A Taste of Arkansas

My only experience in Arkansas was at a Greek restaurant. Well, I suppose it was a Greek restaurant judging from the photos on the wall and the font on the menu, but I don’t think Greek cuisine includes deep fried hushpuppies. I’m still not really sure what they are.

Speaking of deep fried, virtually everything on the menu was. It was fantastically redneck. The catfish, the steak, vegetables, the bread, I’m pretty sure the table next to me got deep fried spaghetti and meatballs. I was quite disappointed to find my ceaser salad was not deep fried. Only the croutons.

Speaking of croutons, lettuce + croutons + mayonnaise =/= ceaser salad.

And speaking of my dining neighbors, I’m pretty sure I overheard one fat woman yell at another fat woman for stealing her chicken butt. Ostensibly the most delectable part of the chicken’s digestive tract. You see, basically everyone in this restaurant was fat. Men, women, children. But not the waiters. See, the waiters are smart. They don’t eat Arkansas Greek food.

The only creatures here more voracious and slovenly than the customers were the mosquitoes. Swarming, inside the restaurant, at high noon. St Louis may be south of the Mason-Dixon line, but I realize now I have yet to truly experience the meaning of Dixie. It leaves me with dread and a lingering curiosity about the taste of deep fried mosquito.