Soon There Will Be No Reason To Ever Go Back North

It wasn’t all that long ago, if you wanted to eat an authentic pasty in the United States, you had to drive a very long way north to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to get one. Getting up there was a very time consuming ordeal, even if you lived in the southern part of Michigan. 

The pasty is thought to have its origins in the mining communities around Cornwall England.  Miners needed a simple but nutritious food which they could carry into the mines, and so, through time, the pasty was developed.  Eventually, as Cornish miners made their way across the Atlantic to work in the copper mines of Michigan, they brought their knowledge of this portable food with them.  And, it's a good thing for all pasty lovers in North America, both past and present, that they did. 

Immigrant miners from other countries, most notably Finland, made the pasty a part of their own diets, and soon it became a staple in the Michigan mining communities.  The copper mines are now deserted, but the Cornish influence lives on each time a pasty is made and consumed in Michigan’s northern most reaches.

The pasty is a self-contained meal.  It is essentially a pie crust which is wrapped around a combination of meat and vegetables, crimped and sealed around the edge, and then baked.  The filling of a pasty varies depending upon the specific recipe, but most include meat, potato, onion, rutabaga, and salt and pepper.  Sometimes turnips and carrots are added, and meats can include beef or pork, or, a combination of the two.  The pasty is often eaten with ketchup or gravy, but some people eat it without either one.

Since I was a young boy, I’ve visited the Upper Peninsula of Michigan more times than I can count, and I've always bemoaned the long travel time to get there.  But I also knew that at the end of a very long automobile ride, I would be rewarded with many great things to see and do, including, eating a delicious pasty.  And, that always made the long trip worthwhile.

The world is getting smaller, due in large part to technology and engineering, but sometimes it gets smaller because of the vision, hard work, and dedication of entrepreneurs who are not necessarily focused on technology, physics, or mathematics.  One such entrepreneur who has made the world much smaller is a man named Allan Gower.

Ye Olde Miners Yooper Michigan Pasty Shop, owned and operated by Allan Gower, is just like many similar shops found across the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, except for one very important fact.   Mr. Gower’s pasty restaurant is not located in Michigan at all.  It’s located in Zephyrhills, Florida, a city best known for bottled spring water.  And while Allan Gower is originally from Maine, not Michigan, it is interesting to note that Maine’s coast along the Atlantic Ocean looks very similar to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan’s coast along Lake Superior.  Other similarities include cold and snowy winters, and often, very cool summers.  Perhaps these similarities are among the reasons why Mr. Gower appreciates the history of Michigan's pasty so much.  Whatever his reasons, he has perfected pasty making to a fine art.



Allan Gower

 Allan Gower’s day begins early.  He makes two batches of pasties each day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon.  Making and selling over 200 pasties a day in peak season keeps Gower a very busy man indeed.  Florida’s “snowbird” season during the winter is when he is the busiest, and the summer is when he is the slowest, but whatever the season, he keeps serving up delicious pasties day in and day out.  And, if you are eating inside the shop instead of grabbing a take-out order, you’ll enjoy looking at the old photographs of Michigan copper mines which line the walls.  These photographs, along with some mining artifacts, give the place some real character.

The good citizens of Zephyrhills, many of whom originally came from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, provide a loyal local clientele for Gower’s pasty shop.  Many come in weekly to get the food which reminds them of a home up north which they left long ago.  But they are not alone.  Other Michigan transplants, living throughout Florida, also make their way to Zephyrhills every couple of months to buy frozen pasties.  Bringing ice chests in the back of automobiles, trucks, and minivans, they take advantage of the shop’s discount on large frozen pasty orders.  But, there are others who frequent the shop as well.

“Sometimes,” Gower says, “people come in and think I sell something else.”  Apparently, there are some folks, who drop by, because they think they can purchase those other “pasties.” Pronounced differently, but with the same spelling, they are looking to buy those little adhesive nipple coverings worn by some female employees in gentlemen’s clubs.  Most troubling about this, perhaps, is the fact that the sign on the front of the shop clearly indicates that the name of the place is “Ye Olde Miners Yooper Michigan Pasty Shop.” There is certainly nothing wrong, I suppose, with a gentlemen's club employee with the appropriate job title to be looking for a place to buy pasties. But, you have to wonder, at least a little bit, about someone who is looking to buy them from a place called “Ye Olde Miners."

As you would expect, Gower sells the beef pasty with all of the traditional ingredients, but he also sells a non-traditional chicken pasty as well. And, every Friday, he sells vegetable pasties.  On the day I visited, I ordered and enjoyed a beef pasty.  Gower’s pasties are very thick with generous fillings, and I split the difference by eating mine with both gravy and ketchup, and it was delightful.

If you go, Ye Olde Miners Yooper Michigan Pasty Shop is located just a few miles east of Interstate 75 at 35201 State Route 54 in Zephyrhills, Florida.  The shop is open from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. Monday through Friday, and 11 a.m to 5 p.m on Saturday. 

Allan Gower is a man who has successfully shrunk the distance between Florida and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan without a lot of fancy technology, or, some science fiction time machine.  Without him, there would be many people in Florida who would otherwise have to travel well over a thousand miles back to Michigan to get something very historic, authentic, and, delicious to eat.  It now seems to me, that with the availability of pasties in Zephyrhills, Florida, that soon there will be no reason to ever go back north.

Of Clam Strips, An Oyster Poor Boy, And A God Fearing Man

Every once in awhile, certain food cravings hit me, and I can’t stop the craving until I give in to it. I was out and about in Tampa one day recently, when I was suddenly hit with the urge to eat an oyster poor boy sandwich. I know that in a lot of places they’re often called “Po-Boys,” "Po' Boys," or “oyster samiches,” and that’s fine, but I’m going to refer to them as poor boys. Otherwise, it would bother me. Sir Winston Churchill, who is today recognized as the master of the English language, would roll in his grave if he heard anyone referring to a “samich,” and if it’s not good for Sir Winston, then it’s not good for me.

The origins of the oyster poor boy are found along the Gulf of Mexico. It probably originated in Louisiana, and consists of fried breaded oysters on a baguette. It is most often dressed with lettuce, tomatoes, and mayonnaise or tartar sauce. Of course like all samiches, I mean sandwiches, it can also be served with onions and pickles. However the sandwich is made, I’ve never eaten one that truly disappointed me. Perhaps, some were better than others, but all were good.

As I finished up my errands around Tampa, and knowing that my favorite oyster poor boy sandwich was sold in St. Petersburg, I drove across Tampa Bay on the Gandy Bridge. Soon after crossing the bridge, and before I got to my intended destination, I came upon the Crab Shack. I had passed it many times before, but somehow, I had never found the time to stop. But on this day, I did stop. And, I’m glad I did, because I experienced a very interesting lunch, and one I won’t soon forget.

The Crab Shack is aptly named, because it actually looks like a crab shack. Well, to be honest, since I’m not an “old salt” of the sea, I’m not really sure what a real crab shack looks like, or even if there is such a thing as a crab shack. So, let me say it this way, it looks like what I believe a crab shack should look like, and that’s my final word on the matter.

After parking my vehicle, and walking through the door, I immediately heard a man’s voice in the background. There is certainly nothing unusual about hearing voices in a restaurant, unless they all happen to be inside your own head, but something about this man’s voice caught my attention. The strange thing was that the man never stopped talking. I didn’t know who the man was talking to, but whoever it was could not have possibly had a chance to slip in even a single, stray word. As the waitress directed me to my table, the man’s voice got louder. As we walked by his table, I saw that he was middle-aged, and was talking to a frail-looking elderly lady. Her skin was very pale, and her hair was as white as fresh snow. I was a little annoyed when the waitress sat me down at a table directly behind them, but the waitress was friendly, and I thought everything would work out just fine.

As the man’s voice droned on, I looked around, and saw that the walls of the Crab Shack were all adorned with nautical-themed items. There were a couple of guys sitting at the bar enjoying their beer, as well as a few other customers scattered about the place. I picked up the menu and took a look at the extensive offering of seafood and shellfish, including, oysters, mussels, scallops, clams, crab, shrimp, crab cakes, smoked mullet, and a whole lot more. In addition, alligator and frogs legs were available, as was catfish. Quite frankly, if you profess to love food that comes from the water, and can’t find something to your liking at the Crab Shack, you might as well go the grocery store and pick up a pack of frozen fish sticks, made from a combination of different types of minced fish.

The menu items all looked very good, but I had come for the oyster poor boy, and that’s what I ordered. As I waited for my food, my attention turned back to the man at the table in front of me. “You eat that bread Momma, and those fries,” he said, “I come here for the clam strips and I can’t fill up on that other stuff, you go ahead and eat it Momma.” I watched the back of his mother’s head nod as the man continued speaking, “I’ve tried Momma, I’ve done everything I can do, and you know that.” The man paused speaking only when the waitress brought him another plate of fried clam strips, and, after jamming a few more clams in his mouth, he continued, “I’m a God fearing man Momma, you know I am, but when the good book tells you to respect your parents, it means all of the time, not just some of it.” He shoved more clams in his mouth, as he continued talking. This guy was putting away clams faster than a raft of hungry sea otters.

My poor boy finally arrived and was placed in front of me. I looked down at it. Although it resembled a poor boy, something didn’t seem quite right. There were definitely fried oysters, as well as lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles. But instead of the ingredients being on a baguette or a submarine roll, they were on a corn meal hamburger bun. Also, there were strips of bacon and liquid cheese covering the fried oysters. Was this really bacon on an oyster poor boy? I couldn’t imagine such a thing, and it looked a little odd, but since I was craving a poor boy, I was going to eat it.

As I tried the best I could to assemble the lettuce, onion, tomato, and pickles on top of the bacon, oysters, and bun, I refocused on the man at the table in front of me. As he ate more clam strips, his monologue continued, “that’s some good eating right here Momma, you better eat that bread, because if you don’t, I will, and I got my hands full with these damn clams.” His mother listened patiently, and I watched the back of her white-haired head nod up and down again, but she never said a word. As the waitress brought more clam strips, the man said, “You know what I’m saying, I’m around the office, and they’re around the office, but they have to realize who the boss is and who the boss isn’t.” I felt sorry for his mother, and I smirked a little trying to imagine the many things she might have been thinking. Perhaps, she was thinking that she had raised a big blabbermouth for a son, and that this was absolutely the last time she would agree to let him take her out to get something to eat. Whatever she was really thinking, even if she was sympathetic to what he was saying, I’m sure she couldn’t wait to leave.

Meanwhile, I bit into my unusual looking poor boy, and I was delighted with the taste. Somehow, the bacon and cheese interacted well with the makings of a traditional poor boy sandwich, and I liked it. The only real problem I had was with the bun. Unlike a regular poor boy, which has the food components laid out horizontally, making it easier to eat, with the hamburger bun the components were piled vertically, which made the sandwich top-heavy. As a result, oysters kept popping out of the bun, and I finally gave up and finished it with a knife and fork.

As I waited for my bill, the man was still eating clam strips, and was still talking. “Momma,” he said, “I fear God, you know that, but a man just reaches a point sometimes.” His mother, without saying a word, continued to nod. “I really don’t need no more food for the rest of the day, there’s all this good stuff right here,” he explained. As I paid the waitress, I heard him saying something in the background about “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.” Once again I smiled, as I suddenly imagined him morphing into Aretha Franklin right before his mother’s very eyes.

As I walked by his table on his way out, he was still picking at the clam strips on his plate. The last thing I heard, as I walked out the front door was, “I really don’t wanna eat your bread Momma, but I will.” I liked the Crab Shack, and the taste of its good, but different poor boy, and I’ll definitely return for another meal. But next time, I’m sure I won’t enjoy it quite as much, because I’ll be most likely eating by “myself.”

Clearwater’s Boys Of Winter

When I was young, I wanted to grow up and become a major league baseball player, and every other boy I knew felt the same way. Some boys were extremely talented athletes, and some of us weren’t, but, at least at some point, we all had the dream. Dreams have a way of slowly disappearing into the reality of life as one grows older, because, as far as I know, none of even the most talented baseball players from my youth ever played professional baseball in the major leagues. But, while dreams may fade, with some boys they never die, they just turn into fantasies. Some people say that the difference between a dream and a fantasy is that only a dream is capable of becoming a reality. While that may be true, it is also true that it’s entirely possible to act out a fantasy, and with that, I’ll introduce you to Clearwater’s Boys of Winter.

Based on my observations above, I would guess that “boys” of my age are no longer physically capable of successfully accomplishing the dream of becoming real professional baseball players, but that doesn’t mean they can’t fantasize and pretend. And, with the Phillies Phantasy Camp, they can act out their fantasies in the most realistic way. But acting out a fantasy, like successfully fulfilling a dream, takes a lot of preparation, hard work, and, at least with respect to the Phillies Phantasy Camp, more than just a little money.

The camp, sponsored by the Philadelphia Phillies, is a five day event, held just once a year in January, at the Phillies Carpenter Complex, in Clearwater, Florida. Given that it’s only held once a year, and with plenty of “boys” just itching to fulfill their fantasies, applications must be submitted nearly a year in advance to ensure a spot on the limited roster. Furthermore, not just any boy can apply, as no application will be approved for any boy less than 30 years of age. Also, all boys must answer two essay questions, pass a physical examination, and come up with $4,795.00, not including the airfare to Florida. Acting out a fantasy can be a little expensive, but I’m sure it’s worth every penny.

Once a boy’s application has been submitted, and the confirmation has been received, there is still work to be done. An orientation meeting must be attended a few months before the camp begins, and, at some point, the boy must look in the mirror and face the painful truth that he is no longer a 20-year-old, or a 30-year-old, or a 40-year-old. Let’s stop at 40, as I believe you can see where I’m headed, and my point has already been made. But the mirror also shows that it’s not just wrinkles and gray hair the boy has to be concerned with, but all those pounds which have been added on to his waistline over the years. And, despite the fact that the boy might once have been a pretty good ballplayer, doesn’t mean that he still can play the game. Watching the Phillies on TV, while sitting on a recliner with a can of cold beer, does not constitute “playing” in anybody’s rule book. It’s clearly time for the boy to head to the gym, as well as the batting cages at the local go-kart/miniature golf location, to hit, or attempt to hit, a few balls. And, in an ironic twist, the grown “boy” must now ask his son if he wants to go outside and “toss the ball around.” There is no doubt about it, preparing to act out a fantasy is definitely a lot of hard work.

This past week, the Boys of Winter arrived in Clearwater, like they do every year, to act out their major league baseball fantasy. And, like every year, the camp was ready for them. It’s all first-class, of course, with the boys being treated as star athletes throughout the course of the week. Nothing is left to chance, with everything meticulously arranged down to the smallest detail. Each boy has his own personalized Phillies locker, and uniform, and just like it is with real professional players, the uniforms are laundered each night and hanging in the lockers the next morning. Along with accommodations at a fancy hotel on Clearwater Beach, the boys are given pre-game rub downs by trainers, spend time in whirlpools, and eat catered lunches in the clubhouse. And, between workouts, batting practice and games, there are cocktail parties, receptions, barbecues, and award ceremonies. One big highlight of the week is the chance for the boys to speak with, and play against, real Phillies who played in earlier eras.

I headed down to the Carpenter Complex in Clearwater today to watch the Boys of Winter on one of their last full days at camp. I was curious about these boys. I really didn’t know what to expect. Part of me expected to see serious, focused, competitive, over-the-hill and aging athletes, who not wanting to ever admit that their better days on a baseball diamond were long over, secretly hoped that professional scouts were lurking about ready give them a chance in the big leagues. What I saw instead, was just the opposite. Boys of varying ages, and physical appearance, appeared to be taking the camp in a good natured way. There was a lot of camaraderie, and laughing, and the boys appeared to be having fun. Not that the games weren’t being taken seriously, because they were. But I didn’t hear arguments or criticisms or snide remarks. Quite frankly I was surprised at the level of play I saw. These boys played well for their ages. It was evident that each of them had worked hard to get into shape for this once-in-a lifetime, special week. And, while their skills may have diminished over time, their love of baseball certainly has not. It is as strong as when they first dreamed of playing in Connie Mack Stadium, when they were but mere boys, so many long years ago.

God Bless you Boys of Winter.

The Magic Of Gulfport Beach Pavilion # 6

Gulfport, Florida, is a relatively small, artsy, and eclectic city, right next to St. Petersburg, and sits on the south end of the Pinellas County peninsula. At the south end of Gulfport, is a small beach, and on the beach itself sits Gulfport Beach Pavilion #6.

Something quite magical goes on most Sunday afternoons under the roof of the small pavilion. And, while the magic in the pavilion involves music, don’t expect to observe youth, rock and roll, rappers, or any Hip-Hop. You won’t find it. Instead, you’ll find something much more interesting, and perhaps, much more touching and meaningful.

Pinellas County, Florida, and St. Petersburg in particular, has long been known as “God’s Waiting Room,” given the traditionally large number of seniors who have retired in the area. But, the seniors spending their afternoons in Gulfport Beach’s Pavilion #6 aren’t “waiting” for anything; they’re dancing the afternoon away. And, they’re dancing to some great old tunes.

Quite often I head down to Gulfport on Sunday afternoons, because it’s a relaxing time, and because it best fits my schedule. I really don’t know what goes on in Gulfport, its beach, or Pavilion #6, during the week, but, at least on Sunday afternoons, I know exactly what’s happening.

Around half-past noon, a musician usually arrives, sometimes with an electric piano, sometimes with an accordion, or, sometimes with something else. While getting set up, and while the testing of the sound equipment is underway, senior citizens begin to trickle into the pavilion one or two at a time, and sit down at the picnic tables that ring the small open air pavilion. As they arrive, even though the music hasn’t even started, most place a dollar bill in the tip jar which is set up on one of the tables. Shortly thereafter, with little or no fanfare, the music starts, and, that’s when the magic begins.

I arrived on Gulfport Beach yesterday at my usual time. Given that the temperatures were only in the mid-60’s, there were only a few people at the beach, and those who were there, were dressed for winter. Beachgoers greeted the cooler temperatures with hats and jackets, and some were wearing scarves and gloves. The only living things at the water’s edge were the gulls. Just like every Sunday, on benches up and down the beach, elderly men sat alone looking out toward the water. I always wonder what these men are thinking about so intently. Maybe they miss their children and grandchildren who live far away, or, perhaps, miss a departed loved one. Whatever they are thinking about commands their attention utterly and completely, and not even the music causes them to avert their gaze.

Once the music began in the pavilion yesterday, the magic started to happen, as it does every Sunday afternoon. As the musician sang and played, appropriately enough, “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” the Sunday faithful inside the pavilion, never more than a handful or so and bundled up in jackets on this unusually cool day, began to dance. One lady invited her partner to give her the “first dance of the new year,” and he quickly accepted. As more upbeat tunes were played, things got a little livelier, and when one elderly woman said, “Let’s kick up our heels,” she went ahead and actually did so. You have to appreciate it, and when I write about the magic inside the pavilion, this is exactly what I mean.

As the music inside the pavilion played on, those men on the beach benches continued to stare out into the sea. An old man from New Hampshire, inside his recreational vehicle, sat in front of those big front windows, watching the magic happening inside the pavilion, but never stepped outside. Other seniors pulled up into the parking lot in front of the pavilion, and watched silently as the music, and the magic, played itself out. They never got out of their cars to dance, and probably never will. But they, like the men sitting on the benches, and the man inside the RV, will be missing the sudden “magic” which transforms ordinary senior citizens inside Pavilion #6 on Gulfport Beach, into energetic, fun-loving, dancing youngsters, once again, if only for a couple hours, on any given Sunday afternoon.