Miss an Old Friend

I’m fixing to miss an old friend.

He wasn’t just any friend, he was a special friend indeed because he served the most delectable fried catfish anyone ever touched to their lips. If you happened to be Catholic or not, it didn’t matter, you always knew that on Friday you could not only get some fish, but that it was going to tickle your taste buds.

I always approached the Tillman House with reverence on Fridays around noon time, licking my lips in anticipation of a couple of Ben’s fried catfish fillets, accompanied by some of his tartar sauce from atop the counter, some cole slaw and some veggies along with a big glass of sweet tea.

Now I have to admit his cornbread wasn’t the best, but I always overlooked that because it was overshadowed by the taste of his greens, butter beans, and on special occasion the best fried green tomatoes ever served up on a plate.

I’ve had fried green tomatoes in a lot of restaurants, at home and at old aunt’s dinner tables, but Ben’s were the best. They weren’t limp and floppy or greasy, no sirree, they were crispy fried, brown and crunchy.

One day after the rush at lunch had kind of dwindled down and I was enjoying the last one on my plate, Ben wandered out from behind the counter. Suddenly he was next to my table, wiping his hands on his apron and asking, “How’s them fried green tomatoes?”

After I begged him to tell me how they were prepared he kindly told me, “You just slice’em up and coat’em with some meal and salt and pepper, just like you would do your fish. Then you lay’em flat on a piece of waxed paper on a big flat pan and put them in the freezer. You don’t have to freeze them, but it don’t matter if you do, just leave’em in there long enough to firm them up before you drop’em in the hot oil. When you take’em out of the fryer you stand them up sideways instead of lay’em flat to drain.

“It makes a difference,” he told me. And it did. I tried making them that way at home and he was right, his recipe really worked. Well, not quite as good as his, but close.

I’ll miss his booming voice as he spooned some crowder peas and some boiled okra onto my plate. “Y’all gonna have anything fit to read in that newspaper this week?”

It wasn’t just his “down home food” that made Ben special. It was also the clientele he attracted to his establishment, which consisted of the pillars of the community.

I never heard an angry word spoken at Ben’s House. When you walked in the front door it took you back to a better place in time when good food, friendly faces and lively conversation were some of the things which still really counted in life.

Inside his slightly gruff exterior, Ben was as sweet as his peach cobbler.

We’ll all be fixing to miss him.