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Cuisine
F R O M G R E E C E TO K R OTZ S P R I N G S —T H E J O U R N E YS W I T H I N
MAP IT OUT
DETOURS
THE JOURNEY W
Photo by Suzanne Emily O’Connor
Road Eats
SIX ROADSIDE RESTAURANTS TO DROP A PIN ON
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here are good restaurants. And there are restaurants so good they’re worth the drive. But how good does a restaurant have to be, to be worth stopping for? This particular genre of food, which we’ll dub “Road Eats,” comes in many forms: Mom and Pop dives, grease-stained gas stations, fine dining establishments. There are few actual qualifications for a proper Road Trip Eat, only that it be integrated into some larger adventure, and that it rise to the occasion as part of the memory you’ll take home. We reached out to some of our most reliable foodie correspondents to share some worthy roadside institutions. Take notes—some of these are worth planning a trip around.
The Bright Star
Bessemer, Alabama
Some folks can drive fourteen hours in one day. Not me. I can go about six hundred miles, but I’ll go the extra hour if there’s a restaurant like The Bright Star at the end of the haul. Longevity is the underlying theme of The Bright Star. The restaurant began its life in 1907 as a twenty-five-seat café owned and operated by Tom Bonduris, a Greek immigrant from Peleta. Business was good and Bonduris had to relocate three times before The Bright Star found its permanent home in Bessemer’s downtown on 19th Street, where it has remained since 1914. Bonduris partnered with Bill and Pete Koikos (also of Peleta) in 1923 and Koikos descendants have owned and managed it since 1966. The 330-seat dining area is adorned with Crimson Tide memorabilia, but don’t hold that against it because the space is something out of Boardwalk Empire … 1930s-era murals, banquettes, tiled floors, ceiling fans, and marbled and mirrored walls. But it’s the food at The Bright Star that has earned its landmark status. The specialty is Greek-style snapper and steaks … try the snapper throats, but be sure to get a cup of their seafood gumbo … it’s good, honest! —Sam Irwin
Danny’s Fried Chicken Franklin, Louisiana
When I was a child, to get to my grandma’s house, we would drive Highway 182 through downtown Franklin, where we’d often stop at Danny’s Fried Chicken to pick up a box of crispy goodness to share—it would always make her smile. My grandma is long gone but Danny’s is still there, with its iconic sign of a boy with a bowl haircut chomping on a piece of chicken. My cousin and I recently stopped in for lunch. Entering the dining room, with its vintage colonial-themed wallpaper and 70’s-era stained-glass chicken light fixtures, we were transported back in time. Behind the counter, husband and wife Dean and Janet Broussard were busy frying hand-battered chicken while a young woman took our order. The menu features all things fried with typical side offerings like coleslaw, red beans, and fried okra. You will find rice dressing also humbly offered as a “side,” but it deserves main dish attention, boasting a perfect rice-to-meat ratio so as to be a meal unto itself. Dean, whose family has owned and operated this franchise for forty-nine years, explained that the dressing is made with a never-to-be-shared recipe from an old lady in Ville Platte. I asked him if he could tell me a little about the secret to its goodness. He kindly responded, “Gizzards,” then turned back to his fry basket. My cousin frowned, and I finished her serving with a smile. —Catherine Schoeffler Comeaux 50
A P R 2 2 // C O U N T R Y R O A D S M A G . C O M
Billy’s Boudin & Cracklins Krotz Springs, Louisiana
Once a year, I drive from Colorado to Louisiana. Road trips are a distinct pleasure of mine (read more on page 56) but by the time hour eighteen rolls around, my body is enraged with Red Bull and I’m dodging junk falling off peoples’ trailers on I-49, wondering why I keep doing this to myself. My weary eyes squint, scanning the horizon for the blessed Opelousas exit. Opelousas will take me to U.S. 190, and eventually to Krotz Springs, where I find my salvation. Billy’s Boudin & Cracklins is the jewel of my drive. I buy more boudin than I need—you can earn a mountain of goodwill from your friends by giving away ten bucks of Billy’s boudin. It’s hard not to overdo it back in the car, though, gorging on a whole link at a time. When my dad last rode down from Colorado with me, he cut each link in half with his pocket knife, which we shared with saltines, like reasonable people who pace themselves. Boudin is not, however, a perfect road trip food. It comes in its own distinctly unreliable wrapper, for one. It leaves your hands greased with enough pork fat to problematically lubricate the steering wheel, and with enough spice to burn your travel-worn eyes each time you rub them. There’s a certain quality to eating boudin while driving that makes you feel like a cheetah tearing at a fresh kill while running away from the scene. But never mind that; road boudin serves other purposes. Last summer, my friend Annie drove cross-country to move back to Louisiana from Oregon. I led the caravan from her pit-stop in Colorado. Her move home was twice as long as my drive; a long-awaited homecoming following a period of stress. We pulled into Billy’s right as the sun was setting in Krotz Springs. When you’ve been away for awhile, as Annie had—and you really start to miss Louisiana—the taste of boudin at sunset on U.S. 190 is an almost overwhelming welcome home. —Christie Matherne
