Author: Bo List

Mom and Dad never told me where potato salad comes from. I just assumed that, like babies and Vlasic pickles, the stork was somehow responsible. But while touring St. Clair Foods with Brian Edmonds, the vice president of operations, I discover an awesome fact of life: The preferred item of my workplace lunches — Schnucks-brand mustard potato salad — is conceived right here in this nondescript warehouse on the Elvis side of town.

“We manufacture various food salads,” Edmonds tells me as we tour the factory’s departments. “Cole slaw, chicken salad, potato salad. We put together carrot sticks and celery sticks. And we make frozen foods, side dishes like chicken and dumplings and broccoli, rice, and cheese casserole.”

Some offerings end up in grocery stores; others are found on the menus of Memphis’ best-known restaurants.

St. Clair is a family affair, with Edmond’s sister, Lauren, serving as a product developer and father, Oscar H. Edmonds, as president and CEO. Edmonds the elder bought the company in 1976 and has since grown the business, which ships its products as far as Ohio, Texas, Florida, and the Carolinas.

“Dad was what you might call a ‘shade-tree mechanic’ of the food industry,” Edmonds says of his father’s earliest days in the condiment trenches of St. Clair. “Our business was built on the idea that the customer will buy quality. We use butter because we like butter. We use sugar when we like it better than corn syrup.”

I insist on seeing the potato-salad-making process, and Edmonds obliges. But first, I must suit up in white lab coat and hairnet.

The first step in the tater-salad process is the arrival of potatoes by the ton. An accumulator/conveyor belt picks up the potatoes from their Idaho-stamped cardboard bins and takes them to a giant pressure cooker, where the skins literally explode off of the potato. The spuds continue through steam and brush peeling, and then two nice ladies — Lan and Thu — cut out the visible flaws, work that Edmonds informs me will one day be done by infrared machines.

Humans replaced by robots? Edmonds assures me that other tasks will be found for Lan and Thu, who wave us away with a smile.

“In the early ’80s, we started working with Catholic Charities of Memphis toward employing refugees from Asian countries,” Edmonds tells me. “When they got here, one of the first jobs we had them do was put carrot sticks into bags. They’d work hard to stack them very neatly side by side and on top of each other, like bricks.

“One day my father tells them to stop it — that it’s a waste of time and that they should just dump them into a pile. Well, customers started calling and complaining because they wanted their bricks back!”

But back to that potato salad: Unflawed and cooked, the potatoes continue on to the coolest part: the cooling. “The cooking of the potato is nothing special,” Edmonds explains. “But the way we cool it is very interesting. We use a vacuum. You know how you blow on a Coke bottle — you hear that ‘whooo’ sound? We cool the potatoes like that, moving high-pressure steam over an opening in the container holding the potatoes. The steam moves so fast, it sucks the heat out. Like in space — the potato would freeze solid because of the vacuum in space.”

The potato pieces are then mixed in with the relish and salad dressing, and the process is repeated to the tune of 20 million pounds of potato salad annually. Another 10 to 20 million pounds of other St. Clair products also are made each year. Translation: 90 to 100 million servings for the consumer.

I ask what’s in store for St. Clair’s future.

“Steady, controlled growth,” Edmonds tells me. “If you do not grow, you die. But if you grow too fast, that can be just as dangerous.”

The dictionary tells us that a safari is a journey for hunting, exploration, or investigation. Faatimah Muhammad hopes that her Safari, Memphis’ newest tapas bar on South Main, isn’t merely a journey but a destination.

Safari is spartan, moodily lit. A giant paneled portrait of Warren Beatty greets guests at the door, a gesture of the eclecticism throughout the restaurant in its atmosphere and its menu. The tapas hop hemispheres: Caribbean jerk chicken, Southern-fried chicken, Thai shrimp curry, and falafel with hummus. A number of wraps are available, including chicken shawarma and fried tilapia. Everything’s home-made, courtesy of Chef Alvin Duplantier.

The lunch menu shifts focus away from the tapas and toward the wraps, pita pizzas (including deluxe chicken and veggie), and smoothies such as the “Wake Me Up,” a mix of soymilk, bananas, ginseng, bee pollen, and honey.

And yet one of the most interesting and affecting ingredients found in Safari are those in its story — how it came to be and what Muhammad hopes that it can be for her community.

The safari that led her to her current vocation began in 1991 with the accidental death of her 4-year-old son, Jabril, and the end of her marriage shortly thereafter.

“Even though tragedy happens in your life, God has another plan,” Muhammad says. “And God doesn’t make mistakes. The legacy of Jabril was, ‘Out of one comes many.'”

In 1999, Muhammad earned a degree in psychology from Christian Brothers University with an emphasis in grief counseling. From there, she spent time as a funeral home owner and director before working as deputy director of the Memphis Urban Family Ministries, an outreach organization that helps people with drug or alcohol problems or HIV/AIDS get back on their feet and lead better lives.

“The lesson I had to learn from things crumbling around me was that no matter how bad things look, it can always be worse,” she says. “I pulled myself up from my bootstraps and devoted my life to service for my community and for those less fortunate than me.”

Consequently, a portion of Safari’s profits go to Urban Family Ministries. It’s a feat made easier by the support of Muhammad’s friends and family: son Siddiq is general manager; daughter-in-law Angela serves as sous chef; and grandson LaDarius is a server.

As Muhammad and I speak on this slow-moving Monday night, a customer wanders in to place a carry-out order. I overhear him extolling the virtues of Safari and his love of tapas, so I invite him to sit with us for a man-on-the-street perspective. A jovial gentleman in his early 60s clad in sandals and Hawaiian shirt, Carlos has nothing but wonderful things to say about the restaurant.

“I’ve lived across the street for 17 years, and this is my favorite restaurant in the area. Reminds me of New Orleans. Ha!” he exclaims. Carlos ends many sentences with a “ha!,” not a laugh but as happy punctuation. I ask what he does for a living. “I eat. I’m a plumbing contractor with a $1.8 million-a-year business, so all I do is eat. I try to eat healthy, which is why I like this place,” he says. “I don’t want to get any bigger. Ha!”

Carlos’ order arrives. “You don’t serve wine here, do you?” he asks. Muhammad tells him that Safari will have a liquor license soon. “No wine? Then I’ll have to hurry home! Ha!” He does but not before announcing, “Tapas is the answer to life and everything!”

Safari is open Monday through Saturday for lunch from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. and for dinner from 5 to 11 p.m.

Safari, 414 S. Main (545-9000)

safaritapas.com

Fred “Jimmy” O’Connor may be a homegrown Tennessean, but the briefest of chats reveals him to be a Chicago boy through and through. When I join him at his Bartlett eatery, the self-monikered Jimmy’s, he wears the requisite White Sox T-shirt and points to his walls, which are covered in Chicago newspapers detailing important historical moments and general Chicagoland nostalgia.

O’Connor and I talk. I eat (profusely). My friend Julia takes pictures. Midway through our conversation, Jimmy, a stoic fiftysomething you’d want around if you were lost in a bad neighborhood, leans in and speaks in a lowered voice. Think Jaws and Robert Shaw’s terrifying speech as Quint, the salty and world-weary sailor, detailing in horrifying calm the 1943 shark massacre of the crew of the USS Indianapolis. Remember it? Jimmy speaks in that tone now as he tells me about a likewise fearsome creature: “The Hawk.”

I went to Jimmy’s seeking authentic Chicago-style stuffed-crust pizza, as well as some insight into what makes it different from, say, Little Caesar’s or Domino’s. For O’Connor, who lived in Chicago for years, the difference lies in that city’s very famous wind. “You need to eat something substantial in Chicago,” he says with his eyes narrowed and his voice lowered to just the right intimidating, Quint-from-Jaws level. “They have the wind coming in off the lake. They call it the Hawk, ’cause it flies in off the lake and cuts you in half!”

Chicago-style pizza isn’t restricted to the stuffed variety. There’s regular deep-dish as well as thin-crust. But there’s something special about the ooey, gooey, cheesy magnificence of the thicker, denser, weightier stuffed crust. It’s made much like regular Chi-town pizza, baked in a deep pan with the crust pulled up the sides to form a bowl. But the toppings are encased in yet another layer of dough, then sauce is added on top. Inside: unholy amounts of cheese (typically, at least a pound) and whatever else can be jammed in. O’Connor’s take on this combination is like a dough cauldron filled with ingredients — kind of crunchy outside with a soft center.

“You shoulda been there in 1982, when the wind chill was 81 below zero,” O’Connor continues, further illustrating the powers of the Hawk. “Now, that was cold!”

I register this anecdote alongside my father’s tales of walking five miles to school every day through the snow — that is, until I research the winter of 1982 when, by God, the wind-chill factor did reach 81 below zero in Chicago with a real temperature of minus 26. Sounds like a job for a pound of cheese if ever there was one.

Pizza done Chicago-style

There’s more to Jimmy’s than pizza. They’ve got bona-fide Chicago-style hot dogs, including the Chicago Fire Dog (hot!), the Belushi Dog (sour cream, onions, cheese, tomato slice, and taco sauce), the Ditka Dog (a Germanic affair with sauerkraut and Giardinaire peppers), and Dogzilla (an intimidating 13.5 inches of Vienna beef). The menu also includes some indigenous trivia, such as Chicago’s prohibition of flying kites and men fishing in their pajamas. Jimmy’s own rule for hot dogs: no ketchup!

I look about the restaurant — imbued with the charm and atmosphere of every hot-dog joint I ate in while living in Chicago myself (where I experienced plenty of cold but didn’t know to credit the Hawk). Near the counter there’s a “Morons Stand Here!” sign hanging from the ceiling, and, sure enough, a customer is standing underneath it.

“These people!” O’Connor exclaims. “They hang around, standing in the way, staring at us while we make their food. So I put up the sign, ’cause that’s where the morons end up standing.”

You won’t find much in the way of pleasantries at Jimmy’s. That wouldn’t be very Chicago-style. “I’m not gonna oogle over customers,” O’Connor admits. “They come in, they order, they sit down, they eat, then they get the hell out!” And he means it. But what Jimmy’s lacks in niceties, it is abundant in authenticity. It looks like, feels like, and (listening closely to O’Connor’s distinctive Toddlin’ Town accent) sounds like Chicago.

“When you walk through that door, you’re not in Tennessee anymore,” he cautions. “You’re on the South Side of Chicago.”

Interested in being on a first-name basis with your dinner? Look no further than the M4-D Ranch in the Oakland area, just outside Memphis via Highway 64.

M4-D owners David and Paulette Mastin think it’s important to get at least a little personal with their beef. “All our cows have names,” David tells me as he opens the gates to let the cattle feed. “We don’t want to treat them like commodities.”

An afternoon at the M4-D demonstrates that these cows are more than just a product. Even “cow depression” is a concern here. “We keep the cows with their calves as long as possible,” David says. “Cows get depressed when you take their calves away. You can see a difference. They don’t eat or move as much.”

Happier cows make for healthier cows, which, in turn, make for tastier beef, according to David. Taste is also affected by diet. The residents of the M4-D enjoy healthier meals than do their commercially processed counterparts: nutritious grasses and hay.

A visit to the M4-D website explains the difference between grain and grass diets for cattle and what it means for the consumer. Grass-fed beef tends to be less fatty and is richer in Omega-3.

“And there’s a secret ingredient,” David adds of the cows’ diet: flax seed. The benefits of flax seed for the consumer are no secret, though. It lowers bad cholesterol, harmful blood triglycerides, and blood pressure.

Also, the cattle here have plenty of room to move. Unlike commercial herds that live in cramped feedlots (which also produce environmentally toxic runoff), these cattle roam freely on an 80-acre farm.

Every element of a visit to the ranch is a reminder of two things: The Mastins’ treatment of their cattle is filled with TLC (tender loving care … not some dastardly chemical) and their operation is a family affair.

David handles most of the farm work, while Paulette covers marketing (though word of mouth has kept business moving swiftly with very little advertising), correspondence, scheduling, and deliveries. There is also a ranch manager, the mysterious Mr. Scrap, described by Paulette as a “cow whisperer.”

Courtesy M4-D Ranch

Happier Cows make for healthier cows, according to rancher David Mastin.

David and Paulette have three daughters, Rebekah, Morgan, and Kelsie, who range in age from 2 to 9. The girls are home-schooled. The running of the ranch is used as an educational opportunity, with each of the girls owning at least one cow.

Eldest daughter Kelsie, who was away during my visit, helps with deliveries and can advise on the best way to cook the different cuts of beef. Youngest daughter Rebekah is a bit too young to participate in the interview, but middle daughter Morgan, an aspiring photographer as well as beef magnate, is eager to get the message out about the M4-D. She takes me by the hand to show me her own investments.

“My baby cows are Scooter and Teddy Bear,” she tells me as we traverse the field. “The first Teddy Bear died, so Dad got me a new Teddy Bear.”

I ask David and Paulette if there’s a problem with the girls growing attached to the cows, since they place such an emphasis on naming and personalizing them. “Oh, yes, they get attached,” Paulette tells me. “But they handle it. They love the cows, but they’ll also ask, ‘Who’s for dinner tonight?'”

The Mastins sell privately — mostly to families with health and environmental concerns similar to theirs.

“We wanted to make sure we were eating the best possible food,” Paulette says. “You can’t do that if you don’t know where it’s coming from.” So they started raising their own cattle as healthfully as possible. “Pretty soon friends and family wanted the kind of beef we were eating, and so we grew. Our business has been growing ever since.”

Come fall, lamb will be available at the M4-D, and this summer will mark the Mastins’ first foray into pigs, which will be similarly spoiled with the healthiest possible diet.

Oh, and what does “M4-D” mean? Meat-4-Dinner.
For more information on the M4-D Ranch, go to
m4d-ranch.com.

Chicken and waffles. Say it. Okay, so it doesn’t flow from the tongue as trippingly as other dynamic duos like Batman and Robin or chocolate and peanut butter. But the two unlikely items have lots of fans and share a history featuring a cast of characters as diverse as Thomas Jefferson, Gladys Knight, and two Southern ladies named Alcenia.

Jefferson, it turns out, brought the waffle iron back from France, and documented cases of chicken and waffles in America appear shortly after. In the days after slavery, chicken and waffles were served on special occasions. Poultry was rare, and the poor, unable to afford a waffle iron, tended to eat pancakes. The dish entered the mainstream at Harlem’s Wells Supper Club in the late 1930s, where it was served to late-performing musicians who missed dinner and weren’t ready for breakfast.

Herb Hudson later took the idea to Hollywood, where he opened Roscoe’s House of Chicken ‘n’ Waffles in 1976. The Wells Supper Club closed in 1999, but Roscoe’s is still open with five locations.

Gladys Knight (sans Pips) kept the musical connection alive in 1997 by starting the modest franchise Gladys Knight and Ron Winans’ Chicken and Waffles, which you can enjoy for yourself by taking a midnight train to Georgia (Lithonia and Atlanta locations, as well as Washington, D.C.). In fact, the main attraction, four Southern-fried jumbo wings atop a waffle, is called the “Midnight Train.” Woo woo!

Memphis diners, do not despair. There are two chicken and waffles hotspots in our very own downtown. (A third, chicken-and-waffle purveyor, Onix, located at 412 S. Main, opened after this story’s deadline.)

Miss Polly’s Soul City Café, open since last March, follows the Wells tradition of catering to late-night musicians and Beale Street hangover-ers. Owner Ty Agee, a jovial Hardeman County cattle rancher, notes the décor with glee: The tables are hand-painted tributes to famous Beale musicians (like B.B. King and an unlikely reunion of Ike and Tina Turner on the same table), while a giant plush rooster — Polly — greets incoming guests.

“Come in 7 to 9 a.m.,” manager Sarah Hutchinson advises. “That’s when you hear the best stories over Bloody Marys.”

Sarah and Grace are a mother/daughter serving team. “All the guys on the street come by for Grace,” Sarah notes. “Good thing you’re here to keep an eye,” I reply. “Oh, I’ll cut them,” she offers back. “And they know it.” She smiles but is dead serious.

Justin Fox Burks

Sarah and Grace at Miss Polly’s

The dish arrives: a fried leg and thigh, with eggs and waffle to the side. The chicken flirts on the spicy side, while the perfectly round waffle is heaped with a golf ball serving of butter.

“A year ago, I weighed 278 pounds,” Agee says of his relationship with the meal as I stuff my face. “I’m down to 222 now, so I don’t have them as much as I’d like, but they’re delicious.”

A few blocks to the north, chicken and waffles can be found at Alcenia’s Desserts and Preserves. An unpretentious yet whimsically eclectic café awaits the customer here as does a hug, which I received from owner B.J. Chester-Tamayo.

The menu is all soul, including fried cucumbers, sweet-potato fries, and Ghetto-Aid (billed ominously as “very sweet Kool-Aid”). Saturdays feature a $10 brunch with a choice between, among other items, salmon croquettes and, yes, chicken and waffles. I was given my choice of a thigh and leg, and two sides — for me, grits and fried green tomatoes. The latter were sliced thin and as sweet as they were sour.

Alcenia’s is a real treat, not just for the tasty brunch but for the homey atmosphere and proprietor Chester-Tamayo’s good company. She sat down with me for a lovely 45-minute chat about the challenges of small-business ownership, her mother Alcenia’s great recipes, which she uses in her own cooking, and her beloved baby granddaughter — also Alcenia. This place feels like a family kitchen.

Chester-Tamayo points out Alcenia’s motto: “Feeding the heart, the head, and the stomach!” And as she explains: “If I feed your heart and your head, your stomach will be okay.”

Miss Polly’s Soul Food Café, 154 Beale (527-9060)

Alcenia’s Desserts and Preserves, 317 N. Main
(523-0200)