Sunday, August 21, 2011.
Red Beans And Rice On The City Of New Orleans. Middendorf's.
The train met the dawn in Tennessee. I arose from a very sound nine-hour sleep just after seven, when I heard the first call for breakfast being made in the hallway of our sleeping car. I honored Mary Leigh's request to be left alone until she woke up on her own. I dressed, eased myself out the door, and made the five-carlength trek to the dining car.
The man I was seated with was almost finished, and got up before the juice and coffee arrived. Nobody took his place. For the first time in all my hundred or so breakfasts on trains, the "railroad French toast" (it was always called that, even before Amtrak) did not appear on the menu. And it was so good going up! Instead, I had scrambled eggs, sausage, grits and biscuits, none of which were even slightly above ordinary. Oh, well.
I slipped back into the bedroom, folded up my bed, and began writing. We eased into Memphis at about nine-fifteen--still an hour and a half late. Memphis is a longer-than-normal stop. It's not noise that wakes you up on a train, but quiet. After almost twelve hours sleep, my daughter arose. She was cranky, because she assumed she had not slept well. But couldn't remember waking up once during the night. She's getting the feel for train travel, even as she swears this is her last rail ride.
She didn't want breakfast or anything else, and took her time getting out of the bunk. The train started in on the worst section of track on the line, the former Yazoo and Mississippi Valley route through Greenwood and Yazoo City. It will never go back to the original route. The CN sold it off in pieces to short lines. We put up with being thrown back and forth for the next couple of hours.
Mary Leigh is dreading the return to Tulane next week. Not because her classes are tough (she made the dean's list last term), but because it will make her face the college social scene again. She hates it, especially the bar-hopping part. I have a daughter in college who doesn't drink. Every parent should be so lucky. But she worries that she doesn't fit in. I keep telling her to forget about that. She's too good-looking to avoid would-be friends. But what could I possibly know?
When the train slowed for its stop in Yazoo City, we made our way to the diner for lunch. There we met two interesting people. They were not traveling together, just seated at the same table, as is normal on a train. One of them was a middle-aged woman who has done a great deal of train traveling over the years, but always goes coach. She is a writer and poet.
The other was a young man who edits copy for The New Orleans Levee, a satirical publication with one of the best editorial mottoes I've ever heard: "We Don't Hold Anything Back." We had an entertaining conversation about all sorts of things, although the item I will remember is the Levee guy's word "foamer." This is the term given by professionals in a business (in this case, railroading) to overly avid fans of the industry. Enough foamers exist for railroads that several magazines are published for them. The fact that I know exactly how many trips I've taken on this train (this is my forty-fourth) proved that I am a foamer myself.
As entertaining as our banter was, the most memorable part of this lunch was the daily special. My jaw dropped when the waitress said it was red beans and rice with andouille sausage. (Amtrak dining cars are as bad as chain restaurants in their obliviousness to local specialties.) An even greater surprise: the beans and especially the sausage were not just good, but great.
I told the attendant (they don't like the word "waitress" on the train) to let management know that the leading restaurant critic in New Orleans said this was the best dining car special he'd ever had. "Oh, we know about you," she said. Who's we? And what do you know? "We were told that a food writer was on this trip," she said. How could anyone have known that? I can't go anywhere anonymously anymore.
The last legs of homeward travel are always full of impatience. I told Mary Ann that we'd alight not in New Orleans but Hammond. The train pulled into that station just after three, Mary Ann was waiting for us, and Mary Leigh's horrible ordeal ended.
Mary Ann figured that as long as we were here, we should go to Middendorf's. Both Mary Leigh and I were still full from lunch, but one must mollify one's ride. Too bad the train doesn't stop in Manchac; the City of New Orleans runs right in back of Middendorf's.
At four in the afternoon, the place was full. They're giving out those flashing beepers now to tell you when your table's ready, and we got one. A seafood platter came for Mary Ann, who accompanied her eating of it with a moaning Greek chorus:
I shouldn't be eating all this
Here, you take some of it
I held myself to a half-dozen barbecue oysters. That dish predates Drago's version, but is nothing at all like it. It has a unique, ruddy, slightly sweet sauce). Mary Leigh asked for a cheeseburger, of course. She didn't like it, but who would expect a good cheeseburger in a catfish house?
Owner Horst Pfiefer came by and gave forth the news that it has been a very busy summer. He said his wife Karen is in Germany with his parents, spending most of her time happily relaxing and reading books. "That would drive me crazy," he said. "I've got to be doing something all the time!" I said that Mary Leigh and I had just done a week of running around, bracketed by long periods of doing nothing (the best thing to do on a train). I'm not sure whether that appealed to him or not.
This might be the last time any member of my family ever goes training with me. Oh, well. We're not supposed to all have the same tastes. The Marys agree, but wonder why my tastes have to be so eccentric.
Middendorf's. River Parishes: Exit 15 off I-55, Manchac. 985-386-6666.
It has been over three years since a day was missed in the Dining Diary. To browse through all of the entries since 2008, go here.
