My parents came from Oklahoma. Cattle country. Those sprawling grasses cultivated fine beef when covered wagons first rolled through Indian territory. Cowboys roamed the land for generations, rounding up steers, bulls, cows, and heifers. A delicious steak in Oklahoma was as common as tornados and crude oil. But in 1972, when the Hicks family migrated to Mississippi, we had difficulty finding a good ribeye. Instead, the Magnolia State boasted of the finest mudcats and polliwogs in the nation. Catfish?!
Our family reaction to catfish was tepid, at best. Downright repugnance, at worst. Bottom dwellers were a delicacy in these parts, particularly when soaked with buttermilk, battered with cornmeal and flour, and fried in oil with salt and pepper. Eating out, we had to drive to the deep woods. There, we found an old shack, called a “fish camp,” next to a creek which served fried everything. Pickles, potatoes, fish. All fried. Important to the experience was not steak sauce. No. Hot sauce, ketchup, and piles of napkins were the standard accessories.
The fish house felt like my experiences in Oklahoma. Real people. Working class. Nothing fancy. Overalls and hats. Red and white checkered tablecloths. The floors were messy with food crumbs and dirt from men’s work boots. People talked loudly, laughed, and surrounded large picnic tables centered with gigantic metal trays of food. Like the piles of bread and potatoes of my parents’ home state, folks had food aplenty. But the cooking grease never dominated the meal in Oklahoma. In Mississippi, the oil covered my tiny second grade hands when I devoured a piece of fish. Hushpuppies deposited a bright, slick, and shiny residue on my fingertips. Napkins disintegrated against the might of the liquid fats heated to high temperatures. Above all, my taste buds danced to the mouthwatering fish.
In short order, my father started raising pond catfish. With a makeshift cut milk jug filled with floating food pellets, he daily fed the swarming swimming suckers. We fished with squiggly earthworms and hauled in the fish. My wife once had a huge croaker release excrement down her arm while holding the whopper for me to release the hook. “Mr. Whisker” had a final laugh before providing his sacrificial scrumptious supper for a hungry family.
Steak in Hattiesburg seems to be undergoing a renaissance. Fish places are on the decline. This must end! Beef here does not come close to what I find in Oklahoma or Texas. Mississippi’s catfish eateries, however, are far superior to similar restaurants out west. Most of those restaurants get their fish from overseas or, you guessed it, Mississippi. My friends tell me that a Berry’s Catfish House will soon appear in our city. Now that is pure Mississippi! My wife particularly loves coleslaw with fried catfish and sweet tea. In the Pine Belt, the flathead is a genuine treat at Newt’s, Mack’s, Rayner’s, Movie Star, Lt’s, Cuevas, Charlie’s, or Stogner’s, to name a few.
The famous violinist, Itzkak Perlman, visited Hattiesburg a few years back and played with the USM symphony. The music department worried about what to feed the maestro. Some wondered whether his tastes required a Michelin rated restaurant. When nervously asked what he wanted to eat in town, Perlman paused for a moment. Then, with his sly smile, he excitedly declared, “Mississippi catfish!”
