Does This Bug You?

Captured in all its digital glory at the Cave City Watermelon Festival on August 8th.

Books, Grapes, Spaghetti, Fun.

Breaking bread together… it’s not just a turn of phrase. It makes sense. For millennia, man has sat down with other men for community, for friendship, for peace. World leaders do it. Church congregations do it. We meet over food for business gatherings and first dates. The idea of food and companionship is rooted in us as deep as the instinct to protect our young.Perhaps that’s why Arkansas’ food festivals are so important to us. They’re a chance to meet over food with a larger sample of the population; the enjoyment of the communal experience excites and inspires us.

And perhaps that can explain part of the reason why I found myself one Thursday in August on the interstate, heading to the state’s furthest northwest corner to sample the fares at the Tontitown Grape Festival. I’ve been before -- back in 2000, on a whim. I’d heard about the festival for years and drove up to check it out. Even as late as that date, Tontitown was clearly divided from neighboring Springdale; the shopping malls and gas stations stopped at the border in-between, and the next stop was St. Joseph’s Church.

Well, NWA has bloomed (that stands for Northwest Arkansas, for readers beyond this state’s borders). Blossomed into a heaving metropolis. And all sorts of businesses and restaurants and convenience stores now litter the way to St. Joseph’s… even a storage unit rental business with the cryptic message “she said yes” on its marquee.

But I digress.

This trip around, I came prepared… not just with appetite or curiosity, but with shopping bags. Yes, even I can be lured into the role of frantic consumer now and then.

I brought the bags along, just as I timed my visit in the 95 degree heat, for one special facet of the festival. I was also sure to bring my own containers of water, too; while water is sold at the festival, they’re really unconcerned what you bring in with you.

When I arrived, I was ushered towards free parking around back of the church, then left to my own devices. There’s no big sign with an entrance suggestion -- you just go in wherever you can. No fences here, except those around the carnival attractions to keep kids safe from machinery.

The festival booth was selling all manners of souvenirs such as aprons and t-shirts and commemorative cups. Free event books were also available, and cookbooks were out for $8 each.

I moseyed past the various vendors, selling all manners of items, such as onesies for babies with cute quotes, sunglasses, jewelry, votive candles and wooden key chains with your name written right there (they even had one with my daughter’s name on it, to my surprise). There were booths for both of the local papers, a couple of book signing tables, Sand Art, and spice mixes. All in the comfortable shade of the alley in front of the old church and complex.

But this too was not my destination. I smiled as I ambled past, taking in some of what was being offered around me but headed to my goal at the end of the row.

I entered the double doors of the old church and breathed in the mustiness… of thousands upon thousands of books… books that I could take home with me.

The Book Sale is a big component of the festival. For the rate of 50 cents for a hardcover or a quarter for a paperback, it’s a chance to stock up on reading material. This year around I was looking for kid books, and to my amusement I picked up such titles as “What Colonel Glenn Does At Work” (about his life as an astronaut) and “Behind The Headlines” (about the business of newspapers -- written in the 50s). I even found a neat kids book about how television works -- dated 1949!

I also picked up a history book, a cookbook, and a couple of novels, and packed the shopping bags I brought for the grand total of $2.75. Imagine that!

The old church has seen better days. There are water marks on the ceiling where the roof has failed, and some of the windows are boarded over. I overheard one of the volunteers lamenting that the book sale will move to another building next year. I hope that’s so the old church can be repaired. It’d be a shame to lose such a pretty example of turn-of-the-century architecture… turn-of-the-19th-to-20th centuries, that is.

See, the church and the festival have been around a long time. Italian immigrants settled here in the late 19th century. They farmed together, lived together, and broke bread together. They also, as you might assume, made pasta together. That’s how the festival got started -- as a day taken to celebrate the harvest. The “grape” part of the festival was added when the vineyards the immigrants started began to produce grapes.

Since the first celebration in 1900 (I’m guessing at that, honestly), the party’s grown from one day to several, and now it spans the better part of a week. There’s a fantastic history of how all this came about at the festival website. I wonder if the leaders who molded the festival to its current laid back schedule thought having a lot of the festivities at night was a good idea to escape the worst of summer’s heat, or because during the day folks were still working on that harvest. Who knows?

One of the big things that’s developed from the idea of that sit-down get-together is the Italian Spaghetti Dinner. We’re not talking small potatoes here.

When I emerged from the book sale and sauntered back down the row of vendors, I could see the end of the line that had formed for the dinner. It rolled back from the cafeteria hall back around past the front of the new church. People were just calmly standing in line, waiting for their chance to enter and eat.

Tickets are sold for the dinner, I’m sure to help folks keep track of who’s where and to keep there from being a bottleneck at the front of that line. They run $10 for adults and $5 for kids. And festival folks expect to sell 8000 of those tickets this year.

The wait wasn’t as long as I feared on that line -- about 10-15 minutes. No one seemed in that big a hurry. I suppose if they were they could always check out the Carry-Out line kindly offered on the side.

And the food was good -- a deep rich and slightly spicy sauce over pliant and tender noodles, with a couple of pieces of classic fried chicken, a green salad, a roll and about as much iced tea as I could handle.

I loved watching the volunteers -- the ones in the kitchen, sure, who were getting everything together in assembly line fashion, an efficient machine.

But there were also the volunteers out in the hall, who carefully and quickly cleaned up after each set of diners left, then held up fingers in the air to show how many spots were available at their location.

After dinner, it was off to the carnival.

This one was worthy of any county fair -- plenty of kiddie rides, a few scary ones that’d make me toss my cookies if I even attempted to board, a carousel, a Ferris Wheel, and plenty of carnies and games. The initial line for the carnival tickets stretched out quite a ways at 4pm, but by six things were running smoothly along.

I watched for a while -- the little girl who was more interested in petting a bunny than winning one, the young lady who was racking up big prizes popping balloons with darts.

Kids, kids, everywhere more kids -- and more babies than I’ve seen in a long time. Seems like there’s a bit of a baby boom around here.

Facing the several-hours-long drive home, I had to call it an early evening. Fortunately for others, this was just Thursday, and there were two more fun days full of books and grapes and spaghetti and games and rides and even more ahead.

If you’d like more information about the Tontitown Grape Festival, be sure to check out their website. And if you miss it this year, there’s always the next… and the next. After all, you just don’t stop doing something after 111 years.

Tunnel Vision.

Video of passage through the Bobby Hopper Tunnel on I-540 -- Arkansas' only interstate tunnel. Just south of Winslow, AR.

Lunchland: Bobby's Country Cookin'.

There’s something to be said about comfort food… something that draws in lines of folks that stretch around a packed restaurant before noon on a weekday. That’s what I found when I dropped by Bobby’s Country Cooking Friday -- a line that was backed up to the door at 11am.

Sweet, Cool, Free.

A perfect little break in the summertime heat... made better by a taste of heaven. That's my impression of the Cave City Watermelon Festival, the big annual event celebrating the World’s Sweetest Watermelons the second weekend of August.

I’ve gone many times. The first time, it was to try out those sweet watermelons on their own ground. I’ve returned again and again to enjoy the atmosphere; the laid-back late summer soiree in Cave City Park where folks take their time and all the watermelon you can eat is free. I actually toyed with the idea of skipping last year's festival, worried that the heat would be too much for a (then) five month pregnant chick to handle… but the night before the big event the heat broke, and instead of 100+ degree temperatures in the shade the thermometer bobbed along in the 80s.

When I arrived and parked, the car show was in full swing -- teenagers who’d fixed up their family cars sharing the exhibit space with professionals and weekend garage monkeys. As I made my way towards the center of the park, I noticed children clambering over the playground as parents watched from a distance, chattering among themselves. Older gentlemen were sharing stories over the tractor display -- some tractors out-aging even the octogenarians in the crowd. The wind kicked up a little, and there was an almost felt sigh from attendees who welcomed the movement.

At the festival pavilion, attendees were handed a Dollar General bag that contained a couple of pens and a Mardi Gras beaded necklace with a big Cave City Watermelon Festival medallion. There was also a program, sharing what was coming up in the afternoon. The sacks, I came to find later, were for those watermelon rinds... a good idea, for sure.

The crowd was starting to thin out a bit, as many of the festival-goers took off for lunch. Some headed on foot down to Sonic, a few blocks away and a major sponsor for the event. Others headed back to their cars to grab a bite of lunch from coolers and picnic baskets. And some brought money to eat on site. Several of the local churches were offering cheap eats -- like the $2.75 burger at the Free Will Baptist Church stand. Drinks went for $1 for bottled water and 75 cents for soda.

For the more adventurous, there were some true festival foods. One booth offered a plethora of fried foods -- fried green tomatoes, fried pickles, ribbon fries, sweet potato fries, sour cream fries, deep fried Oreos, deep fried Twinkies, and Apple Dumplings -- presumably also deep-fried. Another offered the almost impossible to conceive of combination of Reuben sandwiches and frog legs. There was also an Ozark Kettle Corn vendor and the inflatable ice cream stand.



A steady stream of visitors passed by the wagon bearing the winners of the watermelon growing contests. Big, healthy, shiny melons of varying colors bore familiar names --Penn, Patterson, Wooldridge, Perkey. There are six families that continue the watermelon growing tradition around here, and it's always a tight battle to see who can bring home the ribbons in any given year.

I wandered on and checked out the stands. Vendors were selling jewelry, t-shirts, toys, sunglasses, bags -- all sorts of things. These were mostly small business people from the area. Up towards the gate at the northeast corner, members of the Cruisadors (a chapter of the Arkansas Baptist Bikers Association) were handing out water to the thirsty for free.

I stopped by one of the bank booths (there were three) and picked up a welcomed fan. While the air was much nicer than previously expected, a good fan helped move the air a bit more.

Across the park, the fire department had sat up a dunking booth. The guy in the booth was trading jabs with a guy who hadn't been able to sink him on six successive throws. A family came up, paid for their balls, and a young boy started his aim from the youngster's line. He threw two balls in rapid succession -- and down went the victim into the drink. He came up from the water laughing, apparently pleased at the dunking, and congratulated the young man.

The crowd was growing under the trees, as families brought out their chairs and set up for the day. The Gaylon Sandefur Band broke into their popular song, "Chicken Truck on Highway 25." That one drew quite a few chuckles.

There aren't really any bad seats out on the lawn -- the park is set out well, with the bandstand placed on the edge of the natural bowl. The wind lolled through the crowd, bringing with it the ruffle of the air sock from the Sno-Cone concession, the scent of syrup and funnel cakes and fried onions, and the dull roar of a hundred different conversations. People would come out, set up their chairs and coolers, and then walk off -- completely unconcerned about whether someone might come along and disturb their possessions. There's a sense of trust that's assumed and sacred at these small-town festivals, and I am thankful for it.

There was a pause in the music, as James Mack Street took the stage for the quilt raffle. As the quilt was brought out for display, the audio guy played a pre-recorded announcement, thanking the sponsors for the event. And they do deserve that thanks -- unlike many other festivals, the Cave City Watermelon Festival is entirely free. The parking is free, the car show is free, the concerts and the contests and everything else -- everything, that is, except the vendor's wares -- but that's to be expected, these people have to make a living, after all.

I decided to wander around and catch a little more of the action. And I noticed that the refrigerated truck had arrived. I wandered up and joined the small crowd of people who were trading comments with the guys and boys gathered at the back.
Four o'clock was approaching, and the growers decided it was a good time to go ahead and open up. The crowd could feel the rush of cold air as the door was hauled open. Tables were set up in a "U" shape and accoutrements like plastic forks and table salt were set out.

The line was already forming, people anticipating the cool bounty about to be laid out. But there was no real rush. People continued their conversations. Some parents carried babies and toddlers on their hips or shoulders. Stories were shared.

Without much ado, one of the growers turned around and motioned at the boys who'd crawled up inside the truck. The boys started handing out melon after melon in a pass-line to the growers at the front. Three or four of them pulled out big clean knives and took to splitting the melons up quickly and efficiently in all sorts of sizes.

There was a stir to one side, where the first of the yellow melons had been popped open. The sweet aroma of melon was pervasive, but not too strong -- after all, this is watermelon we're talking about. The line moved steadily and swiftly, as people came up and grabbed their slice and went back to sit down and consume theirs. Some folks propped themselves up next to the nearby tractors to take in their share and be ready to come back for more.

I gratefully took a crescent-shaped slice of the yellow melon and wandered back through the line on my way to my seat. A couple of the guys were joshing with a boy who was wandering back to the concert field with three giant slices all by himself. The band had even sat down to enjoy melon themselves. There was a strange calmness, a feeling of fraternity out there on the field -- with the quiet sounds of munching and slurping and what-have-you. There were people sitting at pavilion tables carefully exhuming seeds with spoons, and a whole family munching and spitting the seeds a bit further down the way.

Me? I'm a flicker. I sat down in my chair, put my slice on my lap, and used my fork to flick away the seeds on the outside. You can spot festival veterans -- they’re the ones that bring wetted down washcloths in zip-top bags and paper bags for their laps.

All this watermelon -- and it's a lot of watermelon, dozens and dozens of the best of the crop -- is donated by the growers. All of it. Not a dime changes hands. They all work together, and get their selections up on the refrigerated truck. As far as I know, there's never been a watermelon-less festival, and if it keeps up this way there never will be.

Mr. Street got up on stage again to remind everyone to bring their rinds to the truck behind the bandstand and not throw them in the trashcans -- since 55 gallon drums of melon rinds would be far too heavy for the sanitation folks to handle. I had eaten my melon down to the rind, and couldn't resist tucking my fork behind my ear and going back for another slice. The back of the “rind truck” was already a third of the way full by the time I tossed in my contribution and headed back up to the line.

I'd been about 120 yards back when I joined the line, but less than five minutes later I was back at the front, and I picked up another colossal slice before heading back to my seat. I watched the melon auction as I enjoyed the second slice. The top melon went for $250, while others went way over the $100 mark. All the money raised went to Arkansas Children’s Hospital.

By this point, I was satisfied and rather saturated, too. The red melon I'd consumed as my second slice had not only been sweeter, it had been juicier, and my shorts were soaked with melon juice. It didn't matter. The breeze joined the moisture to bathe me in Mother Nature's air conditioning, and I was feeling fine.

I decided to take off shortly thereafter, having a two hour drive to make back to Little Rock. As I wandered past the refrigerated truck one more time, I noticed a couple of the growers in deep conversation with others. One young man was asking 20 questions about how to grow melons, and how to make them sweet. I overheard the response -- "it ain't hard if you live up here."

The tables and the ground beneath were strewn with seeds and a few wayward slices that had slipped from grasp. Further on, the playground was full of happy, sticky children, playing under overcast skies.

If you find yourself with a couple of free hours this weekend, it would do you good to head up to Cave City. Pick yourself up a couple of melons -- take one home, take one to your friends to share. But don't wait too long -- watermelon season doesn't last forever.

Old Restaurant Still Serves Arkansas Food.

Arkansas’ oldest same-family-owned restaurant isn’t a barbecue shack, or a hamburger joint, or even a steak place. It’s a cafeteria.

That may sound pedestrian, especially in this age of Luby’s and Ryan’s and sorts. But when you’re talking about Franke’s, you’re not talking about institutional food. You’re talking about some of the finest Arkansas cuisine to grace a menu.

Franke’s didn’t start out as a cafeteria. It was first a bakery, sort of a hole in the wall joint that served up doughnuts and such downtown in 1919 by C.A. Franke. Five years later, the first cafeteria under the name was opened at what’s now Capitol between Main and Louisiana.

There were (and still are) other locations. The one I remember from my youth was in University Mall next to Osco Drug, across from Montgomery Ward’s. It was there from before I was born until right before the Mall was sold off and demolished. I can remember standing in the Nut Hut and looking across through the windows at all the diners in the fancy wood-paneled-and-curtained dining room, thinking how fancy everyone was.

There is still a location downstairs in the Regions bank building… during the times in my life where I worked temp jobs to supplement my fledgling radio career I’d grab my tray and join the masses, picking up roast beef and peas and egg custard pie to consume before returning to the dredgery of my day.

These days, though, there’s no University Mall, and I tend to haunt West Little Rock more than downtown. Which is fine, since there’s a Franke’s on Rodney Parham in the Market Street Shopping Center. From the exterior, it’s unimposing; inside, it’s well-appointed and clean, just as fancy if not fancier than most of your mid-range restaurants. And best of all, it’s reverently quiet.

It’s still a cafeteria -- not a buffet. You head to the end of the line, grab a tray and cloth-wrapped utensils, and choose the dishes you would like with the help of smartly attired attendants. And there’s all sorts of foods. In the salad section alone you could get lost without a guide. Sure, there’s the traditional restaurant-style lettuce and cucumber and tomato salad with dressing you can order up; there are also a plethora of Arkansas-friendly salads, too -- like carrot salad, marinated salad with onions and tomatoes and cucumbers (strangely similar to Indian Kachumber salad, but I digress), blackeye pea and pepper salad, Ambrosia salad, green bean salad, pea salad… and at least six types of congealed salad. There are beets and peaches and okra of varying sorts.

Entrées vary by the day, but there’s usually always roast beef and ham and fried chicken and roasted chicken and hamburger steak. I’ve seen chicken croquettes and baked catfish and fried catfish and pepper steak with onions and cabbage rolls and pork chops. More sides than you can shake a stick at -- cabbage with ham, green beans with bacon, corn in oh so many preparations, rice, mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, umpteen types of beans and peas, carrots, mac and cheese… and if you’re really lucky, sweet potato casserole. Or even better, eggplant casserole. There are white bread rolls and wheat bread rolls and regular cornbread and Jalapeno cornbread full of corn and pepper bits.

And then there’s pie. The one thing that about 95 percent of all Arkansas restaurants I have visited have is some variation on pie -- fried, meringue, cream, berry, whatever. Franke’s has more pie than you can shake a spoon at, more than you can eat in a week, more than you can conceive of in a sweet luscious dream. There’s pecan and sweet potato and sometimes pumpkin and egg custard (which is famous) and lemon meringue and brownie pie and that’s just some of the hot ones. There’s banana cream, chocolate cream, lemon cream, coconut cream, cinnamon cream, strawberries and cream, and heaven knows what other types of cream. And cobbler.

Dropped by the other day with a couple of traveling companions who’d never been. I believe they were expecting something closer to the retail buffet experience. Instead, we sat down after choosing what we wanted and watching it be plated up for us… and enjoyed one heck of a fine dinner.

One chose the hamburger steak with onions, with a hearty slice of Texas toast and carrots that weren’t too mushy and some of that cool pea and pimento salad. The other went for a roasted and herbed chicken leg quarter with mac and cheese and a wheat roll and a traditional salad.

I went for what I consider to be real Arkansas home cookin’ -- smothered hamburger steak, butter-baked Lima beans (too bad they didn’t have any butter beans or purplehull peas that day), Jalapeno cornbread, eggplant casserole and marinated salad. Way too much to eat, but just a jaunt down memory lane. Any bit of that meal coulda been served up to me by either side of my southwest Arkansas family years ago. This is the sort of food that I was raised on.

Of course we had dessert. One companion’s lemon meringue pie was a beautiful homemade construction with a huge head of meringue that blended well with the baked lemon custard below. I get so nervous sometimes when I see the day-glow yellow lemon filling in meringues at places; to see it here, a gorgeous egg-yolk yellow with savor and heft and not that overbearing-oh-dear-Lord sweetness is comforting.

My other companion didn’t even bother to offer me a taste of his custardy-rich chocolate cream pie, go figure.

I shouldn’t complain. I went for one of the house favorites, not the egg custard but the cinnamon cream pie, layers of ever-richer cream and custard on top of a loose brown sugar and crumb crust. The top layer is almost completely beaten cream with a touch of cinnamon, but each layer below more custard is folded in. Rich as all heck, too -- and begging for a cup of hot coffee.

And that’s the thing at Franke’s -- service doesn’t end when you pass through the register section at the end of the tray line. A porter will come take your tray as soon as you sit down, so you’re not left trying to find a place for it on your table. They’ll even carry your tray for you if your hands are full or if you need help. A kind waiter will drive a cart by every once in a while with refills on coffee and tea and take-home boxes. Other waiters will check on your soft drink. And there is no rush. Take your time. Enjoy your conversation. You can pay up when you leave.

There is one disappointing thing to me… I took my daughter with us, and if you don’t count her I was easily the youngest person in the restaurant the afternoon we went. I don’t know why there weren’t more members of my generation there -- I hope it was just a fluke. But I’d hate to see something happen to this 90 year old local restaurant franchise, especially if folks stop coming. They don’t know what they’re missing.