http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/ ChefTalk.com Cooking Forums - Food and Cooking disucssion for the professional and the at home cook. en Mon, 23 Nov 2009 03:28:07 GMT vBulletin 60 http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/images/styles/cheftalk/misc/rss.jpg http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/ http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/376-adaptibility.html Fri, 02 Jan 2009 02:56:46 GMT At some point over the long holiday vacation we domestic engineers find ourselves deeply engrossed in our own spirituality. Across the wide spectrum of faith, every one of us whose job it is to hold together the fabric of reality for our spouses and off-spring reaches a place where we become...



At some point over the long holiday vacation we domestic engineers find ourselves deeply engrossed in our own spirituality. Across the wide spectrum of faith, every one of us whose job it is to hold together the fabric of reality for our spouses and off-spring reaches a place where we become consumed in prayer and reflection due to the nature of the holidays.

Our faiths may be different, but there is a universal nature to our collective prayers. They all sound something like this: “Dear Lord, please I beg of you, send them back to school. Send him back to work. For they all might suffer great bodily harm at my hands if they don’t get out of my house. Amen.”

Oh, we love them all. The fact that husbands and children everywhere make it back to classrooms and offices with their heads still attached to their necks after spending as much as two weeks doing salsa dances on our last nerve is proof that we love them.

All I’m saying is that this up coming week of return to normal life couldn’t come a minute sooner. I’ve never quite so looked forward to loading up backpacks for school or to handing a briefcase to my dear sweet husband.

I have an inkling that I am not alone in my gratitude in seeing the holidays come to a close. I can see Monday morning now: as school buses and carpools began rolling out of cul-de-sacs and life in general gets back on schedule, there will seem to be an inordinate amount of women waving from the ends of driveways all throughout the neighborhood. As soon as that last work bound car turns the corner we will all begin the “jig-of-joy”. Our prayers will have been answered.

I, for one, had my fill of family and holiday frivolity early on. Like all good tactical officers, I made my battle plan, long before the horde invaded. I studied years past and adapted. Since I spent last year in a perpetual state of sweeping up broken ornaments, I restocked with “shatter-proof” equipment. Which is just a fancy marketing way of saying “plastic.”

This would have been a brilliant strategy had not the children spent the year adapting as well and expanding their vocabulary. Turns out, they now know what “shatter-proof” means and once they became bored with their Christmas loot they decided to “test” the nature of the manufacturer’s guarantee.

This is when I discovered that while the ornaments are indeed shatter-proof, things that they are hurled into are not. Next year, new plan.

My plan to use those fleeting hours in which the children were still wrapped up in the video games that Santa brought to clean up Santa’s work shop, I mean my sewing room? That didn’t happen either. Somehow I became an indentured assistant in the semi-annual culling of the garage. The problem with husbands who are in charge at work is that when they come home they harbor the delusion that they are still in charge.

With all the monkey wrenches that my clan of gremlins launches into what is supposed to be the well oiled machine of holiday vacation, it’s a wonder that I bother making plans at all. However, occasionally their monkey wrenches yield some fairly tasty repercussions.

See, I had planned Christmas dinner. I drew up a list of all possible things that would be needed to pull of a flawless, on time, tasty holiday feast. Goodness knows there comes a time when last minute trips to the store are moot, because the store is closed on Christmas Day. Then I made the fatal mistake of letting the husband do the grocery shopping. I must have been bumped in the head.

Late on Christmas Eve he returned with all the fixings I had asked for, with one major exception. While he was out, and apparently unsupervised, he made the command decision to switch from a brown sugar and honey glazed ham to the massive “on sale” pork loin that caught his eye. He was very pleased with himself and just knew that I would be able to carve the 10 pound behemoth into several meals, beginning with an extra special pork loin roast for Christmas dinner.

My well oiled machine came to a grinding halt, some how it never occurred to him that if ham was off the menu there wasn’t much of a point to the vat of honey and 3 pounds of brown sugar he brought home with the pork loin. It was time to adapt. A quick inventory of the kitchen gave way to the concept of our new main course. Born completely out of what was on hand we managed to create the best pork roast we ever had, even if it was plan “B.”

The other half of the loin is safely ensconced in the freezer and now that I have my house back to myself, I’ll probably be making it again. Except this time it’ll be on purpose.



PLAN “B” PORK LOIN:

For the brine:
8 cups of cold water
1 cup of sugar
½ cup salt
10 cloves of garlic, peeled
1 teaspoon fresh cracked pepper

1 pork loin
4-5 pieces of bacon
Stone ground horseradish mustard
1 sweet onion
1/3 cup chardonnay


The night before you intend to cook the loin, mix the brine ingredients together in a large bowl. Place the loin in the brine, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate.
When you are ready, pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees and line a baking-dish with foil. Remove the loin from the brine, reserve the garlic cloves and discard the brine. Pat the loin dry with paper towels. Brush the mustard over the surface of the entire pork loin. Wrap the bacon around the pork loin and place “seam-side” down in the baking-dish.
Peel and slice the onion into thin rings. Place the reserved garlic in the dish around the pork loin and scatter the onions over the loin. Sprinkle the chardonnay over the loin.
Put the roast in the oven and cook until the thickest part of the loin registers 155 degrees on a meat thermometer. Remove the loin from the oven and allow to rest until the temperature rises to 160 degrees. Slice and serve. ]]> izbnso http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/376-adaptibility.html http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/365-big-day.html Thu, 18 Dec 2008 17:25:15 GMT It has been 365 days of anticipation, months of planning and weeks of hands on preparation. After all the list making, hard core full combat shopping and the seemingly endless office and neighborhood parties Thursday is the big day itself. And come Thursday morning if you aren’t... It has been 365 days of anticipation, months of planning and weeks of hands on preparation. After all the list making, hard core full combat shopping and the seemingly endless office and neighborhood parties Thursday is the big day itself.
And come Thursday morning if you aren’t thoroughly exhausted to the point of not being able to remember if it’s Christmas 2008 or Christmas 1992 then you are either totally engrossed in your shiny new Barbie doll with a candy cane stuck to the seat of your fuzzy pajamas or you have been genetically altered for optimal endurance under prolonged hazardous conditions.
Christmas morning is usually an event that I have trouble recalling clearly. Like flash backs for a war veteran, I can usually remember bits and pieces. Hazy images of mountains of crumpled wrapping paper and discarded ribbons and bows, squeaks and squeals from the children and the overwhelming feeling that there isn’t enough fresh coffee in the universe is about all I can recollect.
The only way I can keep track of events from year to year is to flip through the pictures that show the absolute joy and wonder that can be brought about by a Batman action figure complete with working Bat-a-rang and the sheer delight that comes from a doll that wets itself.
All of our family pictures of Christmas morning have one thing in common, the utter lack of photographic evidence that I exist. This is by design. As I trog through any given Christmas morning, I always make sure that any and all available cameras are either hidden in a safety deposit box or are on my person at all times.
No sane person wants the future generations to look back through family photo albums and wonder who started the tradition of allowing a half crazed homeless woman to join the family under the tree.
I can hear it now:
“No dear, that isn’t a bag lady. That’s just what Grandma looked like after all the shopping, baking and keeping us from finding where she had hid the presents.”
“THAT’S Grandma! But she doesn’t have gray hair now.”
“Well sweetie, Grandma has a great hair dresser now, but her hair wasn’t gray back then either. That’s flour, she’d stay up all night baking up a storm so that we could have hot croissants for Christmas breakfast, a bunch of cookies to eat all afternoon and fresh rolls for Christmas dinner with one of her special cakes for dessert.”
“Grandma did all of that? But I thought she didn’t celebrate Christmas.”
“Well sugar, she did until one year your uncle asked why we couldn’t have Velveeta Shells and Cheese instead of homemade macaroni and cheese for Christmas dinner. Grandma kind of lost it and shouted something about us sucking the marrow from her bones. And that’s why we always get a post card from a cruise ship from Grandma every Christmas.”

Oh it’s easy to get overwhelmed with all of the work it takes to pull of that picture perfect Christmas Day. This year I’m going to take a page out of my girl friend’s play book. An accomplished cook and general all around super-mom herself, when I asked her what fabulousness she was preparing to bestow upon her family for Christmas she explained how she runs the big day at her house.
All the left over sweet treats and goodies, from fruit cake to fudge, that have worked their way into the house are set out on a large platter. Sister Shubert is called upon for her rolls and they are paired with the left over Honey Baked Ham from the Christmas party for ham and honey mustard finger sandwiches. Her world renowned crudités tray is whipped up, complete with pickled okra and dilly beans and the only thing she truly makes from scratch is her cheese ball. Everything is set out for one and all to graze upon while she does her best to recuperate from making it there all the way from Thanksgiving. I believe she deserves the Nobel Prize for coming up with that one.
The following is her cheese ball recipe that she adapted from Fannie Farmer. Knowing that I’m not a hot and spicy kind of girl, she warned me that while the Tabasco doesn’t impart too much spicy kick, omitting it leaves the flavor on the flat side.

MALIA’S CHEESE BALL

8 ounces cream cheese
2-3 ounces bleu cheese
8 ounces grated sharp cheddar cheese
1 clove garlic, finely minced
Dash Tabasco sauce

1/3 cup finely chopped butter toasted pecans
1 teaspoon dried parsley

Allow all of the cheeses to come to room temperature. Cream the bleu and cream cheeses together. With a wooden spoon, stir in cheddar, garlic and Tabasco. Shape into a ball. Toss the pecans with the parsley and roll the cheese ball in the pecan mixture. Refrigerate until ready to serve. ]]> izbnso http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/365-big-day.html http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/361-lovely-bunch-coconuts.html Sun, 14 Dec 2008 17:50:44 GMT While no holiday gathering would be complete with out entrees, casseroles or hearty appetizers, we all know what takes center stage, and all of the glory, during the Christmas season: sweets. Cakes, pies, cookies and confections of all sorts are produced or purchased in such quantities... While no holiday gathering would be complete with out entrees, casseroles or hearty appetizers, we all know what takes center stage, and all of the glory, during the Christmas season: sweets.
Cakes, pies, cookies and confections of all sorts are produced or purchased in such quantities that it makes one wonder why half the country doesn’t slip into a diabetic coma by New Year’s Day.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking the proliferation of sweet treats. In fact, I revel in all the goodies that come my way in pretty tins and crisp cellophane bags tied up with satin ribbon.
The only thing better than the endless river of sugary Christmas goodness is the sheer variety of delectable delights that can come your way, if you play your cards right. Should you be particularly crafty and cunning you know that you shouldn’t waste your year worrying about that Jolly Old Elf’s naughty or nice list. Instead, you do a little culinary investigation and a lot of ground work.
To maintain optimal Holiday sugar levels with minimal time spent in the kitchen you need to seek out and maintain the good graces throughout the year of at least one person who is known for their special Christmas truffles, one person who is known for their pralines, several prolific cookie bakers (to ensure a healthy variety) and at least one cake maker. Pie makers are good too, but keep in mind that they usually want to be invited over to ensure they get their special pie dish back.
If you can manage to convince a significant number of talented cooks that you are gift worthy, come Christmas time you might find yourself in the delicious position of having your cookie jar over flowing all through out the month of December. This is a handy tactic for people with a sweet tooth and an even dandier skill to have if you happen to be deficient in baking skills.
By early spring you should be tracking down the chocolate person, they usually show their skills off at Valentine’s and Easter. Cookie bakers and cake makers are easy to spot at school and church bake sales. Candy makers are harder to find; you really have to keep your ear to the ground for them.
Who your new best friends will be is a matter of taste. There is no need to put up with that irritating soccer mom, unless she makes a killer Snickerdoodle. The Devil himself would be welcome at my Fourth of July barbeque, as long as he can whip up a perfect batch of Yuletide Divinity.
Unless you are fortunate enough to live in close proximity to Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island, one of the hardest specialty bakers to locate is one who is skilled in the fine art of coconut. Coconut is a classic holiday flavor that always elicits strong opinions, you either love it or hate it, and finding a good coconut treat supplier is difficult.
Oh, there are many who use mountains of coconut in their Christmas baking, but under no circumstances should you let slip that you are a fan of coconut to just anyone. You might find yourself the recipient of four metric tons of Martha Washington balls, that strange confluence of coconut, maraschino cherries and nuts that I have never quite understood. Or worse yet, you could get some horrific combination of toasted coconut and butterscotch chips.
No, finding someone who can work the right kind of magic with coconut is not as easy as it might seem. So many things can go tragically wrong with coconut, but what would the holidays be with out at least one special coconut treat?
The only sure fire way to ensure a fine bit of coconut heaven any time of the year, let alone Christmas, is to become the coconut expert yourself. Who knows, if it gets out that you can conjure up coconut cloud nine, you might find a host of folks pulling out all the suck-up stops all year long in hopes of being on the receiving end of your Christmas spirit.
Master an easy breezy crust-less coconut pie and you can even leverage a few free meals; goodness knows you can’t leave your special pie plate unattended. The following recipe is a classic, straight from my Mama’s recipe box and a perennial favorite in our family.




Coconut Pie

1/2 stick melted butter (real butter)
4 eggs (jumbo or large eggs if possible)
1/2 cup self rising flour
2 cups sugar
2 cups milk
1 1/4 teaspoons vanilla
2/3 cup coconut

Combine all ingredients, except coconut, in mixing bowl. With a hand mixer, beat 1/2 minute a low speed, then one minute at high speed.
Stir in coconut.

Pour into two greased 9 inch pie pans. I prefer glass pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 30-35 minutes. ]]> izbnso http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/361-lovely-bunch-coconuts.html http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/208-why-im-crazy-about-olives-part-three.html Sun, 27 Jul 2008 06:52:47 GMT Then another career change, and wonder of wonders, my family was taking up residence in The City of the People itself. Demopolis is also known as The Diamond of the Black Belt. If you ever get a chance to visit, which I highly recommend, you are sure to fall in love with the place, we did. No one... Then another career change, and wonder of wonders, my family was taking up residence in The City of the People itself. Demopolis is also known as The Diamond of the Black Belt. If you ever get a chance to visit, which I highly recommend, you are sure to fall in love with the place, we did. No one can help but be captivated by the white bluffs on the river that runs through Demopolis’ historic down town. And if it is Old South architecture that floats your boat, there you will find some of the most splendid examples the South has to offer, including the magnificent Gaineswood a home of unparalleled beauty and design that is now owned by the State and open to the public.
In all the years we lived in Demopolis, I never saw a single olive tree. Although everyone assured me they could be found if you knew where to look.
Being closer to Montgomery in Demopolis than I had been on the coast, I took a spring trip to scope out the olive trees. Planning to return in the winter when the trees were dormant as well as the snakes. Years had passed and while there were olive trees in abundance, some now large enough to be dropping babies of their own, passing tornadoes had twisted pine trees in half making it near impossible to get down the long and overgrown drive except on foot. It would be no easy feat to get those olive trees out.
And I thought I would have time, but you know how the story goes…life happens and now I am back on the Coast and making that trip to Montgomery with a shovel is still something I plan on doing. Relatives who have dropped by to check on the place still claim to see olive trees there, all is not lost.
But even if I don’t have my own olive tree, yet, I can’t help but think of my French connection by way of Alabama every time I have the pleasure of consuming an olive of any ilk. It is a connection that is both costal, where we dine, and inland throughout the Black Belt, where we dig in the lush black earth to bring forth the fruits of our labors.
All of this reminiscing came about because as I tripped the inter-net fantastic I came across a site that finally explained to me that process my mother deemed not worth the effort and now that I see the details I can certainly understand, if not agree with, her assessment.
Giving several different ways to pickle, brine and cure olives it is some very cool information. I’ve not only bookmarked it in my favorites but wanted to share the nifty find with others who just might understand the passionate pull of good food.


Olive recipes - - The Olive Oil Source ]]> izbnso http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/208-why-im-crazy-about-olives-part-three.html http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/207-why-im-crazy-about-olives-part-two.html Sun, 27 Jul 2008 06:47:06 GMT I am the first and only member of my family of origin that can claim to be a Mobile native. Both my parents were from a region in central Alabama called the Black Belt, a place where the air is thick with the smell of the rich dark earth that once grew King Cotton and now sprouts corn, peanuts, soy... I am the first and only member of my family of origin that can claim to be a Mobile native. Both my parents were from a region in central Alabama called the Black Belt, a place where the air is thick with the smell of the rich dark earth that once grew King Cotton and now sprouts corn, peanuts, soy beans and peaches (up in Chilton County). Georgia might be better know for peaches, but road side stands all over the central part of the state all have giant hand painted signs heralding the arrival of Chilton County Peaches.
Daddy’s people hit the Black Belt just prior to statehood. Some came from Connecticut through the Carolinas and Georgia and the rest came straight from Virginia. Through a clever marriage to a much older spinster who happened to own a substantial amount of acreage, one of my ancestors became a land owner of considerable wealth. When she predeceased him he quickly married her much younger and more attractive niece, who was my great-great-grandmother.
By the time I arrived in this world the only portion of that vast parcel of land left in the family was eighty acres belonging to my grandfather’s brother. I would have to check family records to know if he was in his late eighties or early nineties when he passed away before my sixth birthday, regardless he always seemed as ancient as Egypt to me. However, until the day he died he kept cows and a passel of dogs even though his working of the land had shrunk from acres and acres to a “garden” only a few rows deep.
My father ended up with that land and growing up we would travel back from where ever his career had taken him and we would walk through the overgrown woods and somehow he was able to pick out of the wisteria and kudzu vines the places where a barn once stood and the imaginary line that separated the fields from the garden. The only things that I was ever able to spot were the last two remaining pear trees that had been planted by my grandfather and his brother just after the first Great War and the large puddle that was the remains of what had been a pond put in by those brothers with only a mule and their own two sets of hands.
The last time I was there those pear trees still put off fruit, but to get at the pears you needed a large to truck to hold a tall ladder so that you could climb up with a long stick to try to knock the pears out of the trees. We did go through all of that just once. The variety of pear is a mystery, but they are pears meant for canning not eating. We didn’t can them, I made wine. The process took a little research and some guidance from my grandmother, who had witnessed her older brothers make wine during Prohibition. Home made pear wine is best aged for about a year. Oh, it’s drinkable and pleasant as soon as it stops fizzing, but the one bottle we forgot about for quite some time was exquisite.

Lest you think my grandfather had been disinherited, he had gotten his own section of the family land. But unlike my great-uncle, who never married, my grandfather had children for whom he wanted a better life. He sold his inheritance and moved his family to Montgomery, the state capital. The plot he purchased there was smaller than the one he sold, but not by much, and closer to all of the amenities of modern life at the end of the second Great War.
Even though he was out of the “country” and worked for a wage he never gave up agriculture and horticulture as a way of life. The theory and history of working the land fascinated him. One tale of Alabama agriculture had captivated his imagination when he was a young man.
Over in the western part of the Black Belt, in Marengo County, lies Demopolis, which literally means The City of the People. Circa 1814 a group of Bonapartists fled France when their emperor was defeated. They had been prominent citizens and supporters of Napoleon and they feared for their lives during the brief Bourbon Restoration. The government of the United States offered them sanctuary, so long as they did something productive.
So in 1817 they decided to come to the fertile lands of frontier Alabama with roots and saplings from their native France. They formed the Vine and Olive Company and were allowed to purchase land at $2 and acre on the condition that they cultivated crops. There on the banks of the Tombigbee River these fine French ladies and gentlemen tried to grow the grapes and olives of their homeland. They failed miserably and by 1825 there was virtually nothing left of the Vine and Olive Company.
There were two theories during the 19th century as to the reasons for the failure of the French expatriates. The first, and initially the most popular, was that you just couldn’t grow grapes and olives in Alabama. My grandfather believed that it wasn’t the crops that failed, but the aristocratic idiots who were seen working the fields in clothing that was finer than the Sunday best of their American pioneer neighbors and who didn’t have any personal experience in France with which end of the shovel was used to dig.
According to family legend, sometime before he married my grandmother, my grandfather made a trip to the Demopolis area in hopes of procuring one of the olive trees rumored to have been left behind. He returned home with a sapling and planted it on his land. By the time he moved his family to Montgomery the original tree had died, but not before dropping a few olives and starting a new generation of trees.
So another sapling was taken with him to his new home. My grandfather passed away before my parents met and so did the second generation of his olive tree, but not before the third generation was planted just in front of the house. By the time I was old enough to be aware of the various flora surrounding my grandmother’s home that olive tree was as tall as the neo-classical cottage she lived in, with a deep V at its base that would have been perfect for climbing if olive trees didn’t also have rather large thorns on them.
It was at the base of that tree that my father told me the story of the Vine and Olive Company and his father’s ability to grow olive trees in Alabama that put off green olives as big as the end of a grown woman’s thumb. All this Frenchness fascinated me, after all as a Mobilian I knew that French mystic. Not to mention green olives were a particular favorite of mine, my taste buds had not yet matured to the darker varieties.
Daddy said that the olives would darken up, but the birds and squirrels never left them alone long enough to do so. He pulled out his pocket knife and cut into the olive to show me the pit, and here I thought it would hold a pimento.
Being an olive lover, I wanted to taste one. My daddy has always had the sweetest good natured grin and I remember that grin spreading across his face as I insisted on trying an olive straight off the tree, even though he had warned me that it wouldn’t taste remotely like the kind Mama put in our salads. I should have listened to Daddy.
The next thing I wanted to know was just how you made that thing on the tree taste like the ones from the jar. It was Mama’s turn to give a little bit of education. She had looked into the process years before, when she had first realized what was growing in her mother- in -law’s front yard, and pronounced it too much work when you could just buy them in the store.
My olive enthrallment never left me and eventually I graduated to black olives and then to oil cured and every kind of olive under the sun. When I was grown and my grandmother had left her home to live between my parent’s house and that of my father’s only sister I made a trip out to the old place. I found, to my surprise, with no one there to keep the expansive yard mowed the deer kept the grass mostly in check but all around the olive tree were little olive saplings. Some were no more than knee high, others as tall as I am, which isn’t all that tall. It didn’t take me long to return with a shovel in hand.
At the time I was a history major at nearby Auburn University. I dug trees for me and trees for my Ren and Ref professor whose area of specialty was Early Modern France. Having spent time studying in the Provence she was thrilled to get a tree that would put off actual olives. There’s that French mystic again. I planted mine post haste.
By the time my husband’s career took us back to the Mobile area, my olive trees were too young to put off olives but too big to be moved. I swore as soon as we were settled I would go back to Grandmother’s and get me another tree. But life happens and I never made it back.

Because I'm also long winded...Continued in Part Three ]]> izbnso http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/207-why-im-crazy-about-olives-part-two.html http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/206-why-im-crazy-about-olives-part-one.html Sun, 27 Jul 2008 06:42:54 GMT I’m crazy about olives. Want to know why? Too bad, I’m going to tell you any way. Time for a bit of a history lesson both personal and regional. I’m not sure if many of you are aware that the Gulf Coast region of Alabama was settled and occupied by Spanish and French as well as British... I’m crazy about olives. Want to know why? Too bad, I’m going to tell you any way.

Time for a bit of a history lesson both personal and regional.

I’m not sure if many of you are aware that the Gulf Coast region of Alabama was settled and occupied by Spanish and French as well as British forces before Alabama as we know it achieved statehood in 1813. Round about 1540 De Soto stormed through, just a bit north of where my native Mobile is now.
In 1702 Mobile, where it is today, became the capital of French Louisiana. All throughout Old Mobile the street names bear a striking resemblance to those more famous (or is that infamous) ones found in New Orleans. Iberville, Bienville, Conti and Dauphin Streets were, in the misspent days of my rather tame youth, my occasional stomping grounds.
The French left an indelible mark on Mobile. Catholicism was there, and firmly entrenched, before the Protestant English arrived and from that came the first Mardi Gras celebration in North America. Mobile IS the Mother of Mardi Gras, those folks in New Orleans got the idea from us. Hey Mister, throw me a Moon Pie!
Fort Conde, which displays all of the flags that at one time or another flew over Mobile, is an excellent place to visit to get an idea about the early cosmopolitan nature of the areas surrounding the Mobile Bay. There used to be a fabulous restaurant called Roussou’s located right next door to the fort, but they have moved across the Bay to Baldwin County. First to an upscale shopping center in Spanish Fort, and as of a few weeks ago they weren’t yet open in their new stand alone locale in Daphne. I hear the seafood is excellent. I know that the steaks are.
Oakleigh, an antebellum mansion in down town Mobile, is another place to catch the flavor of Mobile. The Oakleigh District has a smattering of small restaurants of fairly good quality, but the house itself is the center piece. My opinion on the highlight of the neighborhood is surely biased as I was a docent at Oakleigh during my sophomore and junior years of high school.
I can remember leading tours through the ladies’ parlor, decked out in my hoop skirt, and explaining to visitors from all over the world that the main reason the Yankees didn’t put torch to the house when they finally managed to take the city was due to the quick thinking of Mrs. Irwin, the lady of the house. Her husband, Gen. Irwin, was off at war fighting the boys who wore the blue. When she heard those Union soldiers coming she quickly removed the Confederate Flag from the front of the house and replaced it with the Union Jack. Mrs. Irwin had never given up her British citizenship and advised the would be arsonists that an attack on her home would be considered and attack against the British Empire, which is why you can still visit Oakleigh today.
The oaks that line down town streets are now almost as majestic as they were before Hurricane Fredrick took some of their glory down in 1979. The twin rows of live oaks lead right up Government Street to The Pillars, which has been the swank and pricey place to eat since I can remember. I have only eaten there once in all my life and I barely recall it as the occasion was a business dinner for my father’s company when I was very young. I do vividly remember the threats of death dolled out by my mother should we act as if we were raised in a barn. That and her remark on the ride home that they sliced their salad tomatoes as thin as Howard Johnson’s.
Across the street and a little bit east of The Pillars is the Popeye’s Fried Chicken that has a special claim to fame. To meet the architectural ordinances of buildings in the Down Town Historic District the Popeye’s people had to have special architectural plans drawn up if they wanted to establish a presence there. It is rather attractive, as fast food joints go, and it became the basis for all future Popeye’s Fried Chicken restaurant buildings.
As you can see, Down Town Mobile, at least for me, is about history and dinning.

Continued in Part Two ]]> izbnso http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/izbnso/206-why-im-crazy-about-olives-part-one.html