Southern Comfort

I know why they call it soul food.

I’d heard from friends and read online about an old house in downtown Montgomery where they served some really good, homemade, southern food. I stopped by there twice and they were closed, and it didn’t look too promising…a rundown two-story house where the sign, apparently always said open, even when they weren’t, which was often.

I decided I didn’t need the experience or the calories, but some friends who had lived there said it was a must, I absolutely had to hit it.

So the day before we left I decided to make an event of it. I’d go to “Martha’s Place,” then go to the Montgomery Fine Arts Museum, the last thing on my to-do list.

Well, I walked into the old house and before I knew it, I had a tray of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens, black-eyed peas, lima beans (!), cornbread and a couple of other things I wasn't sure about…oh yeah…and southern sweet tea. (I always say “unsweetened” when I rarely order tea, but I thought I’d go huge and stay authentic.)

So to the question, "Lemonade or Sweet Tea?" (those were the only choices) I said, “Sweet Tea please,” before I changed my mind. No dressing on the side, no “leave off the butter,” no boneless or skinless anything. Full-up…Full on.

It was absolutely the best…the exact thing I needed. I sat there and let the Southern lady care for me, call me “baby,” ask me if I needed anymore chicken, and tell me dessert WAS included—-it wasn’t an option. There was no perky little 20-something blonde with the “Did you leave room for dessert?” That's easy to decline.

The comfort of it all was too intoxicating…there was no question about dessert…if you go to Martha’s Place, you are so getting dessert.

On my day, the choices were…lemon meringue pie, bread pudding or red velvet cake. I went for the red velvet…how often do you get that choice?

It was SO bright red…not pink…RED. And the frosting was white. It was really good, although I could only take a couple bites because I DID have a second piece of fried chicken--more on that later. The cake wasn’t sweet at all…almost unsweetened, but the frosting was crazy sweet, good combination.

So I sat in that little old house built in the early 1800s sweating like crazy and loving it for over an hour. AC? I’m not sure…if so, it wasn’t able to hang with the 99 degree temps, but it would have almost seemed inappropriate. What did seem appropriate was a nap on the front porch, which, I probably could have done. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have batted an eye.

I was comforted by the southern food, the southern care, and that incredible sweet tea. I was up to my second knuckles in grease eating that fried chicken, I couldn’t put it down. Now I typically eat a piece of fried chicken maybe once a decade…but I couldn’t stop myself here. I ate all the skin, all the dark meat and went for seconds.

Actually this is an unusual decade--I just remembered I did have a small piece of fried chicken a year ago when we drove through Amish country at one of those Pennsylvania Dutch home-cookin’ places...

Sorry but those Yankees shouldn’t even be allowed to call it the same thing. That fried chicken, I could take or leave, and actually regretted even trying it…This Southern-comfort-on-a-plate (yes, and a heart-attack also), I couldn’t get enough of. I left wishing I could fit in a few more bites.

I finally rolled my sweaty self out of there and back into my car wishing I had let the sweet southern lady refill that sweet tea one more time for the road (what’s another 400 calories?). I set out for the Fine Arts Museum. It was just across town, but by the time I got there I was fighting off a serious food-induced coma. Combine that with the heat and I had to whisk through that museum and get myself back to our room for an afternoon nap.

It was the perfect way to finish my Alabama time. Of course yesterday, just before driving out of the state, I did get one more large glass of Southern Sweet Tea. A girl can’t afford to drink that on a regular basis, but I needed one more taste of the real thing.