The Ride So Far: Frog Legs, Fried Chicken and a Catfish Sandwich

On the backroad going south out of St. Louis I stopped off at a 24-hour diner for an early lunch. I think it was called Pat’s Diner, but I can’t be sure because I am a member of the Satan’s Seniles Motorcycle Club but anyway, Pat’s, or Jerry’s (who knows?) is the kind of place where everything on the menu sounds like that’s what I want. Until you read the next item. Then it’s, no, that’s what I want.

I didn’t know that yet, but from the road the place looked right enough to me, so I pulled in, parked under an awning, and staggered into Pat’s still dripping wet from the road spray. A very cheery, welcoming waitress named Thelma pointed me to a vacant table for two, where I flopped my sopping leather onto the floor next to it and sat down. As inferred earlier, I got immediately overwhelmed by the loaded-with-goodies menu.

Hopelessly indecisive, I queried the waitress, and she gave me the patented, “everything we have is good,” but then she added that they had a frog leg special.

Feeling feisty and a little bit irritated after getting pounded by rain while making my way through St. Louis, I felt like a challenge. So, I pleasantly uttered the magic words:

“Are they any good or are you just pumping some overstock?”

In response she was much like Aretha Franklin from the Blues Brothers movie, except that she wasn’t wearing her bedroom slippers and she didn’t have her hand defiantly mounted on her hip.

But her tone and tenor were much the same as The Queen of Soul when my gal said, “they’re the best dang frog legs in Kansas and Missouri.”

Turns out they were the best dang frog legs in The World.

Up North, I’ve always found the roadhouse-style frog legs to be too buttered-out greasy, and the ones in Paris France are miniscule, like the French frogs that they serve up are actually the same species as the little peepers that go off on all the Michigan ponds in early spring. Pat’s frog legs were gargantuan, and they were spiced, dusted, and flash fried to perfection.

I left Aretha’s doppelganger cousin Thelma a hefty tip, complimented Pat profusely, and thanked her even more for steering me in the right direction, lunch-wise.

Then I climbed back on my bike and rode on.

—

Really long-distance motorcycle trips are, for me, journeys of healing and redemption.

When not off carousing on my bike I am most often in my own mind a too-anxious, wound-up kind of guy. I always feel like I’m neglecting my obligations, although I am unable to articulate exactly what it is that I’m neglecting. When idle, I become trapped in a cascading retirement-mode sense of undefinable foreboding, convinced almost subconsciously that I am falling hopelessly behind—and irreparably screwing up.

Often, I end up paralyzed, frozen away from actually doing anything about anything due to my hothouse-level of overthought.

Professionally, especially when I was a school principal, my extreme level of misgivings were an almost daily, lifelong nightmare.

That, I know, is some real screw loose shit but it’s not as bad as it sounds. While I make a big-assed, way out of proportion deal out of everything, at the same time I also stay committed to making the best of it all and searching for a way to turn any challenge into a winsome time of full-throated fun—for me. Most important, I always see great humor in everything, good and bad, which makes me a truly happy soul in spite of myself. And over the long haul I’ve gotten quite a bit of life done anyway.

On the other hand, he needs a shrink is surely many a reader’s apt response to the above. I tried that without result. Twice.

The first time was part of a couples-in-distress series of sessions on the couch that soon enough dissolved when the couple dissolved, and the second time the youthful psychiatrist, after the first and only time we met up, told me that she was sorry, that she couldn’t do anything for me.

I thought that was at least honest, albeit disappointing….

Anyway, the shrink failure was no big deal. Despite all the obsessing and mental self-flagellation, I had already come upon my own failsafe self-help miracle salvation modus when I got my first motorcycle. I was 16 years old. Ever since, motorcycling, especially for long distances and for days at a time, has been my way of relearning the joy of living despite the daily news, reacquainting myself with the miraculous physical beauty that we all live within, and resetting my mind and body back to a place of balance and proportion.

Another way of saying it is, I settle the fuck down, see, and am amazed by a bunch of cool places, eat like a local wherever I end up, and meet some really great people. I am reassured that we will all be alright. I will be alright.

Still, for me it takes many miles to achieve that sort of motorcycle nirvana.

The first few hours of a new trip I’m giddy. Everything is amazing, wonderful, and worth noting—to be shared with enthusiastic wonder as soon as I can get to a phone. As the day goes on, the miles accumulate slowly, and I glance at my odometer several times expecting to have gone further. At the end of the first day, I am tired, and sore, and hungry. And thirsty. For beer.

The second day is the tough one. My ass is sore, as well as my hands and shoulders, which becomes more of a problem when I ride too many miles again because of overestimating how far I’m capable of after not riding for months. My longest riding day ever was 701 miles but that was 30-plus years ago. I was riding a 1991 Harley FXR with no windshield and a straight pipes/no baffles/no muffler exhaust system, and I was still young and dumb enough that I was camping. All I can remember from that day is sitting on top of my campsite picnic table, exhausted, with my ears ringing so badly that I couldn’t sleep or even think.

These days I’m capable of 150-250 miles and in a pinch, I can push it to 300 miles. But if I do I have to scale way back the next day. Despite knowing this often-painful fact through dozens of previous trips, on this one I went ahead and planned out a 270-mile second day anyway and paid for it that night in Muscatine Iowa.

The third day is when the ride starts. Even an old body like mine comes around to the long rides, and when I wake up teh third morning all I can think about is shooting a coffee and jumping on my bike. In the case of my current journey, the third day’s end goal was Hannibal Missouri. The whole ride was filled with mind-nurturing eye candy, guided by a sort of extra venous sedative coming from simply letting the miles and time go by without counting them—or even being aware of their passing. Hannibal itself was literally a childhood, lifelong dream come true.

In any event, at this point let’s put you, the reader, on my 2021 Harley Davidson Electra Glide Revival, and send you off down the road. For a month.

After a week you and the motorcycle are completely in sync. You can fill up the gas tank each early morning and then explore with no more effort exerted than if you were sitting in an easy chair in your living room each day, all day, watching the travel channel with the sound turned off. Your Harley hums like it is monotonally chanting a long, continuous Ohm and you succumb into a rolling (yet still mindful) meditation. The only people left living where you are riding are hanger’s on from a bygone era when humans were still needed to tend the crops. They are few and far in between and you don’t ever see them.

There are no cars or other motorcycles because you are way off the beaten track, in the middle of nowhere, and the cotton, soybean, and corn fields roll by without end. Only a here-and-there stand of trees or an occasional farmhouse break up the relentless monotony. But the monotony is partners with the humming Harley, and you are vaguely aware that the monochromatic scenery is actually good for you and your slowly recuperating soul.

Riding and then riding some more, you just keep pounding away the miles. Pretty soon you start to think deeply, about what you’re going to do with the rest of your life, and what you should have done before now. That train of thought goes on for hours or even a few days. Next comes the zen part of motorcycling (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is, in my opinion, a great book but the whole center part lengthily detailing the Greek philosopher thing got a bit boring). “How long” and “how far” become irrelevant.

Eventually, the monotony does get to be too much, and you start singing completely-the-fuck off key (who cares!) as the miles keep rolling along, and then the greetings start as you continue to pass them all by:

“Hi Cow!”

A clump of trees obscures your view of the herd for fifty yards or so, and then more cows come into view.

“Hi Cow,” you yell again.

Hi Horse!

Hi Pig!

Hi Goat!

Hi Donkey!!!

Then you see a gang of wild turkeys pecking along just on the side of the road and you slow down and gawk. You are as excited as you are on the Fourth of July when Miss Tiny Town rides by in a baby blue prom dress that is crossed by a royally adorned white sash. She is 17 years old, wearing a tiara crown, and waving her white gloved hand like Queen Elizabeth—while sitting high up on the back of the cockpit of a late model red Corvette. The gobble-gobblers animating your ride are equal in effect to each year’s parade queen! You are thrilled!

Still, you approach the turkeys warily because they are in fact as dumb as a box of rocks and will stroll out into the road as carefree s a bird—directly into your front wheel at the last second. Nonetheless, you press your knees against the gas tank, lean back going no handed, and clap enthusiastically! As you pull even with the giant fowl, you affect your best, most ludicrous Brooklyn accent and you HOLLER OUT, gleefully, TOY-KEYS!!!

If any of this sounds familiar to you, then you already know.

—

The seemingly endless backwoods miles of the Mississippi Delta are filled with the ghosts and skeletons of what was. Clarksdale Mississippi lays claim to The Crossroads, where legend has it that Robert Johnson met up with the Devil and traded his soul for the chance to become a virtuoso guitar player. That crossroads, where Highway 61 and Highway 49 intersect, is kind of touristed out now, almost gawdy. I don’t mean to sound cynical but for me Abe’s Barbecue, across the street from the Robert Johnson Crossroads Historical Marker, is a much more important and authentic landmark.

But there are hundreds, if not thousands of crossroads throughout the Delta with no one to be seen or heard for miles, where one can still feel the vibrations. When I stop and turn off my motorcycle at any one of them all I hear is the wind and the cicadas, or whatever they are, buzzing away. And yet, there’s more to it. A feeling. A subtly implied choice offered in the wind.

Call me crazy but I am a believer as well as a crappy guitar player. But I am an OK guy overall, and that is good enough. So, I make my choice without further comment or conversation, and I always, at least so far, fire up the Harley and choose to go right….

That is an example of the screw loose shit I experience on a long-distance motorcycle trip. It makes me happy. I am happy.

I am not totally sure, but I believe that these last days zig-zagging back and forth through Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, Missouri, Illinois, and Mississippi, with the Mississippi River as my Y-axis, have been the happiest days of my life. For sure, they have been as happy as any that I can remember. If one were to take out a map and pick a  more or less straight line road anywhere out in the country that is 40 miles long going from start to finish—I can turn that into a full day, 150-mile jaunt with a stop at every roadside historical marker—and love every second of it. That is my blessing, and the way out of all the screw loose holes full of shit that I dig for myself.

I realize that at 69 years old (in a couple of days—Happy Birthday to Me!) there is no one left on this Earth who thinks that anything I say or do is of any consequence. Nonetheless I’m going to say it anyway, whether it matters to anyone or not.  In my opinion there is nothing so good as tearing down a truly off-the-beaten-track country road on a motorcycle in America, or anywhere in the world for that matter. There is no need for a psychiatrist, a listening and empathetic friend, a dog and/or cat buddy, a television, computer, or phone, a purpose, a goal, a destination, or a solution.

A motorcycle, a road map to cipher out when lost, and a beautiful, seemingly endless countryside are all that need to be.

—

Riding into Tunica Mississippi, I saw what I was looking for on the right side of the road, just as my all-time favorite bass guitar player and dear friend, Tony Garnier, said it would be. He had highly recommended the accurately named Blue and White Restaurant and piqued my interest further by telling me that one of the staff was a huge Robert Gordon fan.

Meanwhile, the restaurant in question stood out like a giant, hyper-lit neon sign—standing alongside a bunch of lightless, metaphorically faded 70-year-old wall advertisements—painted on the sides of a row of abandoned buildings. It was shiny blue. And bright white. And there was no way that I was going to pass this one by.

I walked in and the bi-colored diner was almost too much, while at the same time laugh-out-loud funny and perfect. Everything was blue or white—the counter stools, the countertop, the tables, the chairs, the doors, the floor, the ceiling, the walls—all of them were either blue or white, and many of them were blue and white. There was no red, orange, yellow, green, or purple, no other colors at all other than the clothes that the servers and cooks wore. It’ s just my opinion, but if the staff were forced to wear some sort of “50’s” blue and white hat, skirt, shoes, and apron ensemble—that would have been too much.

The restaurant was pretty much empty as it was still a bit too early for lunch but too late for breakfast, so it was easy to find a table. As I walked toward the back, I came upon a really long buffet table with heated slots for at least thirty items, but only three had stuffs in them. Collard greens were in one of the slots and I think the other two had grits and steamed carrots. I found that odd, but whatever.

After introductions I asked the hostess who the Robert Gordon fan was, but she had no clue and neither did my server, so we moved on and my waitress gave me a bunch of time and two glasses of homemade iced tea to hold me over till she came back. The time wasn’t necessary, however, as I came to a decision fairly quickly.

Most of the menu was traditional, but what leapt out at me were the catfish sandwich (pan-fried, blackened, or deep fried) and the fried green tomatoes—not something you would find in Minneapolis or Paris. They were an easy pick, so when the waitress came for me, I helped her fill in her order pad with decisive authority! I went with blackened and chose the homemade coleslaw over the potato salad or the cottage cheese as if I were a longtime Blue and White Restaurant aficionado. A Blue and White pro.

The sandwich was killer. The fried green tomatoes were so tasty and kicked the catfish to another level! I loved it, and the coleslaw was just the way I like it to be—finely chopped and creamy but with a hint of vinegar (although there isn’t a kind of coleslaw that I don’t like).

Finishing up, I was happy, satiated, and hydrated to the max from 17 glasses of iced tea, and so after I was done eating I dawdled a bit while still seated, spending some time deeply focused in perusing my map—looking for prospective little county side roads to explore. After settling on some turn off and get lost possibilities I paid my bill and made my way to the exit, while planning in my head an excessively enthusiastic thank you note to Tony for the outstanding recommendation.

Then I saw the buffet table again, only this time it was loaded. I was discouraged, disheartened, disappointed, and distempered all at the same time.

All the slots except one were filled with every kind of side dish that can be found south or north but with the accent on southern cuisine. The one slot that didn’t contain a side dish was the one front and center, all by itself. The tray that sat in that spot held a majestic mound of fried chicken. Breasts, thighs, legs, and wings.

All of them, the whole tray of chicken deliciousness screamed, “EAT ME! I’M THE BEST DANG FRIED CHICKEN THAT YOU’LL EVER HAVE IN YOUR WHOLE DANGED LIFE!

I looked around, and until then I hadn’t noticed that the entire place was now packed to the gills with customers, with nary an open table or seat at the counter. Every single one of those mother@&%$@$s had a giant plate-full of beautiful, glorious fried chicken, with fresh-steamed carrots, and collard greens, and corn on the cob, and mashed potatoes and gravy, and homemade biscuits, and who knows what all else packed onto a bunch of side plates that filled in every space of their respective tables. No one was talking—I swear, they were all humming a gay, happy tune while they ate.

I had just wasted my time with a shrimpy (no pun intended) catfish sandwich, and some measly fried green tomatoes, and a teeny, little ramekin of coleslaw—while seemingly the entirety of Tunica Mississippi was immersed in fried chicken heaven. I wanted to turn the clock back to when I first entered the restaurant. I wanted a do over.

But the blackened catfish sandwich was in fact giant, and the fried green tomatoes were not measly, and the coleslaw was not teeny. I was stuffed. I may be gluttonous, but I am not Mr. Creosote.

I felt like crying.

“What…The…Fuck…,” I slowly said out loud, much to the consternation of the three old women who were sitting closest to where I was standing. They too were enjoying the finest fried chicken buffet that I had ever seen, and after a unified harrumph of disgust they returned to their feast.

I was going to go back and complain to my most gracious but cruelly secretive waitress—about not clueing me in about the fried chicken buffet. But then I remembered that I already had to make right with the last waitress I had adversely encountered on this trip due to my ill-mannered ways. So, I let it go and headed for the door.

But…. Nope.

I couldn’t let it go.

I walked back to where I was sitting previously and I found my waitress clearing my table.

“Miss?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me about the fried chicken buffet? It looks amazing.”

“I asked what you wanted,” she replied, only a tiny bit defensively. “You immediately answered that you wanted the catfish sandwich. It seemed to me that you knew exactly what you wanted and were sure of it.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t see anything about a fried chicken buffet on the menu,” I countered, respectfully.

“We don’t put it on the menu. It’s a once-a-week only special.”

“OK, but couldn’t you paper clip a little filing card on the menu telling about it, or tape a sign on the front door so people can know you have it today?”

“Well,” she pondered sincerely. “We don’t feel like we need to make a big deal out of it.”

And then she proffered a statement that was so perfect in its simple finality that no further dialogue, however friendly, would be necessary. It was a response that was like the door of a bank vault slamming shut, or the last glowing blue sliver of a Hawaiian sunset dropping below the horizon.

“You just have to know,” she said.

—

Long distance motorcycling is like that. I have tried to describe it. I have tried to define it. I have used my most creative imagery and my most flowery, descriptive words that I know, but I’m not good enough. I’m not Mark Twain good enough and I know it.

Therefore, I will just parrot the know all, see all spiritual guide/waitress from the Blue and White Restaurant in Tunica Mississippi:

You just have to know.

Coming soon

Memphis: Barbecue Heaven