I was finishing supper on a recent Thursday night when the texts began rolling in. Friends were informing me that the public television network that now brands itself as Arkansas PBS was again showing a documentary in which I participated almost a decade ago. Kane Webb, Bill Vickery and I visited Delta regions of Arkansas and Mississippi to profile tamale makers. It still rates as one of the most interesting projects in which I've been involved.
We need things that bring us together at this point in our history. It occurs to me that food unites us in the South--black and white, Democrat and Republican. In making the documentary, we visited tamale stands owned by people with family roots in Africa, Italy and Syria. It was proof that the Delta is a melting pot. When I conduct what I call my Delta food tours, which usually consist of long days traveling from Little Rock to Clarksdale, Miss., and back, we sample the three Delta food groups--fried fish (catfish and buffalo), pork barbecue, and tamales. I've always been interested in how tamales became a part of that Delta trinity.
In 2013, a couple of years after the television documentary was produced, the great food writer and humorist Calvin Trillin visited Greenville, Miss., for the first Delta Hot Tamale Festival. Trillin wrote in The New Yorker that Delta tamales are "smaller than Mexican tamales, and the dough covering the filling is usually cornmeal rather than masa. In flavor, as opposed to temperature, they're not particularly hot. They're simmered rather than steamed, then wrapped in shucks (dried corn husks) and often tied together in packs of three. The filling can be beef or pork or turkey or chicken or a combination.
"Since the meat is chopped up, it has long been customary to frighten children and put off outside visitors by mentioning that, for all one knows, a hot tamale might include some meats that are not available at your friendly neighborhood butcher shop--in particular, house cat. Hot tamale vendors like to mention that they have a secret formula for their seasoning. Part of the secret tends to be chili powder and cumin. In a 2005 interview with Amy C. Evans, an oral historian with the Southern Foodways Alliance, who compiled an interactive Tamale Trail map of the state, Frank Carlton, a lawyer and sometimes district attorney who used to stage something called the World Championship Hot Tamale Contest in Greenville, said, 'I hate to divulge this secret, but it's the truth; if you can make good chili, you can make good hot tamales.'"
Anne Martin, who grew up at Greenville and helped start the festival, wrote a 2016 book, Delta Hot Tamales. Martin described the region this way: "The fish are big and the tales even bigger, and neither is served without a cocktail in hand. Something is celebrated every day, and it doesn't have to be anyone's birthday. The sun coming up is reason enough. The minute two or more folks get together, one of two things is about to happen: church or a party. And if it's a party, the first two things you will be asked are 'what do you want to drink?', quickly followed by 'can I get you something to eat?' Delta folks love to do both, especially together. You won't have to look hard to find hot tamales served at any Delta party, no matter how big or small, how elegant or casual.
"They will be served right alongside the ham biscuits and shrimp dip. Hot tamales are a staple at church potlucks and family gatherings and have been known to show up at the homes of the bereaved. Regardless of race or economic status, hot tamales are a favorite with just about everyone. Ride around any Delta community, and you won't have to look far to find a hot tamale stand. They usually aren't very big because most times the tamales aren't cooked there. Ask who makes them and most likely you will be pointed to someone's house where the hot tamales are made in the kitchen and sold out the side door."
Martin visited Arkansas food legend Rhoda Adams, who has been selling hot tamales in the Lake Village area for 50 years. Her husband's aunt taught her how to make tamales using a mixture of beef, pork and chicken. Adams told Martin: "I don't tell anybody how I make my hot tamales. But everybody tells me they like mine the best."
Trillin noted that the most persuasive theory regarding the origin of Delta tamales was that "Mexican migrant workers brought tamales to the fields at the turn of the 20th century and black field workers adapted them, perhaps with a bit of seasoning help from Delta Italians. The other substantial ethnic group in the Delta, the Chinese, apparently kept hands off; nobody has ever bitten into a Delta hot tamale and said, 'You know, this tastes almost Chinese.' There are plenty of other theories, including ones that trace the origins back to an African dish called cush or to the Choctaws or to soldiers returning from the Mexican-American War with a taste for tamales.
"A family of Sicilian origin runs Doe's Eat Place at Greenville, a tamale-and-steak joint that began as a honky-tonk and looks it--one family member has said that the building is held together by grease--but Delta hot tamales have traditionally been sold mainly by African Americans from small shacks or even from their own kitchens. Scott's, the second-best-known purveyor of hot tamales in Greenville, operates out of a white hut that is the size of a double-wide phone booth."
Adams got it right when Martin asked her what makes her tamales special. She replied: "Because I'm special."
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Senior Editor Rex Nelson's column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. He's also the author of the Southern Fried blog at rexnelsonsouthernfried.com.