Try It On Crackers
Memories from the Mayflower
This photo was taken before the renovation of the Mayflower. I love the renovation, but this is beautiful. One thing I loved about the Mayflower was that it was kind of worn out, and a lot of the patrons were worn out.
One night I ate alone with a book. Theo asked where the blonde girl was, meaning Susan Meriwether. As I worked through my cup of gumbo, a small Greek salad, and a dozen broiled oysters with fries, punctuated with crackers and comeback, through the doors came former governor Waller, who ate there more often than at home, wearing a suit that looked like it hadn’t been pressed since Lee surrendered.
Then came in Jerry Clower and Justin Wilson, with something brown in a bottle in a bag. "Just ice, please, Polly." Both of these men made their living from using a fake country accent on the TV and radio. In real life, they sounded like every old man what hung out on the porch of John Stockett Stables. They were discussing food and politics, both Democrats, but not Dixiecrats.
My dad introduced me to the Mayflower. Doug Draper said he should spend more time with his boys, especially me, so he took me to the old downtown YMCA to use the indoor track with Rowan Taylor. It was suspended above the basketball court. It sounded like three elephants trying to stamp down a bridge. We got close to taking it down.
After the run and some work with kettle bells, my dad said I could swim.
"I didn't bring a suit."
"Most of these old guys just swim nekkid."
"Nope. nope. Nope."
We got steam. The first time ever. Bob Hearin smoked a cigar in the sauna. I say "smoked," it wasn't lit. They probably discouraged smoking inside the Christian health facility. I'm not gonna lie, I miss the days when folks could smoke wherever the fuck they wanted to. I don't smoke anymore, but there's something about seeing somebody relishing in their aloneness with a smoke decorating the air.
If you've ever lit a woman's cigarette while her brown eyes focus on yours and not the fire, listening to music in the middle of a seedy dark bar, you won't forget it. Those of you who never frequented the Subway Lounge missed a significant chunk of Mississippi.
After a steam and a cold shower, Daddy took me to Mayflower. Other times, he'd take Joe too, but this first time was just us. I had a cup of gumbo, a small Greek seafood salad, which was a small Greek salad with two shrimps and some crab meat.
Polly said the dressin' was so good it made y'all want to come back. Holy fuck, y'all! An old lady with her stockings falling down her leg was right. It changed my life.
Daddy encouraged me to try his oysters. It was a test. I took to it like a pro, even though it was mostly crackers and horseradish.
My mother didn't care for Mayflower. She liked Primos. In high school, as a test of their devotion, the older sorority girls made the younger girls eat raw oysters nekkid without crackers or sauce at the Mayflower. My mother ran out on Capitol Street to vomit, hoping not to get any on her gloves, starched crinoline skirt, or petticoat. Everyone could see her. They eventually banned sororities in high schools for a long time because girls can be a lot meaner than boys, but my mom was off Mayflower and oysters for life.
If I wanted to eat at Mayflower, I had to go with my dad, my grandfather on haircut Wednesdays, the legendary Travelers, or some creature with enormous eyes and trembling hands from Millsaps College. I also knew some lesbians who would take me after midnight, after making me visit the only gay bar in town. Theo must have thought I was some sort of weird pimp. He had nefarious dealings of his own. I'm not against gambling. I'm not above putting money on a game. It was illegal though, even though the Mayflower was in plain sight of the FBI and Chief Black ate lunch there a few days a week.
Before redfish took over the world, the stars at Mayflower were the red snapper and the speckled trout. My dad had the speck. Eventually, he and Charlie Deaton would teach me how to catch them. I had the Red Snapper Steak. I wanted to see what a fish steak looked like. It had fried potatoes, kind of brown, different from the fries at Burger Chef. When I reached for the ketchup, Daddy said, "Try the dressin'." Holy. Moly. Cheese on the cross. That was so good.
"Y'all want pie?"
I didn't want to end up vomiting on Capitol Street like my mom did thirty years before, so I waved her off. Their pie was legendary. I knew a girl who would smash up her slice if she didn't finish it. "They'll cut the part you ate off and serve it to somebody else, y'all," she promised. I didn't know how that was possible since she ate the back half with the crust. It wasn't worth fighting over, plus, women know things, y'all.
Sometimes, Daddy would sneak out with my sister for ice cream at night. I never minded. We had ice cream at home, and I had boy stuff to tend to. I think spending time with a freshly scrubbed, sleepy little girl made him feel better about the complexity of his life. Daddy and I had Mayflower, while my oldest brother didn't care for it, we two middle boys did. Baby sister was kind of a picky eater. The sight of raw oysters might have put her off. Her children love it, even though one don't eat meat. He's not a communist or anything, he just don't eat meat.
Even though she was blonde, and loud, and all the things I didn't want in a woman, Susan Meriwether was incredibly dear to me. This ran a lot deeper than you'd imagine. They called her "Muffy" and admonished her for laughing too loud and too often. That was a cover for a deeply melancholy spirit, and wounds I never could properly heal or bandage. A few times a semester, I would get a phone call. "Can we get pie and comeback?"
Somehow. Mayflower became her place of refuge, and I became her Raphael, guardian angel of the melancholy, suffering from spiritual ills. Comeback with crackers and pie was restorative for her, at least for a while.
My favorite companion, I won't name. She had chocolate brown hair and coffee colored eyes. She wrote, far better than I. We talked about literature and art while I wished I had the courage to hold her hand, or say something — anything to reveal my heart. I lacked the courage. Besides the issue of her mother killing me, she was beautiful and I was ugly, so that's how it remained in the cascading red light of the neon sign, in the autumn night, in a thousand-year-old cafe, in the middle of Jackson, in the twilight days of the Mississippi Camelot.
Elise and William Winter came in. The architects of Mississippi Camelot. They knew me from my dad. They knew her from her cousins. Mississippi is like that, a small town putting on airs like it was a slightly smaller town.
"You know the governor?"
"They were talking to you, doll."
Mayflower passed from family member to family member and then to one of Mississippi's most notable chefs. I say "one of" because his generation has five or six guys who might be Beard winners and put Mississippi on the map in terms of culinary. Chef Damien at Hal & Mal's is one to watch for. Kane Ditto might have secretly orchestrated the deal. He does that.
I didn't mean for this to go on so. I might clean it up and put it on Substack. I owe a chapter on my book too. It's gonna be one of those days. In five minutes, Feist-Dog will tell me it's time to get up. Gooood Mornin'! Farm report at six, pet Parade at seven, Paul Harvey at eight. This is Tennessee Ernie Ford, talkin' about sixteen tons…
