A Southern Fried Shout Out to the Lowly Catfish

Little Libby’s Catfish
234 Lime Quarry Rd.
Madison, AL





I feel obligated to defend the honor of catfish.

Let me guess?

You consider the bottom dweller of the South’s muddy waters to be lower class food.

Right?

Reality TV shows featuring rednecks “noodling” in swampy waters for giant catfish with their bare hands probably do nothing to help catfish’s rep.

But the fact is, fish of all kinds have gone from poor man’s food to the most expensive protein at your local Piggy Wiggly.

Wild caught fish goes for $12 to $25 per pound retail in our current Bernanke Bubble economy.

Even lowly species like catfish now can cost more than New York Strip.

So I think it’s about time catfish gets its due.

Besides, almost all catfish you eat these days comes from carefully regulated farms here in the American South.

Normally, I not a big fan of farm-raised fish, but in the case of catfish, which will eat just about anything in the wild, including the fists of fat sweaty bubbas on TV, maybe it’s not such a bad idea.

I’ll take farm-raised fish from right here in Alabama over farm-raised fish like tilapia raised in China -- any day.

Maybe I’m a bit naïve, but I trust the good-ole boys here in Alabama to know how to properly raise a tasty catfish more than a bunch of Commies half way around the world.

Little Libby’s, here in Madison, Alabama, is a bustling joint tucked behind the interstate near the Huntsville Airport.

Damn convenient for Suit757. And a nice oasis in this thriving metro area in northern Alabama.

Huntsville is so freshly scrubbed and gleaming and thriving, it’s easy to forget you are even in Alabama.

Unfortunately, progress in America usually means lots of traffic, well-manicured medians, landscaped strip malls and national chain restaurants as far as the eye can see.

In Huntsville, all this “progress”, so called, is financed by a steady flow of federal tax dollars.

Thanks to NASA and multiple federal military installations and contractors, “Rocket City” gets more than its fair share of slop from the federal trough.

So, if nothing else, a stop for lunch at Little Libby’s provides a welcome return to real Alabama.

While catfish is no longer a bargain, at least Little Libby’s gives you your money’s worth.

For $16, I got an overflowing plate of two big fried catfish filets, two small deviled crabs, a pair of hush puppies, a bowl of cole slaw and a pile of onion rings.

Whew!

At least I won’t have to eat again today.

The catfish were moist and flaky, encrusted in a crunchy, mildly seasoned corn meal batter.

Pretty tasty. But even better with a few dashes of Louisiana Hot Sauce.

The deviled crabs packed a flavor wallop.

Deviled crabs are a Southern specialty. Two tiny hard crab shells encase a crab-flavored breading that is deep fried.

Kinda like a really bready, spicy crab cake stuffed into a crab carcass.

Admittedly, the actual crab is an afterthought here. The overwhelming flavors are onion, garlic and celery salt.

Any true crab connoisseur from the Chesapeake Bay used to big clumps of white delicate crab meat would probably shrink away in horror.

But I would dare Mr. Crabby Pants to tell me deviled crab doesn’t TASTE good.

You can’t tell me it doesn’t -- despite the fact that there isn’t much actual crab within deviled crab.

The cool, crunchy cole slaw was decent. The onion rings were just okay.

The hush puppies were a disappointment. Doughy and bland, they were just taking up precious stomach vacancy.

Overall, Little Libby’s Catfish was an adequate lunch stop on the way to the airport, a nice taste of Southern fried seafood in an otherwise soulless boiler-plate North Alabama metropolis.

I was glad I stopped by.

I set out with two goals.

Feed my face.

Defend the honor of catfish.

On both counts, mission accomplished.

Rating: Would Wear a Free Shirt.

Chow-Chow Down on the Best BBQ in Alabama

Full Moon Bar-B-Que
525 25th St. South
Birmingham, AL





Wow! That was incredible.

That’s all I could say to myself as I scavenged the last orphaned morsel of pork off my plastic tray at Birmingham’s Full Moon Bar-B-Que.

Have you ever eaten something so exquisite that you were filled with regret when you finished it? Like the end of a world-class roller coaster ride.

That’s it? Over so soon?

I wanted more.

I should have tried Full Moon’s bacon studded baked beans. Or world famous spicy cole slaw. Or homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Hell, what I really wanted was a whole ‘nother BBQ sandwich.

Full Moon’s chopped BBQ sandwich was a life-altering experience.

The smoky pork consisted of a harmonious comingling of both the hard outer portions and soft, moist inner portions of the pig, resulting in an indescribable textural crunch in every bite.

Ladled over the top of the pork was a zesty homemade barbeque sauce. Not so much to saturate and dominate the flavor of the smoky pig, but just enough to add some juicy zing to the meat.

Most mind blowing of all, a modest application of Full Moon’s world famous chow-chow on top of all this goodness elevated this sandwich to meal fit for the gods.

Yes. Chow-chow on the BBQ sandwich.

Okay. I had you, and then I lost you. Right?

You Southern barbeque purists are asking, what the hell is chow-chow doing on a chopped pork sandwich?

You Yankees are just asking, what the hell is chow-chow?

Well, my dear Suits in Strange Places readers, let me address both concerns.

Chow-chow is a Southern relish of green tomato, onion and peppers mixed together into a condiment that adds both sweet and spicy to any dish.

You can pick up homemade chow-chow from Southern Baptist Church ladies, small town lunch counters and roadside farm stands selling Georgia peaches, Vidalia onions and boiled peanuts.

Chow-chow is as southern as fried pickles, the Stars and Bars and Bear Bryant’s houndstooth hat.

And let me tell you – Full Moon’s version of chow-chow is incredible on their BBQ sandwich.

Now there is a certain segment of barbeque purists out there who believe the only thing that belongs on a BBQ sandwich is the smoky flavor of the hickory that magically permeates the meat after hours slowing smoking in the pit out back.

I have two words for y’all.

TRY. IT.

The crunch of the pork, the zing of the sauce and the sweet and spicy zest of the chow-chow conspire to create a symphony of flavor and texture that will change your life forever.

Try it.

I promise you won’t be disappointed.

As evidence backing my claim, I submit the crowds of folks packing this little place at lunch time.

I think it’s safe to say Alabamans know a thing or two about good barbeque. And they have voted overwhelmingly with their feet and stomachs as they’ve beaten a path to this little joint just south of downtown Birmingham.

While this location is the original, Full Moon has blossomed into a small chain of about eight outposts in the metro area.

I almost passed the place by when I pulled up in my subcompact Fiat rental.

With a bright colorful smiling moon face covering its cinder block exterior, Full Moon Bar-B-Que looks more like a strip joint than a legendary barbeque pit.

The fleet of giant catering trucks with slick logos and “Best Little Pork House in Alabama” emblazoned on the sides parked out back wasn’t encouraging either.

When a barbeque joint branches off into catering, it’s usually the kiss of death.

But not here.

When you build barbeque this good, they will come. And Full Moon is doing its best to feed them all.

By 11:30am, the dining room was packed.

Truckers, suits and even a politician all the locals addressed as “Judge”, were all there to indulge in the city’s best barbeque.

The walls are covered floor to ceiling in Alabama Crimson Tide memorabilia. Except for a few token corners for Auburn Tiger and UAB Blazer fans.

But that’s what makes great barbeque so great.

White collar, blue collar. Republican, Democrat. White, black.

Roll Tide, War Eagle.

You can get them all to agree on one thing in this cozy dining room of barbeque excellence – barbeque doesn’t get any better than this.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

The Ribs That Dreams Are Made Of

Dreamland Bar-B-Que
1427 14th Avenue South
Birmingham, AL



Bread. Ribs. Beer.

What else do you need?

Nothing. You’ve got to love Dreamland BBQ. My kind of place.

I’ve always considered Dreamland to be the perfect restaurant for anyone on a diet.

As long as it is a low carb diet.

Every other restaurant in America wants to tempt you with carb-loaded sides like corn bread, hush puppies, baked beans and biscuits.

Look, if you put it in front of me, and it’s good, I’m going to eat it.

But John “Big Daddy” Bishop, who founded Dreamland as a small cafe in the college town of Tuscaloosa in 1958 never wanted to mess with any of that.

Bread. Ribs. Beer. That’s all anyone needs.

And the bread – a couple slices of grocery-store bought Sunbeam white bread thrown on the plate – is so untempting, it really shouldn’t even count. No way I’m wasting precious stomach vacancy on that stuff.

Well, okay, maybe a few bites to lap up some of that famous tangy Dreamland sauce.

But it’s always been the meat alone that has been the star of the show at Dreamland.

Racks and racks of meaty spare ribs slowly smoke over the open pit imbuing the entire restaurant with the sweet smell of smoldering hickory and simmering pig meat.

If God has a BBQ pit (and I sure as he--, er heck, hope he does), this must be what heaven smells like.

If your idea of ribs is those “fall-off-the-bone” yuppified baby backs served at your neighborhood Chili’s, you need to get that out of your head right now.

It’s time to grow up and step up to the adults’ table at Dreamland.

Ribs here aren’t tough, but they do provide a nice meaty gnaw in every bite -- every bite full of smoky, meaty flavor that gets boiled away at your local strip mall chain restaurant.

Dreamland ribs are the real deal.

“Ain’t nothing like ‘em nowhere.” That was Big Daddy’s motto.

Unfortunately, Big Daddy Bishop passed away in 1997.

And no surprise, his family has begun to diversify the menu just a bit. Hopefully, Big Daddy isn’t rolling in his grave.

You can actually get beans, macaroni and cheese, greens and sausage now.

But you have to order them separate.

Since this was far from my first visit to Dreamland, I decided to get a little adventurous to see if the new menu additions could live up to Big Daddy’s high standards.

The smoked sausage was five star, all the way. Crisp charred on the outside, soft and spicy on the inside, and absolutely perfect when dipped in Dreamland’s BBQ sauce.

The macaroni and cheese was good too, tender noodles welded together by massive quantities of soft cheese.

I washed all this down with a couple IPAs from Atlanta’s Sweetwater microbrewery. I always enjoy the fruity-sweet flavor evident in all varieties of Sweetwater’s beer.

But no matter how many good things they add to the menu, it’s still the ribs that steal the show.

So I tend to agree with Big Daddy on this one. When you do something this well, there’s really no need to complicate it. Stick to what you do best.

Bread. Ribs. Beer.

Can’t go wrong with that.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Welcome to Suit757’s Worst Nightmare

Moonlight Bistro
6080 Highway 117
Mentone, AL



Let’s say you just scored a multi-million dollar Energy Department grant to conduct a study of hippies living off the grid -- by hiring your congressman’s brother (that’s how these things usually work).

My guess is you probably wouldn’t begin your hippie hunt in Alabama.

But if you happened to stumble into Mentone, Alabama on a Saturday night like I did, you’d find yourself in the right place.

Across the street from the Moonlight Bistro, from the upstairs room above the oldest hotel in Alabama, the folky sounds of hippie music emanated throughout this tiny mountaintop village of 300 people. A couple dozen Mentone “Occupy Wall Street” wannabees twirled and gyrated to the sounds of Chattanooga band “Lumbar Five”.

Okay. So not really my usual scene, but what the heck? What else am I going to do this evening?

Mentone seems to be the only town in Alabama on this autumn Saturday night that has no interest whatsoever in college football. There’s not a television set in the entire town as far as I could tell.

But you know what? The band was pretty good.

So, okay. An evening away from glowing monitors. Some talented musicians. A little cultural exchange. Maybe I can deal with this.

Except for one major problem.

I’m pretty sure scoring pot in Mentone is easier than finding a beer.

Look. Modern travel is no picnic.

But up here in DeKalb County, Alabama I stumbled into Suit757’s worst nightmare – being stranded for the night in a dry county.

That’s right. No beer.

So much for Bob Wayne’s battle cry that “Everything’s Legal in Alabama”.

Hey, it happens. Alabama. Oklahoma. Utah. Sometimes when you travel the back roads of America you bed down in a town where you can’t get a beer.

That’s why it’s always a good idea to travel with a bootleg six pack in the trunk.

Just in case.

Before a completely debilitating depression came over me, I walked across the street to the Moonlight Bistro to catch a bite to eat.

Situated inside an old log cabin that’s been perched up here on top of Lookout Mountain since the 19th Century, the Moonlight Bistro is a dim, candlelit place that serves old fashioned country comfort food.

Perusing the beverage section of the menu, and against all odds, still holding out hope, I asked my teenage waitress about the “Cabin Cooler”. Could it be some clandestine code for skirting county law?

No such luck.

Much to my chagrin, she said it was a mixture of Sprite and Cranberry Juice.

As if that weren’t soul crushing enough, she came back 90 seconds later to tell me, “We don’t sell that any more.”

Becoming ever more desperate, I opted instead for a three dollar “Blackberry Lemonade” – which turns out is your basic lemonade in a red plastic Coke cup with a few blackberries floating on top.

I should have just opted for Appalachian tap water.

My depression subsided momentary when she brought out my fried green tomato appetizer.

I’ve eaten my share of FGTs, but this was among the very best. Perfectly fried crisp in a seasoned batter, topped with shredded parmesan cheese and bacon bits and served with a side of creamy remoulade dipping sauce, these were four star tomatoes.

Always on the look out for something I’ve never had before, I opted for the “Chili Corn Pone”, a twist on the traditional Southern Appalachian meal that’s been cooked up in cast iron skillets since the frontier days of Daniel Boone.

The menu described the dish as corn bread topped with chili.

But that’s not what my waitress brought to my table.

It was a bowl of tortilla chips topped with chili, cheese, lettuce and tomato. Think really, really messy nachos.

Unfortunately, the chili almost instantaneously transformed the chips to mush.

As I began poking through my mish mash of chili and chip mush in a fruitless hunt for the corn bread supposedly buried underneath, the owner walked by and noticed my frantic searching and asked what was wrong.

I inquired about my missing corn bread.

She immediately called out to the kitchen to bring me some.

I explained that the menu indicated the corn bread was supposed to be underneath the chili.

She said, “Oh, that’s how the old owners did it. We serve it on the side now.”

Uh, okay.

Silly me for paying too much attention to the menu.

The corn bread she brought out was a pair of corn bread sticks – not too inspiring.

It was like that tasteless corn bread you make at home from those “just add water” mixes.

Major disappointment.

While I’ve never had it, as described on the menu, chili corn pone sounds like it could be a great hearty cool-weather comfort food. You’d need good, thick, sturdy homemade corn bread to stand up to the chili assault, but it sounds delicious.

You’d think one of these hippies in town could figure that out.

In fact, if I ever get home, I just might make some chili corn pone myself.

A perfect accompaniment on a crisp fall afternoon for downing a few beers and watching college football.

You know, those other things, besides good corn bread, that apparently aren’t legal in Mentone, Alabama.

Rating: Wouldn’t Wear Shirt if They Paid Me.