She ran her finger against the wall, a thin film of grease and dust gathered on her finger. She sighed. “Dad…”
He chuckled and shrugged his wide shoulders. “Don’t worry, that’s not what they cook with. Least, I don’t think it is.”
His daughter shook her head and stuck out her tongue. “Yech.”
A middle aged waitress with teased out hair sauntered over and asked them for their order.
“Give us a minute, darlin’. Little missy here is still looking over menu. Oh, bring us some of those fabulous dill pickles. The fried ones. Just to get us warmed up!”
“Really, Dad? Do you know how much fat is in those? How many calories?”
“Oh, pshaw. Those are merely inconvenient facts.” He smacked his lips. “This is what I love about Southern cooking. They take something as beautifully simple as a dill pickle, then they do something obscene with with it. They deep fry it.”
“Only in its brilliance.”
“Dad, you’re gonna kill yourself eating like this.”
“Kiddo, I’m old, you’re grown. Ain’t no ladies gonna come sniffin’ around these parts any more. You can have your yoga and wheatgrass shakes. I’ll keep food a bit more hedonistic.”
Southern cooking. A delicious waist expanding, artery hardening cuisine that Memphis sits directly in the middle of. I know we get a lot of flack for being the fattest city in the nation, but, c’mon, if you lived a place with food like this, your figure would be a distant concern.