Thought y’all might like these while you wait,” said my waitress, placing a red paper-lined basket on the table in front of me. Inside, a glorious heap of small, round, golden-crisp, freshly fried pickle slices. “Don’t forget the tartar sauce.” She pointed to a small pot tucked behind an extra-large piece. “Y’all enjoy!” And didn’t I just, one warm, comforting tartar-dipped bite after another. I could hardly stop, despite the feast to come.
Overexcited to be experiencing my first taste of southern hospitality in the rural Deep South, I’d gone all out with my order: a catfish sandwich, red beans and rice and a side of dam fries – the name a nod to the nearby reservoir, I later learned. “They’re topped with ranch and barbecue sauce, mustard, melted cheese and jalapeno slices. You want some? They’re real good. Trust me,” my server insisted, crouching down to add it to my order. She was right.
