Marshall McClung
I recently wrote a column about a 1974 fire detail in Utah and meeting a Romanian shepherd (“Summer with a Shepherd,” Aug. 24).
Any time I was in a place I had not been before, I always watched to see where the home folks ate. It turned out to be just across the street from where I was staying.
The first time I visited this restaurant, I was met by the lady who owned it. She reminded me of Merle Walters, whom ran the Joyce Kilmer Restaurant (now Lynn’s Place).
She said, “What part of the South are you from, honey?,” not, “Where are you from?”
Southern Appalachian is a language recognized nationwide, apparently.
I replied North Carolina and she asked how long had it been since I had pinto beans and cornbread, and I replied, “Too long.”
This was highly-unusual food out west. As one Southern fellow said, “Them folks don’t eat stuff like we do.” She said, “I will cook you some next Tuesday,” and that she noticed sometimes I came in late -- probably from a fire. She went on to say if you come in late, I will have some saved for you.
Sure enough, we had a fire that day and I was late getting in. The owner had already gone home.
As I came in the door, the waitress took one look at me and disappeared.
About that time, the waitress reappeared with a large bowl of pintos, a slice of onion, and what must have been half a cake of cornbread, and said she had been told to save that for me.
I had another similar incident that summer involving the southern delicacy. I went into an area on fire patrol on horseback with an older, local forest service employee. When we reached camp, he told me I was in for a treat that night: we were having beans and cornbread. When I asked how he knew about that dish, he said that he had basic training in the U.S. Army at Fort Polk, La.
He then mentioned another Southern item he experienced that we call “moonshine.” He and some of his friends had gone out to a bar. The owner brought them a quart jar of what looked like water to him. He drank one glass and couldn’t tell any difference.
Another glass left him unable to get up from the table.
The owner came and told them they had to leave; that he was closing. He tried again to get up and fell into the floor.
When he awoke the next morning, he was back in the barracks -- courtesy of the military police.
I think several days of kitchen patrol followed.
Marshall McClung is the historical columnist for The Graham Star. He can be reached via email, mcclungs@email.com.