Pisgah Fish Camp in Pisgah Forest, NC, has for decades been cooking the best fried oysters in western NC (or so I have persuaded myself) -- always fresh mollusks, never overdone, large, not over-breaded. Heading back home to Brevard from Hendersonville earlier today, I knew I would drive by it. I became possessed of an irresistible urge to indulge myself again with those delectable fried oysters. As I pushed thru the front door about 3:30pm, I was delighted to see that I would have the spacious dining room virtually to myself. My friendly waitress, "Leslie" (are they still called "waitresses?"), settled me at my table and took my order right away. She persuaded me also to order today's chef's special sides (fried okra and cheese grits), as they're fresh and cooked at once to the customer's order. "Oh, boy," I thought, "The planets are aligned perfectly today!" I expected soon to enjoy my best meal in weeks.
Alas, it was not to be! No sooner had I first sipped from my water glass than a score of new customers tumbled through the front door. The hostess seated them all in areas of the dining room that were apparently Leslie's exclusive province, as the four other waitresses on the floor continued their chatter with each other unabated. Leslie waited on an elderly couple who had just been seated next to me. They wanted to know all the ingredients in every menu item. Leslie should get the Nobel Peace Prize, as she patiently recited the ingredients of every entree. From memory! (How did she do that?!) After duly considering Leslie's comprehensive recitation, the customer finally instructed Leslie to bring her the "garden salad" but to hold the onion, tomato, olives, celery, capers and bell pepper. (Anybody remember Jack Nicholson's hilarious similar caper in "Five Easy Pieces?")
Leslie continued with dispatch to wait on the many other customers who by now had settled within her area of responsibility in the dining room. She hustled and maintained her smile, but after all orders had been taken and submitted to the kitchen; all beverages and appetizers had been served; extra lemon wedges, more sides of tartar sauce, three take-out boxes, and many individual salt and pepper packets had been requested and delivered (Leslie explained that the restaurant had run out of salt and pepper shakers but that more "were on order"), my anticipation had ebbed considerably. My meal would probably have been good when first prepared, but by the time Leslie got it to me it bore the ravages of a few too many minutes of dehydration under an infrared lamp followed by at least as many minutes under a burned-out bulb.
"Not to worry," I consoled myself, "as Providence gave man microwave ovens for the rescue of just such calamities." I stuffed my meal into my own take-out box and headed home. As I passed the hostess at the front door, however, I noticed from my receipt that I had been overcharged for my oyster entree. The hostess explained that the recent bad economy had forced the restaurant to raise all its prices. I wasn't going to argue about their failure to update their menu prices. I had already paid by credit card. By now I was late for my next engagement, and I was tired. I just growled, as I left.
Post script: Later this evening (Friday) I re-deep fried my oysters, okra, and hush puppies in my Presto deep fryer at home in batches at 325 degrees for two minutes each batch. The result? Not too bad. And the cheese grits responded acceptably to a 50-second nuke burst. Perhaps all's well that ends well? (But now I've got to clean up my kitchen.)
Date of visit: October 2021 read more