March 1-3
It was supposed to take four hours on Friday to go from San Antonio to Winnie, Texas.
It actually took more than five. We ran into a few lane closings, but mainly we lost time at the start because I looked at the compass on the dashboard and saw that I was driving west on Interstate 410 instead of east.
I turned around and made my way to Interstate 10 East. I-410 is a loop road, so no matter which way you go, if you drive it far enough, you will be traveling east, north, west, and south.
There’s not much to do along the highway on the Gulf Coast, we’ve found. So we pushed straight through.
We found an interesting place for dinner, Al-T’s Seafood, around the corner from our Holiday Inn.
We got there around 5, before the dinner rush. A good thing, too, because the place is a hit with the local crowd. It filled up, and there were people waiting outside when we left.
The seafood gumbo was terrific, some mild heat for interest, chunks of fish and small shrimp, a rich, brown gravy. Joanna’s catfish, grilled whole save for the head, was delicious and tender, as catfish always is.
It is usually served with crawfish etouffee as a topping. Joanna can’t handle peppers or chiles, so she asked for the etouffee on the side.
I’ve had etouffee a couple of times before, and this was probably the best so far, and also by far the hottest.
I had more Hopadillo from Karbach in Houston. It’s a good regional IPA.
I saw one peculiarly scary looking guy, grim and gaunt, about my age or older. In my imagination, he seemed to have a permanent scowl of disapproval. He had the thin Scotch-Irish features that made him look like a Confederate Army veteran.
He wore a 10-gallon hat with a cross pinned to the front. It reminded me of a cowboy hat on a Kinky Friedman album cover, except the Stetson there had a magen David.
Of course, my prejudice had taken over. I saw a guy going out for Cajun food with a cross on his head and read it as a message. Maybe it was. Maybe he was a preacher, or maybe even made crosses for a living.
When Joanna bought a small silver ring in San Antonio, the storekeeper said it was made by a local silversmith who had gotten his start selling crosses at church fairs. Could this guy be in the same business?
Could be he wasn’t scary at all.
Next day was six hours to Hattiesburg, Miss. We didn’t stop in Louisiana because Mardi Gras has everything tied up.
We crossed the Mississippi River near Baton Rouge and then took I-12 to I-59 North.
There’s not a lot besides Vicksburg to see in Mississippi. Well, there are swamps with alligators, and that can be fun. But it has been so damned cold that the gators are probably asleep.
I can’t blame them. Hell, it was too cold and damp for me to want to roam outside.
Besides, there has been a lot of rain, so the swamps and low fields are flooded. The photo of the day isn’t the Mississippi River. According to a road sign, it’s a swamp. When we passed it, only the tops of the trees were above water.
We did stop at a charming welcome center just across the state line. It looked like an antebellum tavern, and we missed it on the first try and had to swing back to find it.
We decided to take another chance on out-of-the-way Italian and went to Tabella. It’s in a mall a couple of short blocks from the hotel.
It’s a friendly place, and we got there early enough that we didn’t have to wait long for a table.
Joanna had sausage lasagne along with a California pinot noir that had the characteristic spiciness.
Trying to curb the red meat intake, I opted for one of the white meats, veal, done piccata, in a buttery sauce with lemon and capers. I love capers. I even mixed some with the spaghetti marinara.
The Gabbiano Chianti at the bar may have been open too long. The first sip tasted a bit sour, but maybe it was me. The second sip was much better
A Sangiovese was much better.
Later we found a rack of organic wines at a convenience store. A few were from Rioja, so I took one home.
I bought a bottle with a screw cap so if there was any left, it would travel securely.
I didn’t need the screw cap after all. And I slept well.
Next stop after Hattiesburg was about four hours away, a suburb of Birmingham, Ala., called Homewood.
We’re at La Quinta on State Farm Road. The address made me think that maybe we were near a prison. But no, it’s named for the insurance company, which has a building next door.
We had some light to moderate rain shortly after we started out. The winds were high, and tornado warnings were out to the south of where we were headed.
We drove into a brief period of very heavy rain. Visibility was almost nil, even slowing to 40 miles an hour.
I was following the flashers on the car ahead of me and all I could make out of the road was the solid white line on the edge.
We came to an exit, and I followed the car ahead of us as it left the highway to park for a few minutes with several other cars. We sat a short time till the rain let up, and after that encountered no problems.
Some people trusted to luck, though. They were passing us on the left and still going close to the speed limit. Maybe faster.
Over the next hour or so, we saw about a half-dozen cars that had left the road to land in the middle of the median or on the embankment by the side of the road. Towing companies were making the rent this day.
By the time we reached La Quinta in Homewood, I was tired from driving. We didn’t want to go far for dinner. We called the desk and learned about Landry’s, another seafood restaurant, which was about a half mile away.
Joanna ordered rainbow trout, which came with a sauce that reminded me of the piccata at Tabella, but without the capers.
I had fish and chips with a couple of IPAs. One came from Avondale Brewing in Birmingham. It wasn’t as bold as I expect an IPA to be, but it was all right nonetheless. It was a bit thin, not much malt flavor, although the hops and carbonation gave it a pleasing sharpness.
Monkeynaut IPA was much better. It had a good mouthful of malt, but even so was not sweet, and the hops were plentiful. It is brewed by a company called Straight to Ale in Huntsville, Ala.
The Marshall Space Flight Center is also in Huntsville, so I guess that’s the monkey-astronaut connection.
So here’s to good malt, better hops, and best wishes.
Good night, gang, and be well, all.
Harry
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