5. While the term “coke” is regionally used to describe soft drinks, individuals in Arkansas are certainly smart enough to know that Coca-Cola is a proprietary brand name, and that Cokes aren’t made in flavors such as Pepsi, Monster and Minute Maid. In fact, while cola is consumed broadly throughout the state, we also celebrate the creation of fruit-inspired carbonated beverages Grapette and Orangette, developed by one Benjamin Tyndal Fooks in 1939. His multiple flavors also included Lemonette, Sunburst and Mr. Cola, and his sodas are the flavors generations of Arkansawyers savored in their youth. Grapette was so beloved by one man, Sam Walton, that the original recipe and name were obtained by Walmart and today you can find both it and Orangette on the shelves of the world’s largest retailer.

But as far as referring to those sweet carbonated beverages as “cokes,” you’ll find, is just as prevalent in Atlanta and New Orleans as it is here.

These states require purple paint tree posting.  Arkansas
allows for POSTED signs.

6. While purple paint is used to denote hunting lands in six states, in Arkansas it is more common to see the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission’s regulation that clearly states “Signs may be placed not more than 100 feet apart and at each road entrance. The signs shall bear the words “POSTED” and/or “NO TRESPASSING” in letters at least 4 inches tall. Signs shall be readily visible to a person approaching the property.” Many of these signs will bear the name of the hunting club or family that owns the land. To hunt in these areas, you need written permission – unless you are related to the landowner, in which verbal agreement will suffice.

Growing up and visiting relations in southwest Arkansas, it was not uncommon to see where properties met, a series of different colored paint blocks. These were usually white, yellow, blue, pink, or whatever color paint the landowner had left over after some project. Purple was unusual.

7. Very few individuals keep Dramamine, and it’s unlikely you’ll just “end up” on the Pig Trail. Arkansas Highway 23 is one of many extraordinary, gorgeous drives in western Arkansas, and during fall it’s knock-out magnificent. But happening upon it by chance and still choosing to drive it would be the driver’s decision. And anyone who’d usually choose to drive the stretch from Ozark to near Fayetteville would probably be used to its hairpins and curves.

Any of you remember climbing the tower at Mount Gayler
along US Highway 71?

Most people take I-49 up from Alma to Fayetteville these days for Razorback games. Its sweeping stretches provide grand views of valleys below, and there’s a tunnel (the only one in Arkansas), and the speed limit is 70 miles an hour. Those choosing a slower route usually opt for the Boston Mountain Loop of old US Highway 71, which once was crowded and sometimes dangerous but which now offers magnificent views, quaint shops and access to Lake Fort Smith State Park, a jewel itself.

Hunter loves the snow.  Taken in January.
Or June.  Or sometime in the past five years.

8. The idea that Arkansas is any more weatherprone than any other state in the nation is problematic. Sure, we have tornadoes, hot spells, cold spells, the occasional ice storm, infrequent cycles of cicadas and the potential to one day have an earthquake – but we aren’t bothered by hurricanes, volcanoes, blizzards, tsunamis, sandstorms, glacial shifts or swarms of bees. What we do have, we prepare for as best we can.

While living here means you might encounter an ice storm, a flood and a tornado in the span of a week and a half, it also means you get to experience all four seasons in their fullest splendor. And if you’ve ever experienced a gorgeous Arkansas October, you’d understand that.

Know why it's called a tourist trap? It
traps the tourists. Those would be folks from
not around here.

9. Of course we know about Booger Hollow. Every person who watched TV during the 1992 presidential election cycle knows about Booger Hollow. It’s a shame property ownership issues kept it closed after the 2006 season. But we also have the Little Rock River Market District, Hot Springs Bathhoue Row and – oh, yeah, Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. Focusing on one two-story bathhouse is just another attempt to paint us as a bunch of hicks.

10. The last point in this piece is the only thing you really got right.
Arkansas folks are friendly. We still talk to strangers, and we still try to help one another out. If that makes us uncivilized, well, your definition of uncivilized is different from mine. And if it’s a sign that we’ve been in Arkansas too long, then by golly, seems like a good idea to just stay put. When your writer decides to come visit and actually see what Arkansas is like, we’ll welcome her, too.

And this is also Arkansas.

Oh, and one more thing. Arkie – or Arky – can be considered a condescending term. Mind your manners when you get here, and keep language like that under wraps.

Lackey's Tamales Survive at Newport's Smokehouse BBQ.

We've talked about the Arkansas Delta tamale here at Tie Dye Travels... and the variant with the chicken fat influence as well.  What we haven't talked about are the Cajun-style chicken tamales that make up the third part of the tamale triumvirate here in Arkansas -- Lackey's Tamales.

Mind you, if you head up to Newport and start looking for a restaurant called Lackey's, you're not going to find it.  The restaurant that bore the name and a sign out front that proclaimed "Lackey's Cajun Style Hot Tamales" is gone gone gone.  Fortunately for you and me both, there's still one bastion of spicy tamale goodness out there... and it's at a little restaurant on the south side of town... a little quiet, diminutive place called Smokehouse BBQ.

We went looking for this place, Grav Weldon and I, on a stormy Friday night in March.  At the time, the name of the place did not come up in an Urbanspoon search (I've fixed that since), but the listing for Old Hickory BBQ did and I knew good barbecue was worthy on its own.

Upon entering Smokehouse BBQ, I was struck with how wooden it all seemed -- wooden panels that depicted a different sort of wood paneling donned the walls.  There were quite a few local folks inside.

We were told to go find us a seat, and a waitress brought out a thick menu with every sort of Southern delight thereupon -- a full slate of breakfast; barbecue plates of chopped beef and pork and pork ribs; Cajun and steak plates featuring Omaha steaks; tamale plates loaded with chili and cheese; Cajun staples of red beans and rice, gumbo and jambalaya; catfish and shrimp plates with lobster tail and crab leg add-ons; lunch and dinner specials and Happy Hour specials; chicken plates and salads and gator bites; burgers and po'boys and a Philly Cheesesteak and all sorts of things.  And in amidst the appetizers, the bright orange block proclaiming "Lackey's Tamales, Cajun-Style chicken tamales wrapped in corn husk" -- one or six or twelve to an order.

Grav had never had a Lackey's tamale before, and his fondness of Rhoda's and Pasquale's tamales kept his excitement down.  He was interested in the Cajun cheese dip and got it, but I got a word in and asked the waitress to bring him just one.  She admitted to me a heresy -- she doesn't eat tamales, since her dad used to eat the sort out of a can (the SHAME), but knew they were good -- and she went and retrieved the ordered items while we decided on dinner.

We had just about decided to split a big BBQ combo plate between the two of us when she set that tamale down in front of him and, after photographing the thing, Grav took a timid bite.  And then the damn thing was gone.  He even changed his order -- leaving me with a BBQ beef sandwich to choose and asking kindly for a half dozen more Lackey's tamales.

Mind you, he was pleased with the tamale -- something finally spicy enough for his tastes.  The less-greasy tamale (Rhoda does use chicken fat, as you should well know) that bore the Lackey name was packed with shredded chicken smashed together with a hell of a lot of spices, both Cajun and Mexican in flavor.  Combined with the masa, to me it had the flavor of a strong Frito chili pie.

Grav was just as enamored, if not moreso, with the cheese dip.  We discovered upon its arrival that it was packed with bits of Cajun sausage, which meant I couldn't touch it -- but he did.  Touched, swallowed, gobbled, licked the bowl -- these terms all apply to what Grav was doing to that bowl of cheese dip.  When he ran out of chips he dolloped it onto his tamales.  He sweated.  That sweat rolled from the top of his head to the neck of his shirt and he still could not get enough of it.  He lauded it, calling it the best cheese dip he had ever tasted.  He wiped his brow.  He ate more.  He inhaled those tamales and that cheese dip and would have rented an extra stomach if possible to be able to keep passing more of that spicy food betwixt his lips.

All of this amused me, of course.

Myself?  I had myself an order of fries and that jumbo barbecue beef sandwich topped with a dollop of cole slaw.  It came with very little sauce on it, which I augmented with more from the table squeeze bottle, its flavor somewhere a cross between the thick sweet sauce of Old Post BBQ in Russellville and the tangy touch of Sim's sauce from Little Rock.  This 'cue juice was thick as ketchup and on the orange side of brown and it stuck to the meat with fervor.

As well as it needed to... I have never before encountered such a coarsely chopped brisket for a 'cue sandwich... this one had chunks of still-barked beef upon it, the rind edge of the brisket, half an inch thick in places.  That is not to say this made the quality poorer; in fact, I was thrilled to be able to sink my teeth into brisket that resembled what came from my own kitchen, thick with hickory smoke and a touch of rosemary, a sandwich that made you feel like you'd actually involved yourself in the eating of it rather than just letting something soft slide down your throat.  The creamy slaw was the parfect accompaniment, a little creamy and big chunks of white-ish cabbage laid in a circle under the bun.

And so it was that at eight o'clock on a Friday eve, weary from fighting miles of storms on the highway, wearier still in the knowledge that our final destination for the evening was another 45 minutes up the road... that we each found the perfect meal awaiting us at this comfortable brown-clad building alongside the main drag south of downtown Newport.

But... I was talking about the tamales.  What happened to Lackey's?  Why did the restaurant disappear, and how did those tamales come to be on the Smokehouse BBQ menu?  It all goes back to Clint Lackey.  Now, Clint didn't actually come up with the recipe for the tamales -- that recipe came from a street vendor in town eons ago.  But the Lackey name came to be the one under whence those tamales were produced.  Used to be, you could get them at Lackey's restaurant and through the factory at Tuckermann, which sent tamales out to be sold in stores hither and dither.  The factory burned in 2012, though...

Seems along the way, Clint Lackey struck up a business with Scott Whitmire, and the two ran both the Lackey's restaurant and Smokehouse BBQ, before getting to run both was too much.  Clint ended up giving the business to Scott, and he's run it since.  The old Lackey's is now a bar on the other side of town, and the Smokehouse keeps the tradition and recipes going.

Now, you can't still get Lackey's in the grocery store (and from what Scott told me while we were checking out, I probably want to ditch the ones I found in my freezer that came from Argenta Market, since they're at least a couple years old) but you can still pick up frozen ones at Smokehouse to take home.  I think I am going to do that sometime soon when we need to share the tamale love with others.

We were getting ready to get on out of town and back on the road but got to talking a bit.  Smokehouse BBQ is decorated with a lot of things of interest, in particular a big saw that says "Catfish Country" as well as a cast iron frying pan of considerable size with the same motif -- and a big old fashioned cooking stove.  These belonged to Scott's grandmother (Grav says great-grandmother -- I may have heard that part of the conversation wrong), one Velma Fletcher, who is celebrated throughout the restaurant.  Miss Velma lived all her days in the same house, and only left it once she'd parted from this world.  Scott apparently takes great inspiration from her.

Now, if you were to go about finding Smokehouse BBQ, take the Waldenburg exit coming up from Little Rock and follow Highway 14 into town.  That becomes State Street if you stay straight at the four-way stop at Highway 17.  Take it up to Malcolm, which is also Highway 367, and turn left as if you were going to go downtown and over the White River bridge.  Smokehouse BBQ will be a little ways down on the right-hand side of the road.  The proper address is 601 Malcolm and the phone number is (870) 217-0228.  The menu photos are below.

Be sure to come hungry -- it's not hard to feed yourself and whomever on just a little cash -- and bring a cooler to take home tamales in.  We certainly will, next trip we're through.