I discovered something about my father during his recent trip to Little Rock.
He's a Yankee.
And I don't mean the baseball variety.
Of course, I know Dad was raised in Pennsylvania and, save for his military years and the few years our family lived in Texas, he has lived in Maryland (south of the Mason-Dixon line in geography, if not spirit) for most of his adult life. But I never really noticed just how northern Dad's dining habits are until he noshed in the Natural State.
Instead of ordering a "Coke" -- the catch-all Southern term for soft drinks -- Dad always orders Pepsi, specifically Diet Pepsi.
He makes observations like this: "Arkansas doesn't spend a lot of money on napkins, huh?" Well, we did take him to several of our favorite spots -- Doe's Eat Place, Cotham's in Scott and Flying Fish -- all of which have a roll of paper towels as part of the standard table setup. (He did get real napkins -- cloth ones, even -- at YaYa's Euro Bistro, Cantina Laredo and Faded Rose.)
And then there's how Dad eats barbecue. Let me set the scene.
One night we decided to stay in, order some barbecue and watch baseball (this Yankee loves the Orioles ... who just so happened to be playing the Yankees). We picked up a Buddy Pak of pulled pork, buns, beans, potato salad and slaw, as well as a slab of ribs from nearby and award-winning Whole Hog Cafe.
We spread out the food and I set the table with everything we'd need -- plates, flatware, paper towels (I don't spend a lot of money on napkins either) and condiments.
I always keep a six-pack of Whole Hog Cafe's superior sauces on hand, and I read aloud the differences as I set them out.
"No. 1: Classic barbecue sauce; sweet and mild."
"No. 2: Tangy tomato; smooth, sweet and slightly spicy."
"No. 3: Same as No. 2, but spicier."
"No. 4: Traditional Southern vinegar and spice."
"No. 5: Sweet, dark and bold molasses flavor."
"No. 6: Rich mustard and vinegar; an Old South favorite."
Whole Hog even has a lesser known seventh sauce, administered only from behind the counter like a controlled substance -- "Volcano. The name says it all. Eat at your own risk.'' But I'm too wussy to have that in my collection.
I handed Dad the No. 1, recommending that he start with that before experimenting with the others. He then asked if I would bring out the ketchup.
Oh right, for the fries. I retrieved the plastic bottle of Hunt's, which is when Dad commented he preferred Pennsylvania-based Heinz to California-based Hunt's, as if ketchup isn't just, well, ketchup.
Wait, we didn't have fries. Whole Hog doesn't even sell fries! Why on earth would Dad need ketchup?
That's when Dad squeezed and slathered ketchup on his sandwich. His pulled. Pork. Sandwich.
Shudder.
"I was going to ask if you had salsa," he said. "Salsa is good on everything."
I'd say double shudder. But at least that showed a more Southern inclination. His favorite salsa, after all, comes from Texas-based Pace, which he acquired a taste for during our years in San Antonio.
But then he did the most peculiar thing with his ribs. He didn't put ketchup (or salsa) on them -- or if he did, I blocked that out.
He consumed them without any curious condiment.
But with a fork and knife.
Pass the ketchup and email:
jchristman@arkansasonline.com
Spin Cycle is a weekly smirk at pop culture.
Style on 04/26/2015