Defending the Sacred Honor of The South

Crystal Grill
423 Carrollton Ave.
Greenwood, MS






“The Mississippi Delta is the most Southern place on earth.”
-- James C. Cobb


I have lots of reasons I love the South.

Warm weather. NASCAR. College football. Great music. Ole Miss sorority girls.

But as great as all those things are, it’s Southern cooking that gets me most excited.

The Crystal Grill here in Greenwood on the outskirts of that “most Southern place on earth”, is one of the best places to discover the delicacies of the old Confederacy such as catfish, tamales, turnip greens, gumbo and -- most important of all -- pie.

Southerners have been coming to the corner of Lamar St. and Carrollton Ave. to eat for nearly a century.

At one point during the heyday of the locomotive, railroad workers and tourists alike would come over to the Crystal Grill from Greenwood’s railroad depot across the street at all hours of the night.

“Never sleep.” That was the mantra of the old Crystal Grill when it stayed open until 4am.

Here in the 21st Century, Amtrak’s “City of New Orleans” (immortalized by Steve Goodman, Arlo Guthrie, Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash) only makes one stop per day, so the hours at Crystal Grill have reverted to conform to the more normal schedule of Southern diners.

While the hours may have shrunk over the years, the restaurant has expanded, taking up a whole city block of connected rooms filled with locals chatting about Greenwood gossip.

As an out-of-towner, you get the feeling that every last resident of this city knows the Crystal Grill is a world class dining destination -- and they all take full advantage of their good fortune.

The food options here are vast and a bit overwhelming.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the beer selection.

Coors Light. Bud Light. Miller Lite.

Yuck.

I opted for the Coors version of watered-down, tasteless, mass produced yellow fizz.

Unfortunately for me, Mississippi is one of the last holdouts in the craft beer revolution.

But nobody comes to the Crystal Grill to drink beer. Folks come here to eat!

I began my feeding frenzy with that quintessential Delta snack, the hot tamale.

Nobody knows exactly how a Mexican food originated as a staple here in the Delta. Most folks here are black or white.

Mexican? Not so much.

But it is safe to assume that some Mexican migrants may have found their way into the Delta to help with the cotton crop over a century ago -- and brought a recipe along that black and white Southerners have perfected into their very own Southern specialty.

You’ll find little roadside shacks selling tamales all over the Delta.

But the tamales here at the Crystal Grill are the best I’ve ever tried.

Wrapped snuggly in their corn husks, unrolling a steaming tamale is more exciting than Christmas morning.

Soft sweet corn meal gives way to a piping hot center of tender shredded beef. The entire concoction is marinated in a peppery broth, lending these tamales a subtle spicy bite that made my Coors Light taste better than it deserved.

Next came a cup of gumbo loaded with shrimp, crab meat and even a few Mississippi Gulf Coast oysters. Chock full of okra, spice and goodness, this is one of the best cups of gumbo I’ve tried in the Magnolia State.

Of course you can’t have gumbo without bread. The Crystal Grill brings out two varieties -- both equally fresh and warm from the oven -- and addictive.

The soft yeast rolls come from a decades old Greenwood recipe.

The firm but sweet corn muffins melted my pat of butter on contact.

By this point, my hunger was long gone. But my Chrystal Grill lunch was just getting started.

Classic Southern lunchroom style, the menu lets you choose a meat and two vegetables.

I opted for fried catfish, crisp and seasoned to perfection.

My dining companion scored some of the best fried chicken either of us had ever tried.

But the vegetables were the stars of the show.

Turnip greens, earthy and bitter yet sweetened with Southern love and pig fat.

Southerners love to cook their vegetables in pork fat or deep fry them, under the theory that there is only one way to make healthy food taste good -- make it less healthy.

As a devout follower of that school of vegetable thought, I had to try something called “fried broccoli”.

Even world renowned broccoli frowner President George H. W. Bush could eat this stuff.

It turns out that fried broccoli doesn’t involve much broccoli after all. More like a breaded and fried cheese stick with a few bits of green vegetable matter stuffed inside.

In other words, fried broccoli is delicious!

Under any other circumstance, after consuming this much food, I’d ask for the check and be on my way.

Not at the Crystal Grill. Because when you dine here, you get pie.

It’s compulsory.

I’m not saying they’ll lock you up in the Leflore County Jail if you refuse to indulge, but it is included in the price of your meal.

And it indeed would be a crime against man and nature to skip out on dessert at the Crystal Grill. This place has earned a well-deserved decade’s old reputation for the best pie in the great state of Mississippi.

You get three choices: chocolate meringue, coconut meringue or lemon ice box.

You really can’t go wrong.

The lemon ice box pie was cool, sweet and tart with a refreshing lemon zest.

The chocolate meringue was a mile high tower of goodness. The meringue was delicate and sweet and elegantly yielded to my folk as it slid down toward the cool chocolate below.

If you are a chocoholic like me, you will not be disappointed. Trust me.

If ever there were a dining destination that needed to be immortalized in my vast t-shirt collection, the Crystal Grill was it.

This place represents everything I love about the South. Great food. Downhome charm. Friendly hospitality. And a patient deliberateness to appreciate the finest life has to offer.

I couldn’t help but notice the irony that as I was appreciating all that is wonderful about the old Confederacy in the form of a single meal, a controversy was raging on the news about that ultimate symbol of the South, the Confederate Flag.

Southerners everywhere are being forced by a mob of Leftists and uppity Yankees to make a choice -- abandon the symbol that has represented their homeland in some sort of futile peace offering -- or stand to defend its honor in the face of unprecedented hatred and bullying.

While it seems like most of the politicians across the South have chosen to reenact the surrender at Appomattox, it is left to the silent majority of Southerners to articulate the value of their heritage.

For many Southerners, the flag is simply an iconic symbol of home -- and everything it stands for. From sweet tea to SEC tailgate parties.

For others, there is a deeper meaning.

The flag represents resistance to an overbearing federal government that now injects itself into every nook and cranny of our lives.

Am I the only one who noticed the irony that during this same week five unelected, unaccountable robed jackasses in Washington DC just changed the 10,000 year old definition of marriage by federal fiat?

If Sherman and Grant could see what the Federal Government they fought for has become, I’d like to imagine they’d be so ashamed they’d strip off their blue uniforms on the spot and joint the “Lost Cause”.

But why is the burden of proof on Southerners to defend their flag?

Shouldn’t the debate be centered on why Leftists and uppity Yankees hate the South -- and want to stamp out everything it stands for?

To them it represents a reprehensible ideology and way of life -- one where folks get along with each other just fine over a plate of tamales and fried chicken.

Where people don’t see the need to depend upon the kindness of politicians.

Independence. Traditional values. Faith. Confident appreciation of what works.

Defiance.

That’s what they hate.

They hate that the South is superior to the North in every way that matters. From politics to economics to weather to football to fried chicken.

They are envious of a people that can get along fine without them.

And if you think throwing the Confederate flag into a modern day auto-da-fé in a sacrificial offering will appease them, you are wrong.

Dead wrong.

This is just the warning shot on a second Yankee invasion.

The Leftists and uppity Yankees won’t stop until everyone lives and thinks like they do.

Give up the guns and religion you cling to. Your future is food stamps, Obamacare, gay weddings and Dunkin Donuts.

That’s why places like the Crystal Grill are an endangered yet cherished reminder of what makes the South great.

And that’s why my flag is still hanging. And why I bought the shirt.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Up the Creek with Kate Upton

Up the Creek
313 Water Street
Apalachicola, FL



They call this the “Forgotten Coast.”

And a trip to the small town of Apalachicola on the Gulf Coast of Florida’s Panhandle will help you understand why.

There are no interstates here. The nearest airport is an hour and a half away.

This is the northwest corner of Florida with more in common culturally, geographically and politically with Alabama than Miami or Orlando.

The tea and Southern drawls are sweeter here.

The Spanish moss hangs thicker here.

And the pace of life is slower here.

Apalachicola’s quaint beauty and rustic isolation is probably why Sports Illustrated chose this town to shoot its 2012 Swimsuit issue with Kate Upton.


Any town good enough for Kate Upton is good enough for me.

Mickey Mouse has his charms, I suppose, but when I travel the backroads of the Sunshine State, it is sugary beaches, cold beer and salty oysters that I’m looking for.

Apalachicola and the “Forgotten Coast” is where I come to find them.

A tiny town of just 3,000 people, Apalachicola is synonymous with oysters.

The Apalachicola River drains out of the farmlands of Georgia and Alabama spilling its contents into Apalachicola Bay where fresh water collides with the salty Gulf of Mexico, creating the ideal brackish cauldron of seawater that oysters crave.

Blessed by geography and God’s grace, this town is perfectly situated to take advantage of the bounty of one of Earth’s perfect oyster estuaries.

90% of the oysters consumed in Florida (and two thirds of the oysters consumed in the Southeast) come from this little bay in the “forgotten” corner of Florida.

As you might expect, Apalach, as the locals call it, has quite a few options for knocking back cold beers and the local delicacies served on a half shell.

Like Apalach itself, Up the Creek benefits greatly from its location.

Rising high into the air hard against the waterfront, Up the Creek is the ideal place to eat oysters in this ideal oyster town.

Fresh Apalachicola oysters always taste good. But they just seem even tastier when you eat them outside on a big porch overlooking the water with an ice cold India Pale Ale in hand.

Since this is the middle of winter -- and as I already explained, this is a world away from the warmth of Miami -- I opted for the heated glassed-in half of the deck.

Somewhat surprising for this remote crevasse of the Deep South, Up the Creek had a very nice selection of craft beer along with the usual ubiquitous mass produced stuff.

On tap were two of my favorite IPAs on earth -- Southern Tier out of Upstate New York and Cigar City Jai Alai out of Tampa.

I alternated between the two, hoping to settle the debate in my mind as to which one I liked best.

Unfortunately the results of my testing were inconclusive as my palette and mind got foggier as the afternoon wore on.

The Cigar City Jai Alai IPA was a little sweeter with a fuller alcohol kick than the Southern Tier but both are top notch facsimiles of the style.

I think. The details are a bit fuzzy.

It was an expensive experiment as Up the Creek charged six bucks a pint -- triple the price of the Bud and Miller Lite taps.

I think these small town places in the rural South are catching on that big city tourists want good beer -- but they are going to charge the hell out of them for it.

Meanwhile the locals snicker as they suck on their two dollar long necks of red white and blue.

Oh well. That’s American entrepreneurship at its best.

I’m certainly not going to fault them for giving me what I want and making a profit off it.

In this case, good beer was just an added bonus because I was here to eat local Apalachicola oysters regardless of beer selection.

Up the Creek didn’t disappoint.

I’ve eaten a lot of oysters in my day, but these were some of the most exquisite.

I ordered them in two ways -- steamed and “Southern Fella”.

The “Southern Fella” were steamed with finely chopped collard greens, butter, parmesan cheese and bacon bits.

They looked like a work of art -- almost too good to eat.

Almost.

Decadent is the only way to describe them.

Unlike oysters baked with goops of melted cheese, these gourmet oysters allowed the toppings to complement the oysters rather than overwhelm them.

I mean, isn’t that the point of eating oysters? To actually taste the oysters?

You are paying a buck a piece for them -- an absolute bargain, by the way, compared to the price you’ll pay for oysters in Portland, Oregon or New York City. You want to make sure you get that taste of the sea you can only get from a freshly shucked oyster.

If I wanted lasagna on the half shell, I’d have gone out for Italian and skipped the oysters altogether.

The parmesan butter and the tender greens enhanced the flavor of the oysters while the bacon lended a smoky crunch.

Bacon enhances the flavor of EVERYTHING!

But as good as the gourmet “Southern Fella” oysters were, I have to say the more simple steamed oysters were even better.

Unencumbered by competing -- though complimentary -- flavors, the succulence of Apalachicola’s famous shellfish shone more brightly with nothing but some butter, parsley and seasoned salt.


I jazzed a couple up with some Ed’s Red Hot Sauce, a local cocktail/hot sauce hybrid made up the road in Port St. Joe.

Like a miracle bra on Kate Upton, it was good…

…but unnecessary.

What made these oysters so extraordinary was the labor and care that went into serving them.

First of all, Up the Creek only serves the freshest, plumpest oysters.

Each and every oyster is shucked by hand, freed from the shell by severing the attaching muscle and left to steam in a bath of butter for the absolute perfect duration of time.

There is no grit or grime or shell fragments to deal with. All the work is done for you. All you have to do is pop the oyster in your mouth and enjoy.

Easy and delicious.

Almost too easy.

I found myself exclaiming the virtues of my oysters to my waiter while ordering up another couple dozen.

“I know what you mean! I’ve been enjoying them my entire life,” said my friendly attentive waiter in a coastal drawl.

I say too easy because the tab for my afternoon of oysters and beer came to nearly seventy bucks.

But worth every penny.

In fact, the next day I came back again.

While the temperature wasn’t any warmer, this time the sun was out.

So I opted for the open air section of the deck facing the bay and the oyster trawlers tied up to the pilings.

I scored the only picnic table in the sun, a crucial coup considering that 60 degrees with a breeze off the bay wasn’t going to work for me in the shade.

If possible, the beer and oysters tasted even better in the sweet salt air with warming sunshine beating down on a bright blue afternoon.


After more of those delicious oysters and a couple more pints of IPA, I decided to explore the Up the Creek menu a bit further.

You think I would pass up the alligator, sausage, shrimp and crab gumbo?

Not a chance.

As good as it sounded -- big chunks of gator and sausage in a spicy crab meat broth warmed me up as the pelicans enviously swooped by searching for their own meal.

I had to try the alligator burger too.

Made with fresh ground up alligator meat and topped with a sweet mayo and a spicy slaw, this was one of the strangest sandwiches I’ve ever eaten.

It’s hard to describe.

The burger had the consistency of a swampy crab cake.


Okay. I know that is not helping much.

Like a gatorey chicken salad? Is that better?

No?

I don’t know.

It was odd. The meat was white, crumbly and surprisingly bland. Most of the flavor came from the tasty condiments. And the dousing I gave it with some tableside “Tiger Sauce”.

Oh, well. At least I can now say I’ve tried an alligator meat burger.

That might be the most I can recommend about it.

The side dish was the highlight -- fried green beans.

Vegetables taste so much better when they are breaded and deep fried. Especially when dipped in Up the Creek’s homemade rémoulade sauce available on the topping bar inside.

As I paid my tab and hit the road for civilization, I realized that this place is the ideal personification of everything an oyster-eating journey to the Forgotten Coast should be.

Up the Creek has the freshest plumpest oysters and the nicest views of this quaint bayside town.

Now I can see why Sports Illustrated chose this place as the backdrop for shooting Kate Upton in her various states of undress.

The American South never looked so good.

I wonder if she’ll ever come back to Apalach.

I know I will.

Hey, Kate, if you want to meet me on the deck at Up the Creek for a few dozen oysters, the t-shirt is on me.

Rating: Bought two shirts! (One for me and one for Kate.)

Take My Word For It, Gilhooley’s Is The Real Deal

Gilhooley’s
221 9th St.
San Leon, TX







Eight line machine and a sailor's daughter
Somethin' makes 'em crazy growin' up on the water
Playin' for my supper six nights a week

Hurricanes, Easter and New Years Eve

           -- Hayes Carll, I Got A Gig

Texas songwriting genius Hayes Carll got his start gigging in the waterfront dive bars along this hard-scrabble stretch of the Gulf Coast.

He probably wasn’t singing about Gilhooley’s specifically, but that’s exactly where my mind takes me whenever I hear that song.

It’s like I’m there. Right there in the smoke-filled low slung ramshackle dive populated by loud, long-neck swilling good ol’ boys and gals.

These folks give the term “fresh off the shrimp boat” an entirely new – and literal – meaning.

Four tin walls now there ain't much left

Lookin' like a homeless Cheers on meth

Homer's in the corner, breakin' up a fight

Good Lord, I hope I get paid tonight

I’m pretty sure Hayes was singing about some dive bar across the bay in Crystal Beach and not Gilhooley’s because this isn’t just a random smoky seaside hang-out for shrimpers, fishermen and other assorted salty ruffians to down Lone Stars beers.

I mean, Gilhooley’s is all that. But it is much more.

This dive just might be the best spot on Earth to eat oysters.

And on this chilly damp night along this narrow spit of land jutting into Galveston Bay, I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than indulge in an old fashioned Gulf Coast oyster roast.

I came to the right place.

Burnt fried chicken and Lone Star beer
Cops and the kids drink free 'round here
Girl behind the bar is takin' what she's givin'
Lyin' about her past and tryin' to make a livin'

“Where do you want me to sit?”

Shaking off the chill and inhaling the second-hand smoke, I’m sure I looked like an out-of-place out-of-towner where no one knows my name as I stood in the doorway searching for a vacant seat.

“Where ever the hell you want,” barked the gravel-voiced female bartender.

Broke pool table and some hard luck cues
Go tell your mama, I done paid my dues
Every one around here knows my name
Six nights a week in the neon flame

Head swivels all around and suspicious stares from the locals did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm.

I was here to eat some oysters!

Roasted out back over oak and pecan wood, the oysters served at Gilhooley’s are the very pinnacle of what oysters can be.

The first time I ventured into this joint, I brought a fellow suit along from Ohio who had never had an oyster in his life.

Eating your first oyster at Gilhooley’s is like losing your virginity to Scarlett Johansson.

Thanks to that magical night at Gilhooley’s, I’m pretty sure every ensuing oyster that boy eats will be a crushing disappointment.

For me, this is at least my third venture to this classic seaside dive. Whenever Houston Hobby Airport pops up on the Suit757 itinerary, I try to fit Gilhooley’s in there – even though it is a good 45 minutes out of the way from anywhere I would ever need to be.

When the weather is nice, the place to be is on a stool at the open air bar off to the side of the oyster shell parking lot.

On a dreary winter night like this one, a dark corner inside nestled between the space heater, the men’s room and an old piano works just fine.

License plates, African tribal masks and neon beer signs set the mood as my waitress brings my first of several $1.25 Lone Star longnecks.

The “National Beer of Texas” slides down even easier when you know you can get four of ‘em for a Lincoln.

But it’s the roasted Oysters Gilhooley I came here for.

And I wasn’t disappointed. Never am.

Each oyster, varying from tiny all the way up to break-out-the-knife-and-fork humongous, is encased in a parmesan cheese crust while floating in a pool of garlic-infused melted butter and nestled in its shell charred black from the oak and pecan fire out back.

The lips of the oysters are curled up slightly, a smoky scent emanates from the roasted shells and the parmesan and butter burble from their recent liberation from the hard wood roasting.

The rich flavor of the warm butter and cheese only enhances, rather than camouflages, the taste of the oyster.

These oysters, bigger, plumper and juicier than almost any other on the Gulf Coast, yield a wonderful salty, briny taste of the ocean itself.

As another famous songwriter once sang, “Give me oysters and beer for dinner every day of the year, and I’ll feel fine.”

Just fine indeed.

But I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to indulge in a few non-oyster items on Gilhooley’s extensive menu.

The gumbo was chock full of even more fresh Gulf oysters along with shrimp, sausage, chicken and lots and lots of Cajun spice. Ideal Gulf Coast comfort food on a cold winter evening.

The boudin balls were filling fried spheres of sausage and rice, perfect for dipping in the accompanying ranch sauce.

There's an old lion tamer parked behind the bar
Hundred pounds of weed in a stolen car
Oil patch boys and girls who went to college
Rules you don't break and laws that ain't acknowledged

As I tilted back the last drop of my last Lone Star and paid my tab (cash only – credit cards and kids strictly forbidden), I couldn’t help but marvel at Gilhooley’s well-earned divey credentials.

Genuine as a comfy pair of Wranglers, Gilhooley’s is the real wind-battered, gravel-parking lot, all-American deal.

And I am a lucky man.

The waterman at the bar in the cowboy hat may look like he wants to filet me with a knife, but a bit of danger and discomfort only adds to the pleasure of discovering roasted oysters this good. It’s like someone lifted the velvet rope and let me in a place I was never meant to be.

And yet, I had an urge to prove I had been there.

Which must explain why I mustered the courage to meekly ask my waitress if I could buy a Gilhooley’s T-shirt.

“T-shirt? We don’t sell no T-shirts, hon!”

And you know what? I’d have been disappointed if they did.

No 100% cotton proof for me.

I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Barefoot shrimper with a pistol up his sleeve
Some will go to Heaven, some will never leave
Pills in the tip jar, blood on the strings
Oh Lord, I never thought I'd see these things

Rating: Bought the Shirt! (Or at least I tried)