FED WHITE & BLUE: SOAKED IN SAVANNAH

By the time we pulled up to our hotel on the edges of Savannah’s beautiful historic neighbourhood, the skies had already taken on a threatening dark hue. It brought with it the thunderstorms and torrential downpours we had seen forecast on the news before we left Atlanta.

Determined to see some of the city before supper, we dropped our bags in the room and immediately headed out to see if Savannah lived up to its reputation as one of the most beautiful cities in the United States. Even in the rapidly diminishing daylight, it was obvious that it did.

Savannah was founded in 1733 and the original city was designed along European lines with wide avenues and manicured squares. Most of these still remain and when combined with the local architecture and trees, dripping with Spanish Moss, it makes for one of the most engaging cities I have seen on my considerable travels around the US. Of particular interest to Sybil was The Mercer House, made famous in the evocative book “Midnight in The Garden of Good & Evil”. But, at every turn there are stunning buildings and sights to require taking the lens cap from your camera.

Our supper that evening was at on of Savannah’s most popular fine dining restaurants “Elizabeth on 37th”. As the name suggests the restaurant is housed in what I believe was once an antebellum mansion on 37th St. It was opened in 1981 by famous local chef, Elizabeth Terry and soon became known for its modern take on Southern coastal cooking. It was already filling with Savannah’s wealthy set when we arrived and were shown to a table in what had once been the gentlemen’s drawing room.

In truth, the food chosen from a small menu was fine, but nothing to write home about. Particular mention should go to a dish of local clams with cornbread Madeleines and an excellent apple tart. What made the meal memorable however was the service, which was as good as I have experienced anywhere in the US. That opinion may, of course, be coloured by the fact that our excellent server kindly brought over a bottle of Montrachet for us to finish, when he had poured a glass for another customer.

The next morning, the threatened storm had arrived with knobs on and, after a quick breakfast, we wrapped up in raincoats and braved the weather to try and complete the double task of seeing more of the city, while trying to remain reasonably dry. It was a hopeless endeavour, and, by the time it got to 11am, rainwater had already seeped through my clothing leaving me to steam inside my expensive and fetching green Cagoule.

For lunch, we had decided to brave the queues at one of Savannah’s most famous restaurants, Mrs Wilkes' Dining Room. Here, vast portions of Southern cooking have been served, family style, on communal tables for over sixty years. It is only open for three hours every day and all visitors to Savannah mark it on their list as a place to visit. That being the case, about a hundred other people had the same brilliant idea as us and we found ourselves tagging on to the end of a long line of folks sheltering under an assortment of umbrellas.

The notion of standing in the rain for at least an hour for some fried chicken did not seem anywhere close to my idea of a good time. You will know by now, however, that Sybil is made of sterner stuff than I and she remained obdurate when I suggested we should head back to the hotel and dry out. I am not very good in these circumstances, but am quietly proud of the fact that I stood in the torrent of rain for a good sixty minutes, as far from my happy place as it was possible to be, with barely a disgruntled comment.

By the time we reached the front of the line, I was pretty sure that Mrs Wilkes would have to serve up the meal of a lifetime to make it worthwhile. We were allowed in and seated at a large table filled with ten other miserable customers, all of whom were steaming nicely as they dried off in the warmth of the room and none of who seemed in the mood for conversation.

We began to silently pass around the huge plates of food that had been laid out to await our arrival. There were collared greens, yams, beans, ribs, meatloaf, corn pudding, biscuits and cornbread, pinot beans, carrot and raisin salad, apple sauce, BBQ pork, gravy and of course, their most famous dish, chicken pan fried in shortening. The chicken was magnificent stuff, the crisp coating giving way to moist flesh. We at least got enough of a response from our fellow diners to agree that we should request two more plates full of it before we were done. However, much as I am fan of Southern cooking, the rest of the food at Mrs Wilkes was a disappointment and spoke as much to the need to mass produce for the tourist hordes as it did to the Georgian hospitality that was the intention of its original owner.

Last summer I had experienced a similar style of meal at Monell’s in Nashville and told Sybil, more than once, how much better it had been. That pleased her as you can imagine. Thirty minutes after we arrived, we paid our bill of about $35 and I trudged back to the hotel to sulk. As I am sure you can guess, I rarely have need to use a hairdryer, but was thankful of the one in our hotel room, which I put to good use drying my shoes.

Our last meal in Savannah itself was taken in Noble Fare, a restaurant near our hotel with a decent reputation and a dreadful name. It was pleasant enough, if only remarkable for supplying a decent martini and a plate of domestic cheeses that confirmed my long held opinion that American cheese makers still have a long, long way to go before they deserve the name. We retired to bed by 10pm and I had vivid nightmares about standing in line at Mrs Wilkes.

Fortunately, the storms had passed by the time we woke up the next morning. We still had a couple of hours before we had to check out and drive back to Atlanta Airport for our flight back to Los Angeles. So, we took the opportunity to walk along the restored riverfront area of the city and back through the business district where we passed the crowds of people waiting for a table at “The Lady & Sons” the restaurant owned by the walking butter mountain that is Paula Dean. Suckers.

I wanted one more taste of Georgia BBQ before we left and made good use of my GPS system to guide us to the tiny town of Soperton, which boasts not only what must be the smallest City Hall on earth, but also the highly recommended BBQ joint that is Ware’s.
The meaty ribs and a first taste of Brunswick Stew, were as perfect a way to end what had been a hugely enjoyable first trip to Atlanta and Savannah

Despite the weather, we both agreed that it wont be too far in the future before we have Georgia on our minds once more.

BLUDSO'S BBQ: TEXAN STYLE 'Q. STRAIGHT OUTTA COMPTON

Regular readers of the blog will be only too aware that I do like a bit of ‘Q action. The American Royal Competition in Kansas City is now the third date I put in the calendar after my anniversary and Sybil’s birthday and, on a recent road trip from Chicago down to New Orleans via twelve Mid-West and Southern States, my friend Neal and I managed to eat enough ribs, links and fatty brisket to keep the towns we visited out of recession.

Los Angeles has not really cut the vinegar based mustard sauce when it comes to BBQ, and I had assumed that I would just have to learn to live with my disappointment until I was back on the road in the New Year. A couple of weeks ago, the jonesing for ‘Q got so bad that I posted a plaintive request on Twitter asking if anybody knew where I might get even a semi decent slab of something smoked here on the West Coast.

Fortunately for me, my good chum Aaron Tell, the author of the excellent new (ish) blog The Savory Hunter dropped me an e-mail asking me if I wanted to join him on a journey to Bludso’s A BBQ joint in the city of Compton, about thirty minutes drive of downtown Los Angeles.

I had never heard of the place, but a bit of internet research told me that Kevin Bludso, the owner, came from a family of Texan BBQ aficionados and brought his talents to Southern California, opening his small joint on South Long Beach Boulevard some three years ago.

As we pulled into the small parking lot, Mr. Bludso was sitting outside with a friend next to the two large smokers he uses for outside catering. It was Aaron’s second visit, but when Mr.B found out that it was my first, he called over “Y’all head on inside, we’ll take good care of you”. To be honest, there really wasn’t much of an “inside” just a glass covered ordering window and a handful of stools alongside a small counter if you want to eat your order there and then.

Bludso’s serves traditional Texan Style BBQ and, at Aaron’s suggestion we ordered the $28 Texas Sampler. It came with two sides and, after choosing Mac & Cheese and Collard greens, we made our way back out to the parking lot to join Kevin Bludso and his friend.

Our meal arrived shortly after we had taken our seats and started chatting. It was a ludicrous amount of food our order comprising chicken, beef and pork links, pulled pork, pork ribs, smoked chicken and slices of beef brisket. Alongside the meat were big tubs of our side dishes, hot corn bread and two slices of Wonderbread, just in case we were in the mood to fashion a fatty brisket sandwich.

The amount of food would not matter, of course, if it was not up to snuff, but I am delighted to say that the ‘Q at Bludso’s is really rather good. The meat was moist and had just enough smoke to add flavour but not overpower. Aaron was particularly taken with the chicken, while I tore into the ribs as if I had not had one for at least ten weeks. Which is, in fact, when I last did. Mac & Cheese is never my idea of a good time, so I concentrated on the collard greens, which were still slightly crunchy and came plumped out with big meaty chunks of ham hock. Lovely stuff.

After decanting our leftovers into take out containers to be enjoyed over the next couple of days, we snapped some photographs and chatted more to Pitmaster Bludso about his cooking techniques. His reply was as typically unassuming as I have come to expect from the lovely people I meet in the wonderful world of ‘Q.

 “Make it anyway you want, just don’t make bad ‘Q”

Well, for the record, Mr. Kevin Bludso makes excellent BBQ and it comes to you straight outta Compton.

ROAD TRIP USA 2010: SNOOT IN SAINT LOUIS

Hands up who knows what a snoot is?

If you were tempted to answer “the snout of a hog, braised, deep fried and then smothered in a Saint Louis BBQ sauce” then go to the top of the class.

It was a new one on me and, ever the culinary adventurer that you have come to know and generally ignore, I was determined to have at one with some ferocity when I visited the spiritual home of the snoot, Saint Louis.

It was the first stop on our road trip and my companion Neal and I headed on the five-hour drive down the I-55 from Chicago until we hit this rather pleasing Mid West City in the early afternoon. We were being offered shelter by two of his friends and now my new chums, Chris and Adrienne and, after a chance to freshen up, they set out to show us what Saint Louis had to offer.

Rather a lot as it happens. Saint Louis may be some way from its Victorian glory days but it still has much to please and admire. Despite the problems caused in certain neighbourhoods by gang crime, there is still a very definite sense of civic pride about the city and there was an equal sense of pride as Chris and Adrienne showed us around.

There is The Gateway Arch, of course. Overlooking the mighty Mississippi and open since 1967. It is an instantly recognisable symbol of the city and, although I was too much of a ‘fraidy cat to head up to the top I spent a happy hour or so wandering around in the park down below while Neal, Adrienne, Chris and their two young daughters took the creaky lift to the top.

Then, there are The Cardinals, the cities beloved Baseball team and, I was informed by Chris, usually rather good. Not on the evidence presented to us last night they are not as we witnessed them suffer a rare 4-18 drubbing at the hands of the visiting Astro team from Houston. By the time the game reached its natural conclusion at the end of nine painful innings, the 42,000 strong crowd had been reduced to about 2,000 catcalling die hards shouting out their disdain and ironically cheering any vague sign of competence from their team.

Now for the food, just in case you were wondering what happened to those there snoots. The best in Saint Louis, apparently, are to be found at Roper’s Ribs in the rather blighted area of North Saint Louis. It is not a part of town that many would choose to visit unless they had to, being the epicentre of Blood/Crip gang conflict and both Neal and Chris expressed more than a little concern as we headed along the freeway towards the Goodfellow exit.

To fortify our spirits, we had made a stop at another Saint Louis landmark, Ted Drewe’s. Famed for its frozen custard and “concretes”. The ice cream is blended with a wide range of flavours and so thick the container can be turned upside down without the expected consequences. Tempted as I was by a concrete containing a whole blended slice of apple pie, I ended up ordering a strawberry shortcake version along with a chocolate mint version for Chris and something suitably girly for Neal. We ate them propped up against the ageing shack and then got back in our shiny Chevy Impala for the drive to the wrong side of the tracks.

Chris told us that the area was not as bas as he remembered, but it still looked pretty dodgy to two soft Englishmen and, by the time we pulled into the parking lot of Roper’s Ribs, we had seen a couple of crack sales going on and received enough quizzical glares to make sure we hurried into the store as quickly as possible.

Inside, the welcome was incredibly friendly and I ordered a combo of Snoots with rib tips, both a speciality of the house. They are cooked fresh to order and it took twenty minutes until I was presented with my tray and headed back to the car. Outside, we met Mrs Roper, the lady of the house, who explained that the perfect snoot should be “crunchy like the perfect pork old style pork rind, but more dense and covered in a sweet BBQ sauce with a sharp hit of vinegar”

Neal and Chris seemed more concerned about getting the hell out of Dodge than trying the local delicacy, which left the considerable plateful for me to try as we hurtled back along the freeway to downtown. The rib tips were good, moist meat flavoured with smoke from the slow cooking and doused in the Saint Louis style sauce Mrs Roper had been explaining. The snoots however were a revelation. The perfect combination of crunch, fat, heat, sweet and sharp and I polished off most of them by the time we reached our destination.

We may not be staying in Saint Louis very long, but it has been a great start to our trip. I have made a couple of delightful new friends in Chris and Adrienne, I have seen the arch and a memorable baseball game and, best of all, I got to try snoots. No one can take that away from me.

Next stop Evansville, Indiana. Why? Brain sandwiches and fried chicken cooked in lard, of course. Stupid.

BACK IN LA: KOGI KOREAN TACO TRUCK. NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL STREET FOOD

I can often be found on twitter, Facebook, Dos Hermanos and well, just about anywhere where people will listen, railing against Britain’s lousy attempts at Street Food. Particular ire is retained for the “F**king burrito stalls” that have appeared all over London like pimples on a teenaged boy dipped daily in butter.

“What” people respond “do you have against Burritos?” as if my Ahab like dislike of our attempts at this Mexican and Tex-Mex classic has anything to do with the dish itself. It doesn’t and, for the record, I actually rather like burritos. It is just, like so many things in London, our attempts are often so half-hearted and polite that you have to shake your heads and wonder why they bothered. Burritos in London are the outward and visible sign of inward and festering ineptitude. Proof if it were needed that we still have a long way to go if we are to claim any sort of decent street food culture.

Move on to LA, where I arrived last night to spend a month in the company of my long-suffering fiancé Sybil. After a morning of writing, which is what I came here to do, we decided to pop out for lunch. As luck would have it, her research showed that a favourite taco truck would be just around the corner from her apartment, parked outside the Sony Studios.

Kogi, however, is no ordinary taco truck, it is a remarkable hybrid of L.A’s ethnic diversity and superb tradition of street food, combining as it does Mexican favourites with Korean delicacies. So popular has it become that thousands of people follow its progress on Twitter and many more similar trucks have sprung up in imitation.

None, according to Sybil are as good as Kogi and, she is not the only one who thinks so. We arrived soon after the truck did and already a long line was forming in anticipation. A happy gaggle of film studio workers talking about their choices of “Kimchi Quesadilla” and “Spicy Korean Pork Sliders” while those in the truck were already busy cooking and wrapping in rapid style.

Such a collaboration shouldn’t work. In fact it should be horrible. Given my dislike of the sort of “fusion confusion” we often see in London, I should have run and hidden under the bed when Sybil suggested I go for a couple of “Korean Short Rib Tacos”

But, like the good little husband to be that I am, I kept my mouth shut and we soon came away with a ludicrously large amount of food for a ludicrously small amount of money.

Back at the apartment, Sybil dished up, snarling at me like a rabid dog when I approached for a taste of her “smashed pork” sandwich giving a primal scream and a wave of her hands that said “this is all me, Baby” while protecting her food. It didn’t matter there was plenty for two. In fact there was plenty for two families and that we soon demolished the lot was down to our greed not their small portions.

It was wonderfully messy stuff and the sliders, small hamburger buns filled with spicy beef, were a particular hot hit as we both ate with little thought to the grease and sauce dribbling down our chins. This is real street food from a real street food culture, sizeable portions of unapologetic food with great flavours at astonishing value for money.

There are those who are genuinely trying to create a similar culture for us in the UK. I applaud that and note that we will soon have a UK Street Food awards to help promote them. All well and good, but first of all, may I suggest everyone involved heads over to LA, arguably (let’s hear the NY’ers squeal in protest) the street food capital of the US and see how it is really done.

“F**king Burritos” indeed