I had the pleasure of feasting with Ginny at Coopers BBQ today. Remarkably, she began our culinary excursion with a gift; a little postcard booklet from the “Sanctuary of Perpetual Adoration and Convent” in Quebec. I have since learned that this booklet dates back to the 1930’s, and I’m just tickled that she thought of me when she saw this at the flea market.

We debated many things, including the merits of Volkswagen automatic transmissions (Mike’s conclusion: they traditionally have weak bands and are poorly lubricated. Ginny’s conclusion: it gets me to the mall), peer pressure to get a newer car (Mike’s conclusion: women who drive older Volkswagens are automatically one degree cooler in my books, so back off), and whether or not to have an “about me” page on your blog (Ginny’s conclusion: do it!).

But the crowning jewel of today’s lunch was when Ginny was lamenting the idea of a car payment. In her own sweet way she admonished the idea; “I wouldn’t be able to go clothes shopping every week!”

On the way out, I uttered a silent prayer to the Volkswagen gods on her behalf.

It was impossible to get a good camera-phone photo inside of Pam’s Farmhouse Kitchen.  And there wasn’t much point in fiddling with my camera; my food arrived within seconds (yes, seconds) of ordering, and I wasn’t about to let it get cold.

Pam’s Farmhouse Kitchen is something of a rarity among restaurants.  Set in an older mixed residental / commercial area of southwestern Raleigh, it has that delightful styling from the 1970’s that you just don’t find anymore.  Exposed brickwork on the inside goes side-by-side with mirrored walls; the mirrors have that printed-on “crackle” look.  The lighting is dim, the cutlery is served in a little waxed paper envelope and there’s a framed picture of The Last Supper in one of the dining areas.

The menu at Pam’s is simple.  My sweet tea came in a mason jar.  Lunch consisted of a lunch meat (sliced turkey) with stuffing, two side vegetables (corn and collard greens), hush puppies and cornbread.  Gravy on top of everything.  The service was snappy, and as I said before, my food appeared with almost magical speed.

Restaurants like this are social places; cross-table conversations were the rule more than the exception, and I got the impression I was the only one who wasn’t related to one of the staff.

I’m especially fond of restaurants where they hand-write the checks - especially when the hand writing is indecipherable.

Pam’s is a cultural experience - one of the last of a dying breed of “family” restaurant.  And I highly recommend it.

I have decided to open up a new business.  It will be called “Helms BBQ Consultancy” and it will give advice on opening a new BBQ restaurant establishment.

My first whitepaper will discuss the following fine points of BBQ:

• The decor in a BBQ restaurant must focus on ceramic and plastic pig statues, hunting knives and leather sheaths mounted in picture frames, old coffee tins, Harley Davidson memorabilia and old handheld farm tools.
• Menus must be no longer than one page.  Truly great establishments can fit their menu on an index card.
• Dishes shall be made of plastic or ozone-destroying Styrofoam.
• “Tea” means sweet iced tea.  Period.
• Waitresses shall refer to all patrons as “sugar”, “honey” or “sweet pea”.
• The only exception to the above rule is the one angry teenaged waitress, who will dye her hair black and have a nosering.  When she’s not waiting on customers she will sit in the back, chain smoke, and chronically complain about her boyfriend.
• The owner will be a large man who hugs regulars as they come in and gruffly asks you how your meal is periodically.  He will also read the classified section of the newspaper to patrons, asking if they are looking for a deal on a such-and-such …
• If the restaurant will have its own BBQ or hot sauce for sale, the bottle will not have an ingredient list or nutritional information.  It will be delicious, and you won’t care if it’s killing you.
• The “chef” will be the smartest man in the place.  He will patiently listen to the waitresses complain about their husbands, the owner bitching about the rising cost of diesel and the customers complaining about whatever problems they’re dealing with.  He won’t offer any advice, though; he’ll simply make sure they have a delicious meal with a wink and a nod.
• The restaurant will have an old-fashioned lunch counter.  The stools will be bolted to the floor, and will have round vinyl cushions.  The countertop will be made of white linoleum with gold sparkles in it.  Each place setting will have a chrome napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, ketchup, BBQ sauce and hot sauce.
• The patina of age that these restaurants acquire will include family photos of the owner.  These will include pictures of the owner’s cousin’s family from Connecticut (mom, dad and the three kids wearing matching sweaters, posing around the family minivan), his brother (in full black leathers, riding a Goldwing trike with a POW flag on the back), various school photos of nieces and nephews (try to include a few shots from the 1970’s - these are delightfully tacky and embarrassing), and a glamor-shot of the owner’s mother (they still haven’t figured out how to tell mom that she needs to shave her face.  Daily.)

Lunch at Coopers. I will never get tired of that restaurant, and I’ll never get of blogging about it, either. It’s an ecosystem unto itself.

I ate at the lunch counter today. That was necessary for two reasons: the dining room was full, and the lunch counter is an important part of the experience that cannot be ignored.

Lunch counters need to come back into style. As a society, we’re too “into” the idea of our own private booth to give serious consideration to the idea that lunch should be a social activity. Being the daring socialite I am, I walked to the only open stool in full stride and enjoyed the going-ons behind the counter.

Three servers were working furiously to keep the lunch counter crowd in food and drink. Coopers is the kind of place where “tea” is only understood to mean sweet tea, and it’s freshly brewed and served to you in a styrofoam cup with plenty of ice.

Lunch comprised of “chop, with butter beans and Brunswick stew”. It was served on a styrofoam plate. It also came with a little plastic basket of hush puppies and rinds. Doused with Coopers’ own vinegar sauce, it’s a scrumptious meal and heart attack all in one.

It was the conversation at the lunch counter that interested me today, though. I was seated next to two fellows who were deep in conversation about the places they had lived in North Carolina. The one fellow’s resume was impressive; it included Durham, Raleigh, Garner, Fuquay-Varina, Rockingham, and Knightdale. Each place came with its own running commentary about the current state of affairs, which inevitably boiled down to nor’ners moving in and jacking up the price of real-estate.

And every time he made a point, the other fellow would punctuate it with “Mmmmm Hmmmm”. Emphasis was melodic; I think he was saying it in the key of E, and the tail-end of the “Hmmmm” would always rise up, suggesting some eternally unanswered question in his acknowledgment.

A few revelations from this weekend.

• There’s a wonderful southern BBQ restaurant in Raleigh called “Coopers”.  It’s been in existence since 1938, and looks very much the part of an old BBQ shack that’s been around since segregation.  I took Tony there for lunch on Saturday, and discovered the “Cooper’s Coma“.  This is the feeling you get after eating too much BBQ, Brunswick Stew and hush puppies.
• Canadian friends bring Canadian weather with them.
• Americans should hang their heads in collective shame over Black Friday.  We can’t elect a government that will fund education and health care properly, but we will line up at shopping malls in the middle of the night to save money on Chinese made junk - most of which will end up in landfills before the close of 2007.
• I need to spend a lot of time at the gym this week.