Foodie Booty

If it is in fact true that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then I am hopelessly in love with Memphis. My belly will vouch for that statement.

Last summer, there was a large gathering of Faris people (I'm not a fan of the plural form, NT Christians start thinking they are more funny than they are) in Colorado for a reunion of sorts. The first thing my grandfather said when he saw me was, "You've gotten fatter."

Thanks, man. My brain almost exploded thinking of the possible responses I could give - covering the spectrum from petulant crying fit to over-the-top crass - but perhaps I would have done well just to say, "I live in Memphis, what do you expect?"

In pirate terms, Memphis is teeming with culinary booty. Jokes about Memphis topping the "America's Fattest City" list aside, I am going to get a lot of miles out of this pun, don't worry. In fact, Memphis has so much booty (see?), I'm inclined to keep a record of it.

My most recent inspiration for blogging about food comes from a few sources. The first is cable TV. Or, more specifically, two shows: Iron Chef America and Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations. If you've watched either, then I need not type anything else. If you haven't seen those shows, then I need not talk to you anymore.

The second source was a recent meal I shared with my wife of three years on our anniversary. We had several requirements for our special meal. We wanted to have some money after it was over (but not too much). So CiCi's was out, as was Pasta Italia (those are the outliers). We want a unique experience in a romantic setting - down goes Applebee's! That pretty much left Paulette's.

Now, I've never met Paulette. If I did, I think I'd shake her hand and say, "Thanks for the good food," but, we probably wouldn't be best friends. Paulette probably lives in Germantown, drives 35 on Poplar, and has three grandkids with multiple 3-syllable names each. On the other hand, she could invite me over for dinner anytime. Paulette's has the setting down pretty nice. Overton Square is the place, after all, for good food with a dash of local charm. Being Memphis, sometimes that charm has a little less... sophisticated luxury than other more established joints in cities that have older money than Memphis (I'm looking at you Nashville). In other words, if you're wearing black pants, they'll give you a black napkin at Paulette's, but it won't be silk, which is great by me. Like Memphis, this place might be somehwat pretentious, but in the end, it's not going to try that hard.

In fact, I'd say it's just pretentious enough to offer really good food without having to pronounce words you've never seen before. The Faris rule of thumb these days is "always split," which can put more pressure on the meal. Let's just say Paulette handled the pressure to the tune of a medium-cooked filet mignon topped with a gorgonzola cheese and red wine demi-glace. That meal sings. Add to that the roasted garlic whipped potatoes (because the French aren't the mashing type) and the popovers with strawberry butter that came before the meal, and you have yourself a symphony of flavors that does not dissappoint.

In short, a meal that good gives Paulette's a place in the discussion of local Memphis culinary treasure. For me, it's not where everyone knows your name and it probably shouldn't be, but for the occassional special event, Paulette's will not disappoint. In short, it's foodie booty.

So from now on, you can look forward to the occasional post about foodie booty. Also, I'm neither fat nor fatTER. But you, Gramps, look great.