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.

SOS In The Land Of Breakfast

There have got to be more places in Florida to buy a good breakfast than in any other state.  Of course, I have no statistical information to back up that claim, so I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.  My explanation for why there are so many places to eat breakfast in Florida is quite simple.  The only people who have time to go out in the morning and sit down and have a leisurely breakfast are retired senior citizens and tourists, and Florida has plenty of both.  The rest of us are working, or heading to work, and we just don’t want to get up early enough to make stopping at the local breakfast spot a reality.  The places I’m referring to don’t just serve breakfast in the morning, they serve it all day long.  And while they may also serve lunch and dinner, breakfast is their specialty, and the reason most people visit.  After all, you never know what hour of the day someone will develop an intense hunger for SOS.

SOS stands for “Stuff On a Shingle.”  Well, it doesn’t really.  I’ve politely substituted the original “S” word with the word “stuff.”  My mother reads my writing from time to time, and I’m sure she would not appreciate my use of the original “S” word.  So, in order to placate her, I’ll just use the word “stuff.”  Of course, I know what the real word is, and so does she, but some things are better left unsaid, or, in this case, unwritten.
 
My first introduction to SOS was during army basic training.  On one of those very early mornings in the company mess hall, partway up Fort Jackson’s Tank Hill, I remember going through the chow line and being served up, what appeared to me at the time, to be unrecognizable lumpy gravy slopped over toast.  The unfortunate soldier on KP duty, who was serving me the SOS, looked no happier than I looked being served it.  But looks can be deceiving, because after one bite, I fell in love, and have been in love with SOS ever since.

SOS is just another name for chipped beef on toast.  Like most prepared dishes, specific recipes differ depending on who is doing the cooking.  However, since so many people were first introduced to this culinary delight during the course of their military service, I think it is only appropriate that we look to the U.S. Army for guidance.  In the 1910 version of the Manual for Army Cooks, the ingredients for making creamy chipped beef were listed as being chipped beef, fat (butter preferred), flour, evaporated milk, parsley, pepper, and beef stock.  Those ingredients represented the “stuff” of SOS, and the toast represented the “shingle.”  Most modern chipped beef recipes eliminate both the beef broth and parsley, and substitute real milk for evaporated milk, but aside from those differences, the recipe has not really changed that much.
 
As noted earlier, I don’t make time for breakfast during the week, but I do get out occasionally on the weekends.  Breakfast places on Florida’s Gulf Coast, like around the rest of Florida, are plentiful, and they offer inexpensive menu items.  My problem with going out to eat breakfast is that eggs and breakfast seem to be synonymous in this country.  I don’t eat eggs, have never eaten eggs, and, in fact can’t stand the sight of them, especially if they're hard boiled or deviled.  Eggs, in my opinion, are simply not a desirable source of food.  Unfortunately, in most places, it’s hard to find a breakfast selection that doesn’t include a couple of eggs.  That's why I like the simplicity of SOS.  It’s just chipped beef on toast, and eggs have absolutely nothing to do with it in any way, shape, or form.

Luckily for me, there are a great number of breakfast places around which have SOS on the menu.  Making good SOS, like making a good grilled cheese sandwich, is difficult to screw up.  As a result, I am rarely disappointed.  The only place where I’ve had really bad SOS, was at an eatery in New Port Richey, Florida.  It was sweet, sickeningly sweet, and wasn’t worth finishing.  I’m quite sure that the cook had mistakenly added sugar instead of salt, because there is no other explanation.  No one, let alone a professional cook, would have intentionally desecrated SOS by adding sugar.  In any event, I’ve never been back there, and never will go back.

I’m always looking for new places serving SOS, and I get many referrals from people I know.  One such referral was to a place called The Broken Yolk Restaurant, in Holiday, Florida, which, I was told, had delicious SOS.  Now, given my aversion to eggs, I was immediately suspicious just based on the name alone.  I imagined a place filled with egg aficionados, trying to lure me inside with the promise of good chipped beef on toast so that they could convert me to their breakfast obsession of egg whites and yolks.  Despite my personal reservations about visiting the place, I reluctantly made my way to The Broken Yolk Restaurant, and I’m so glad I did.
 
The Broken Yolk, like so many of the breakfast restaurants in Florida, seems to be a social gathering spot for seniors.  It’s a place where the opportunity to meet and converse with friends is just as important as getting something to eat.  The restaurant is small, with no more than 15 tables, and it provides a cozy setting for a cup of morning coffee, a good breakfast, and friendly conversation.  Daily specials are written on whiteboards hanging on the walls, and a television mounted in a corner of the restaurant keeps everyone up to date with the latest news and weather.  On the day of my visit, however, I was not interested in conversation or watching the news.  I had come for one reason, and one reason only, SOS.

After quickly looking through the extensive menu, I selected the chipped beef on toast, and added a bowl of buttered grits and a cup of coffee to my order.  The service was both fast and friendly, and within just a couple of minutes, I was served my food.   My two pieces of toast were completely covered with piping hot, creamy gravy loaded with beef.  And, as a throwback to the old 1910 army recipe, it even had dried parsley sprinkled on top.  I knew, even before I tasted it, that I had hit the SOS jackpot, and it was sitting on a plate right in front of me.  It tasted even better than it looked, and my breakfast was enhanced by the bowl of grits, which were hot and buttery.

As reluctant as I was to come to The Broken Yolk in the first place, I was even more reluctant to leave.  I told the cashier on my way out that the chipped beef on toast was the “best I’ve ever eaten.”  And it truly was.  In a state where there are a thousand places to eat a good breakfast, I’ll definitely go back to enjoy the SOS at The Broken Yolk, because it’s just that good.

Hey Nineteen: My Rant About A Strange And Dangerous Highway

U.S.19 is an historic highway, which runs north and south, between Pennsylvania and Florida.  It is but one of the many old U.S. routes that carried automobile and truck traffic across state lines prior to the creation of the interstate highway system.  In Florida, the highway runs along the state’s western edge, and was once a main corridor for tourists heading into the “Sunshine State.”  Especially in the northern portions of the state, the highway is littered with abandoned motels, and the remnants of small and relatively unsophisticated tourist attractions which both time and traffic have long since passed by.  But if you’re coming down the highway from the north, and you’re the type of person who gets weepy when thinking about the “good old days” of the past, you better quickly wipe away those tears and get your head into the proper frame of mind before hitting the Pasco County line.

Highway 19, as it runs through Pasco and Pinellas Counties in Florida, can only be described as one wild, often bizarre, and dangerous ride.  Some locals refuse to even drive on this stretch of road.  Of those who do, they do so with caution.  Their caution is not unfounded, as this portion of highway 19 has been described as one of “the most dangerous roads in America.”   The extremely high death toll over the years is simply not acceptable, but, it is understandable.  The road, and the things that go on along its edges, can only be described as a circus.  Unfortunately, this “circus” not only delivers occasional humor, but also minor annoyances and frustration, and, all too often, injury and death.

Part of the problem with the highway is that from the Hernando/Pasco County line, on south through Pinellas County, both sides of the highway are nearly one continuous strip mall.  Every kind of business you can imagine is present.  Malls, hotels, RV parks, pharmacies, gas stations, restaurants, bars, tire dealers, used car lots, delicatessens and dollar stores, all compete with massage parlors, tattoo and body piercing studios, pawn shops, adult book stores, and supermarket size liquor warehouses.  And, there is an abundance of sign shops.  Quite frankly, the last thing Highway 19 needs are more sign shops producing even more signs which already distract too many drivers.

Vehicular traffic along the six lanes of the divided highway, is constantly slowing, stopping, and pulling in and out of the various businesses along the side of the road.   Hundreds of cross streets intersect with Highway 19, some with stop lights, and some without.  Right turn lanes veer off suddenly to the right, and U-turn lanes on the left appear without warning.  Sometimes the right turn lanes are strictly turn lanes, but sometimes they also allow traffic to go straight on through, inevitably resulting in a lot of rear end collisions.  If you think what I’ve just described is the major problem, it’s not.  The road and the environment around it are but a stage for the real problem.  People are the problem of course, but it’s not just the licensed drivers.  But, let’s start with them anyway.

It’s easy for the locals to blame the “snowbirds” for all the bad things which happen on Florida roads, and U.S. 19 is no exception.   To be fair to the locals, it is not uncommon to pull up behind a car with license plates from somewhere up north, going 20 miles per hour in the left lane.  Often the elderly driver and passenger cannot even be seen from the rear, as they are so small and frail, that they are completely hidden in their seats.  This causes many local drivers to honk loudly, as they swerve into the lane to the right, in an attempt to pass them.  And, as you might expect with these precipitous lane changes on a busy highway, accidents do frequently occur.

But most of the haphazard and dangerous lane changing I’ve witnessed has nothing to do with drivers attempting to negotiate around slow moving tourist vehicles.  Impatient Florida drivers, both young and old, are the real culprits.  Many local drivers on the highway consider the distance between one stop light, and the next stop light, a drag strip.  And, racing to the next light, while darting in and out of different lanes, really makes no sense.  Usually, if you are stopped at a stop light on U.S. 19, you will be stopped at the next one.  Like many places in the country, the stop light rule of “make one, make them all, miss one, miss them all” is in effect.  And, the vehicles involved in the improper lane changing and high speeds, like the owners who drive them, are diverse mix of the good, the bad, and the ugly.  BMW automobiles compete for dominance of the road with eleven foot high monster trucks and smoke belching junks.

As an aside, I don’t understand why so many of the Ford Tauras cars on this highway are missing bumpers?  I’m not sure it has anything to do with the highway itself,  but I’m just not ready to rule that out yet.  Perhaps we have our very own miniature “Bermuda Triangle” here on the west coast of Florida, which only strikes Tauras automobiles, and causes bumpers to disappear for no apparent reason.  It’s something I may want to ponder in the days ahead, but I suspect it’s just a case of bad driving.  And, there certainly is a lot of that on U.S. 19.

Before I stop commenting about the licensed drivers on U.S. 19, I have a few other things to mention.  Few things are more annoying than waiting in line at a short cycled left turn signal, and waiting for the “guy” or “gal” at the head of the line to turn once the light turns green.  Seconds seem like hours once the light changes, especially when there is no apparent movement from the front car. I can’t possibly imagine what takes some of these people so long to react once the light changes.  In some cases they’ve had 5 minutes to think about what to do once the light turns green, and they still can’t get it right.  I’m thinking about writing to the powers that be asking for a new law to be enacted which will only pertain to left turn signals on U.S. Highway 19 in the counties of Pasco and Pinellas in Florida.

My proposed law would require the removal of all existing green turn signals.  They would be replaced with what I believe is a much better system.   During the period the front vehicle is stopped waiting for the light to change, a camera would photograph the license plate, and immediately the car’s owner would be identified.  At the very second of the light change, blinking strobe lights would light up the intersection, followed with a quick blast of an ear-splitting siren.  Then, loudspeakers would blast an ultimatum to the owner of the front car, who had been identified by way of the license plate check a few seconds earlier.  I’ll leave it to the bureaucrats to come up with the exact language of the directive, but I’m thinking of something like, “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR MR. JOHN H. SMITH, OF 1212 PENELOPE LANE, THOUSAND LAKES, FLORIDA?  TURN LEFT DAMMIT, AND DO IT NOW.”

Under this new law, there would be zero tolerance for offenders.  Any front vehicle which did not begin to move within 2 seconds of a light change would immediately bring forth the following additional information from the loudspeakers.  “ATTENTION ALL DRIVERS WAITING TO MAKE A LEFT TURN BEHIND THE DAWDLING AND INATTENTIVE MR. JOHN SMITH OF THOUSAND LAKES, FLORIDA.  APPARENTLY MR. SMITH IS SO SELF-CENTERED AND SELF-ABSORBED, THAT HE DOESN’T CARE ABOUT THE REST OF US.  PLEASE FEEL FREE TO CALL HIM AT HOME AND LET HIM KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF HIS POOR DRIVING, AND RUDE AND INCONSIDERATE BEHAVIOR.  HE CAN BE REACHED AT THE FOLLOWING PHONE NUMBER.”  Perhaps I’ve taken this a little bit too far, as I have a habit of doing every once in a while, but I’m sure it would solve the problem in a hurry.  And, so, Mr. Smith, my imaginary friend, I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you, but somebody has to be first.

 
In my opinion, and in the opinion of many others, the most significant problems on Highway 19 are caused not by licensed drivers, but by pedestrians and others on the road or along the side of it.  I know most states now vigorously promote “sharing the road” with those on bicycles, but there should be limits.  One of the limits should be no bicycles.  A case in point was the time I was driving down the highway, and there, cycling down the center lane, was an elderly lady on a recumbent bike.  In her defense, she did have one small blinking red light on the back of her bike, and, she was wearing a helmet.  Words escape me about what to really say about this.  I fear, if she keeps getting her exercise in the center lane of U.S. Highway 19, she won’t be around much longer.  I’m sorry to have to put it this way, but what she really needs is less exercise and more time sitting with her psychiatrist discussing her death wish.

Unfortunately, she is not alone.  It is a very common occurrence to see bicycles on the highway, although, normally, I see them in the lane closest to the side of the road.  Occasionally, however, I see bicycles in active traffic lanes, going in the wrong direction.  But, the most ridiculous thing I've seen on the road was not a bicycle, but a motorized wheel chair.   There was this old guy with no legs, racing down the highway, and loving every minute of it.  As I passed him, he had a huge smile on his face.
 

Hitchhiking appears to still be a common practice along the road, and while this might have been acceptable behavior in the America of the 1920’s through the 1970’s, it seems a little outdated today.  It seems that almost anybody who claims to have a thumb in Pasco County, at some point in time, feels the need to get out on the road and try it out.  The ultimate destination for these people apparently does not seem to be that important.  I was parked in a mall parking lot one day near the edge of the highway, and was about ready to get in my car, when a man who had been hitchhiking came up and asked me if I could give him a ride to Spring Hill.  Now, I know where Spring Hill is, but he seemed confused, so I asked him which direction it was.  “Well,” he said, looking up and down the road, “it’s anywhere man, just get me the hell off this road.”  I guess it's needless to point out, but I declined giving him a ride to “anywhere.”

Hitchhiking may not be the best thing, but at least it’s usually done along the side of the road.  The really scary people are the ones who walk across the six lanes of Highway 19 completely away from any intersection and pedestrian lights.  And, unfortunately, these people are not world class sprinters.  But it wouldn’t matter anyway, because they often just walk across, completely oblivious to the moving traffic, or, anything else for that matter.   As often as not, they push a shopping cart, or, walk with a cane.

 

Competing for the attention of drivers along the busy highway are those who stand on the median strips at intersections and panhandle for change.  It’s not just the stereotypical guy with a beard, a dirty ball cap, holding a sign which says, “Homeless Vet Looking for Work…Please Help.”  There are also people hanging out with plastic pails, asking for donations to obscure causes, so obscure in fact, that I’ve never heard of any of them.  And I doubt anyone else has either.  Other people sell bottled water for a dollar in support of no particular cause, except their own, and the fact that they are very concerned that every driver on the road is extremely thirsty.

On Sunday mornings, the newspaper people come out in force.  Wearing their bright green colored shirts, they hawk their papers at every intersection for miles along Highway 19.  I didn’t realize so many people read newspapers anymore, but these bright green vendors seem to do a brisk business.  I suspect that what people are really buying are the Sunday coupons.  I was stopped at a light one Sunday morning, and one of the newspaper men came up to my window.  When I asked him how much he charged for a Sunday paper, he said, “A dollar, but most people also tip me a dollar.”  Hopefully, local restaurant servers and taxi drivers will not find out about this new trend of tipping at the rate of 100%.  Otherwise it’s going to be a little expensive to buy lunch anymore, or take a cab across town.

The real problem with the people doing their own particular brand of business on the median strip is that they don’t stay on it.  When the stop lights are red, they move their business out into the street, meandering among the lanes of stopped traffic, looking for anybody willing to part with a little money.  Then, when the lights turn green, they have to quickly dash back to the median to avoid being flattened by the oncoming traffic which has already started moving.

Of course, distracting the attention of drivers can be done from anywhere, not just along the median.  The shoulder of Highway 19 has its own cast of unusual characters demanding to be seen.  While not unique to this highway, as these characters are present along roadways from coast to coast, U.S 19’s population of them is quite large.  Dressed up as Lady Liberty, Uncle Sam, Clowns, Cowboys, and who knows what else, they stand by the side of the road holding big foam fingers, tall flags, gaudy signs and unrecognizable props supporting income tax preparation services, mobile phone services, and buyers of gold.  And, they’re always waving.  They wave at traffic, wave at pedestrians, wave at domestic animals, wave at insects, or, wave at nothing at all.  And the sad thing is, with the difficult economy, they are probably all paid a “nickel ninety-five” for doing so.  Just another circus side show act, I guess, being paid carnival wages.

U.S. 19 is all pervasive and all consuming.  There is absolutely no escape.  Pulling off the road never seems to get it completely done, as you’re never truly far enough away from 19 to break free.  One day, during the noon hour, I pulled off the highway to get something to eat.  I ate alone, but had a good lunch.  Unfortunately, I knew that my brief respite from the road was nearly over, and the highway was starting to seep back in, when the waitress wanted to know if I would like my check “separate or together.”  Huh?  What?

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 Real Reason "Snowbirds" Come To Florida

First of all, based on my personal experience, I’ve always believed that the best smoked fish around comes from the small towns, villages, and hamlets which surround Lake Superior. I’m talking about the out of the way places in the Canadian province of Ontario, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and along the Lake Superior shoreline of Minnesota and Wisconsin. I’m referring to locations like Paradise, Ashland, Nipigon, Munising, Brevort, Knife River, and Two Harbors.

Oh, I’m well aware that the Pacific Northwest has smoked fish too. We all see it hermetically sealed and sitting in the refrigerated sections of our local grocery stores from coast to coast. Enough said.

Well over 50 years ago, a man by the name of Ted Peters opened up a restaurant in South Pasadena, Florida. The world has turned over many times since, but, thankfully, the eatery he opened is still at the very same spot. More importantly, the delicious taste of the favorite menu item he served back then, namely, smoked mullet, has not changed one bit.

Ted Peters Famous Smoked Fish has been located, since its beginning, at 1350 Pasadena Avenue. And while Ted, who has since passed away, added a few additional items over the years to his menu, smoked mullet is still the main reason most people continue to visit the place. Likewise, unlike most businesses which have been around for this long, the business Ted started is pretty much the same as it’s always been. Unfortunately, it’s common for a lot of businesses to change as success comes, and not always in the best of ways. Businesses change locations, grow, and ultimately lose the identity which made them a success in the first place. Thankfully, that did not happen here. These days, as it was many years ago, patrons still sit in a small “dining room,” and I use that term loosely, or, outside on picnic tables under a covered patio.

The fresh mullet are actually smoked in a separate building, a few feet away from where they are eaten. Wood from a tree native to Florida, the Red Oak, is used to smoke the fish. The raw fish are smoked for up to 6 hours, and go through a brief preparation process before being served. I’m certainly not going to waste my time or insult you by describing in any great detail what smoked mullet tastes like. It tastes very good, and it tastes like smoked fish. I will say, however, that the fish come out on big green plates, with the fillets hot and steaming. They are moist and tender, and there is another big green plate provided for the bones. Along with the fish comes German potato salad, cole slaw, a lemon wedge, a pickle spear, and a slice of both onion and tomato. Should you wish, you can also order the fish spread, which is another favorite selection available on the menu. Simply stated, if you like smoked fish, you’ll enjoy Ted’s smoked fish.

The Gulf of Mexico’s Boca Ciega Bay, which forms the shoreline of South Pasadena, Florida, could not be more different from Lake Superior’s Whitefish Bay, but both locations do have at least one thing in common. They both have people who sell and eat smoked fish. Perhaps, the real reason the “snowbirds” come down to Florida every winter from the states bordering Lake Superior has nothing at all to do with the cold up there and the warmth and sunshine down here. The real reason might just be that visitors from the Great Lakes states visit Florida's warm Gulf Coast because they know that smoked mullet at Ted Peters is always plentiful, even in the depths of a very cold winter up north.