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.

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.”