A Visit with the King: Elvis's Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich
I'm in Tennessee right now, South Pittsburg to be exact, to judge The National Cornbread Festival. As too many locals have reminded me, "This ain't no bagel contest, girl, whatchu know 'bout cornbread?" That remains to be seen, and after today's contest, I suppose I'll be judged as well. But we'll save that for the next posting.
Since I was traveling all the way to Tennessee, I just had to augment my journey with a little side trip to Memphis. I've been an Elvis fan since I was 7, when I found my mom's GI Blues record in the back of her closet. I have spent too many hours staring at that man, while mom would tell me how she used to go over to *her* Grandma's house to watch him on TV (his antics were frowned upon in the home my mother grew up in). I read Elvis and Me twice.
I arrived in Memphis Wednesday evening, and uncharacteristically treated myself to the poshest boutique hotel in town. I found men in Memphis aggressive; a US Marine tried to pick me up at Enterprise, and a Chicago businessman brought me a beer while I was playing with my computer in the lobby, "I hate to drink alone." Yeah? Well I hate to be interrupted. A fine looking M&A professional, he regaled me with stories of his drunken Memphis nights. Impressive.
I had been in Memphis one hour. I don't get this much attention in New York in a month. I walked over to Rendezvous for some ribs. I've had better; I've made better. Onto Beale Street. Apparently, Wednesdays are for Harley riders, so this was a barrel-chested, Lucky Strike-thickened Harley parking lot, with all the Foghorn-Leghorn posturing that goes with it.
I retreated home for a good night's sleep: tomorrow was for my King(s). I dressed for Graceland in a cute blue print dress, nude fishnets and fifties peeptoes. I was first in line, but was soon to be surrounded by at least 2000 card-carrying members of the AARP. This is a social group of tourists, used to standing in line and making polite conversation with those around them. "You're not even old enough to even know Elvis." was the opening line of choice. Not so, Daddy-O.
I'm not going to go on and on about Graceland. There are too many others before me who've gone into great detail about the trippy Jungle room (yes, with a waterfall), the TV room (yup, completely mirrored, with three TV rooms), the white shag receiving room in front, the record room (with *all* those gold records, the costumes (especially the jumpsuits), the horses, and the meditation garden. The dozens of fresh bouquets at his grave site, still pouring in from fans around the world.
What I'm going to tell you is that Elvis' generosity and hospitality can be felt in his home, still. There are six cozy rooms (designed by the King, clearly) where you just want to sit, grab a drink (most rooms have corner bars), listen to some good music, and laugh. Graceland is a modest home, purchased by Elvis for $100,000 when he was 22. He didn't upgrade when he made more money, and he didn't leave town. He had a bedroom for his parents, and always had plenty of play toys for his friends.
His kitchen had four electric burners, a single oven, one refrigerator and one sink. I've more well appointed kitchens in the homes of Manhattanites who don't cook; Elvis was a tremendous host (and eater). But sometimes it ain't about your gear; it's what you do with it.
Elvis is my American success story; a polite boy from Tupelo, who could sing, move, and let us all watch. You can have Justin Timberlake and those boys from Maroon 5. When I want to feel music, passion, and raw heat, I'm turning to Elvis: a boy who loved his mama, served in the Army, and still gets me riled up, decades later.
So move over Great Grandma, I'm coming over to watch Elvis tonight. I'll bring PB&B sandwiches and the buttermilk to wash 'em down.
Elvis Presley's Grilled Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich
I've been making PB&B's for years, much like one would make PB&Js. I'd enjoy them with a sense that by eating this sandwich, I was ingesting Elvis (don't make fun: have you ever heard of communion?). But in my haste to commune with the King, I hadn't paid attention to detail: Elvis' sandwiches are fried.
Since I was traveling all the way to Tennessee, I just had to augment my journey with a little side trip to Memphis. I've been an Elvis fan since I was 7, when I found my mom's GI Blues record in the back of her closet. I have spent too many hours staring at that man, while mom would tell me how she used to go over to *her* Grandma's house to watch him on TV (his antics were frowned upon in the home my mother grew up in). I read Elvis and Me twice.
I arrived in Memphis Wednesday evening, and uncharacteristically treated myself to the poshest boutique hotel in town. I found men in Memphis aggressive; a US Marine tried to pick me up at Enterprise, and a Chicago businessman brought me a beer while I was playing with my computer in the lobby, "I hate to drink alone." Yeah? Well I hate to be interrupted. A fine looking M&A professional, he regaled me with stories of his drunken Memphis nights. Impressive.
I had been in Memphis one hour. I don't get this much attention in New York in a month. I walked over to Rendezvous for some ribs. I've had better; I've made better. Onto Beale Street. Apparently, Wednesdays are for Harley riders, so this was a barrel-chested, Lucky Strike-thickened Harley parking lot, with all the Foghorn-Leghorn posturing that goes with it.
I retreated home for a good night's sleep: tomorrow was for my King(s). I dressed for Graceland in a cute blue print dress, nude fishnets and fifties peeptoes. I was first in line, but was soon to be surrounded by at least 2000 card-carrying members of the AARP. This is a social group of tourists, used to standing in line and making polite conversation with those around them. "You're not even old enough to even know Elvis." was the opening line of choice. Not so, Daddy-O.
I'm not going to go on and on about Graceland. There are too many others before me who've gone into great detail about the trippy Jungle room (yes, with a waterfall), the TV room (yup, completely mirrored, with three TV rooms), the white shag receiving room in front, the record room (with *all* those gold records, the costumes (especially the jumpsuits), the horses, and the meditation garden. The dozens of fresh bouquets at his grave site, still pouring in from fans around the world.
What I'm going to tell you is that Elvis' generosity and hospitality can be felt in his home, still. There are six cozy rooms (designed by the King, clearly) where you just want to sit, grab a drink (most rooms have corner bars), listen to some good music, and laugh. Graceland is a modest home, purchased by Elvis for $100,000 when he was 22. He didn't upgrade when he made more money, and he didn't leave town. He had a bedroom for his parents, and always had plenty of play toys for his friends.
His kitchen had four electric burners, a single oven, one refrigerator and one sink. I've more well appointed kitchens in the homes of Manhattanites who don't cook; Elvis was a tremendous host (and eater). But sometimes it ain't about your gear; it's what you do with it.
Elvis is my American success story; a polite boy from Tupelo, who could sing, move, and let us all watch. You can have Justin Timberlake and those boys from Maroon 5. When I want to feel music, passion, and raw heat, I'm turning to Elvis: a boy who loved his mama, served in the Army, and still gets me riled up, decades later.
So move over Great Grandma, I'm coming over to watch Elvis tonight. I'll bring PB&B sandwiches and the buttermilk to wash 'em down.
Elvis Presley's Grilled Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich
I've been making PB&B's for years, much like one would make PB&Js. I'd enjoy them with a sense that by eating this sandwich, I was ingesting Elvis (don't make fun: have you ever heard of communion?). But in my haste to commune with the King, I hadn't paid attention to detail: Elvis' sandwiches are fried.
2 slices of white bread
2 tablespoons of smooth peanut butter
1 small ripe banana mashed
2 tablespoons butter (or bacon fat)
posted by Allison Fishman Task at 9:00 AM
1 Comments:
dag, i wish i'd known you were going! i would have recommended the stax museum--the best museum in the world--and ellen's soul food. abd interstate bbq, which imho blows rendezvous away. oh well, next time...
i LOVE memphis. one of my favorite places on earth.
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