Here’s my latest review for Metro Mix Tampa Bay. I love Chopstix (in North Tampa). I love the Du sisters. I love the lo mein. I ate there again for lunch today and wanted to beat my chest I felt so good.
There are some good pictures, too. Thanks to my imaginary friend. But that’s another story.
Delicious history will be back better than ever soon enough. I’ve been asked to blog for Creative Loafing about food and history. I will share more details when arrangements have been made.
I’ve been writing some reviews for Metro Mix Tampa Bay, a massive and ambitious web magazine that is part of a national web presence. The first two assignments were lots of fun. In the first, I featured five of the best cocktails I could find in Tampa. Read it here. I also wrote a feature on Ybor City’s ten best Rum drinks, which you can find here. Both were lots of fun to research, but they were not my ideas, hard as that might be to believe. I have been getting help from a special photographer who will remain nameless for now.
So while delicious history has languished under renovation, I have not been completely idle. More soon.
I wrote this article in 2005 and ended up publishing a radically different version instead. The later version appeared in a 2006 issue of Forum magazine, published by the Florida Humanities Council. I originally wrote the piece that appears below, which chronicles the troubled final years of the Seabreeze restaurant and the hard work of Robert and Helen Richards, the last owners.
Forum wanted a nostalgic piece about the old idyllic days at the Seabreeze, and I obliged. But this piece is the one that actually supplies new information. The great old memories of the place are already featured nicely in the Seabreeze by the Bay Cookbook, which i co-wrote with Helen. She and Robert are wonderful once in a lifetime people to meet, and I treasure them as friends.
This piece attempts to conjure the feelings of loss: for the community, for Florida fishermen, for places like the Seabreeze. (rant deleted)
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The salt water of Tampa Bay laps gently against a seawall at Palmetto Beach. A rusty hulk rises from the water some thirty feet into the air. Below, a vacant building stands by the shore, with little evidence that a cultural and culinary landmark once thrived here.
Eighty years ago, Victor Licata opened the Seabreeze Restaurant on the site, blending his beloved Italian cooking with Cuban and Cracker influences. The Seabreeze culled a blue collar clientele from the workers of nearby industrial facilities. The Licata family arguably invented the deviled crab, a spicy croquette of crab and tomato sauce. Today, his restaurant is defunct, and a fishing family lost its livelihood. The price of doing business in Florida has climbed too high for most fishermen.
Robert Richards and Helen Chattin grew up in Palmetto on the outskirts of Tampa. They went out crabbing one night as a first date. Helen shone the light and held the tub for their catch. During the 1950s and 60s, young folks ate, drank, and fell in love in the Seabreeze’s crushed shell parking lot. A temple of American drive in culture, the restaurant’s good times and savory aromas drifted over the waters of the bay. If the Licatas didn’t mind offering illegal liquor, Bolita tickets, and friendly women with their food, Robert never paid much attention. “That was their business,” he said.
Robert and Helen married in 1954. He worked as a roofer and boilermaker, but saltwater flowed in his veins, and he longed to spend his working years on Tampa Bay. One day when Robert admired a tub full of live shrimp and learned they were caught in the bay, inspiration struck. “I got the bug then,” he said of his desire to become a commercial fisherman.
After a few part-time shrimping seasons, Tony and George Licata—Victor’s sons—told Robert that they needed soft shell crabs for their Seabreeze Restaurant. The men had been friends for many years, so Robert agreed to help and built a seafood market beside the restaurant. By 1970, Robert went deep into debt to build a fleet of shrimp trawlers, and the fresh seafood attracted crowds of customers.
Only a family passionate about fishing could persist in such a career. For many years, Robert and Helen adhered to the same exhausting routine. Robert shrimped all night, Helen woke before dawn to make him breakfast and take the kids to school before putting in a day at the market. When she returned home with the kids, Robert woke, ate supper and returned to the shrimp fleet. While he set out for the night, Helen put the kids to bed and rested while she could. By 1980, the couple built a strong business and brought more family into the operation.
Today, such a business is nearly impossible to start on the coast of Florida. Historically, the state’s business and political leaders valued profits over sustainability, and people like the Richards paid the price. Tampa’s sewage, dumped into the bay after being treated with a cocktail of bacteria-killing chemicals, disrupted sea life (Rich in bacteria, untreated or partially treated sewage produced bumper crops of shrimp). Planes dusted the bay with deadly poison meant to exterminate nearby red ants. A regular series of chemical spills from phosphate plants and incinerators took a deadly toll on the bay’s ecology, bleaching sea grass and seafood alike. Just last year, a phosphate company’s gypsum stack collapsed into the bay, perpetuating one of Tampa’s less savory traditions. Robert estimates the late 1980s as being a low point for the health of Tampa Bay.
The Richards maintain that overfishing was never a problem. Net bans missed the real problem entirely. Pollution rendered many fish infertile. Legislation favored tourist sports fishermen over commercial fishing. Of politicians and their new laws, Robert said, “They abolished the commercial fishing industry.” Sporting anglers blamed their lack of catch on the fishing industry, “even though the shrimp boats were not catching any of the fish that they caught,” Helen said.
New pressure came from inland. Industrial farm-raised seafood, treated with preservatives and plumping agents, filled the seafood cases of supermarkets, bypassing local fishermen and markets alike. In 1990, a new crisis struck. George Licata announced he would sell the Seabreeze, and the Richards would lose their base of operations. The Richards feverishly searched for a new home for their fleet and market. “We looked everywhere,” Robert said, among “the dwindling space that’s available on the gulf coast.” Waterfront development occupied all the land. The remaining spaces commanded too high a price for consideration.
Once again, the Richards risked all for their chosen profession and bought the Seabreeze. They passed the market and fleet to their eldest son Jimmy. This preserved their beloved fishing business, but also made them restaurateurs, which they knew little about. George Licata promised to teach them the ropes of the Seabreeze after a vacation. He died of cancer soon after. Upon taking over the Seabreeze, the couple endured “much worse of a grind,” according to Helen. When asked if they considered selling out, Robert laughed and said, “As soon as we bought it!”
It soon became apparent that neither the restaurant nor the market could prosper on their own. At the market, young Jimmy Richards struggled, “as hard as he tried he couldn’t make a go of it,” Robert said, “even though we had five boats then.” Many prospective customers preferred the convenience of supermarket seafood, however expensive or lacking in quality. “As production declined in the seafood industry,” Robert explained, “instead of selling a lot of the products wholesale, our son would bring it to the restaurant, process it there and sell it at a profit.”
Robert and Helen welcomed the reliably fresh seafood. New laws prohibited them from buying product from fishermen without expensive permits. The Richards became wary of unscrupulous wholesalers who marketed questionable product at premium prices. “Robert had to watch it all the time,” Helen said of their wholesale purchases. Jimmy’s fresh seafood allowed the Seabreeze to maintain quality without raising prices.
The Richards family squeaked by despite mounting pressure. Helen remembered, “We had a tiger by the tail, you couldn’t turn it loose.” A legal battle over property with the Tampa Port Authority—still in litigation today—exacerbated the problems. Robert suffered a serious heart attack.
By 2002, Robert and Helen reached the end of their rope. They “couldn’t stand it another day. We weren’t staying afloat anymore.” They sold the property to International Ship Repair, searched Florida’s gulf coast for new property, but found nothing suitable. The fishing industry is so weak that they cannot find buyers for their trawlers.
Robert showed understandable frustration when he recalled that commercial fishermen could not catch mullet under a foot long. “Now that the fishing industry’s all but gone, sports fishermen are allowed to catch those little finger mullet to use for bait. You can throw a bait net and catch two or three hundred sometimes. But we weren’t allowed to catch them and sell them for food.”
Despite those hardships in the past, the Richards enjoy their lives in retirement. They might even be able to forget the disappearance of their livelihood if they could find buyers for their remaining fleet. Selling three shrimp trawlers to Florida’s vanishing fishermen is no easy task.
I wrote this piece back in 2002 or so just for fun. I miss the Palios Brothers’ fried chicken, and happy to still have Snack City’s ice cream— especially the coconut. And the mango. And the cashew-raisin. And the ginger (Snack City appears in Culinary Crawl Down Boliche Boulevard below). The two friends depicted in this story are two of Florida’s top historians.
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Two friends invited me to accompany them to dinner the other day. One—whom we’ll call “Jimbo” to protect the guilty—had found the best fried chicken he’d ever eaten. I was not surprised when he said he found the best golden-brown bird at the Palios brothers’ fry shack on MacDill. Our mutual friend “Adam” is one of those poor souls condemned to eternal health food and rice cakes for medical reasons. The doctor makes the rules, and Adam’s vigilant wife enforces them.
Jimbo had learned that Adam’s wife would be out of town on this night and he discreetly called him to arrange our meeting. I fasted in preparation, and I’m sure my buddies did, too. Unfortunately for Adam, he had a doctor’s appointment the next morning, in part to have his cholesterol tested.
Walking into Palios—which is named after the brothers who run it—is like taking a few steps back in time. The board on the wall displays their entire menu, almost all of which is fried. Fried chicken, fried shrimp, onion rings, etc., all served with Cole slaw and French fries. For those wary of grease, they make a good Greek salad, too. The only proof that time has elapsed in the building is the prices on the hand-painted board. When decades of cost of living increases forced them to raise prices, the brothers nailed new boards over the old prices rather than paint them over again.
Jimbo and I started off with some great onion rings while we waited for Adam. We did not have to wait long—Adam could hardly contain himself. We ordered a big plate of chicken and Adam ate the crumbs of the onion rings directly off the table, relishing the only grease he’d tasted in many months.
Then, the chicken arrived and we dove in. The most striking thing about Palios’ chicken is the slightly burnt flavor that lends a bold heartiness where there normally would be simple breaded saltiness. The best fried chicken is not uniformly cooked, but has slightly burnt edges around the browned surface. Although I suspect it is deep-fried, their chicken tastes more like it comes from mom’s cast iron skillet, and everyone should know that taste at least once.
Before long, we sat wiping the grease from our lips, eyes rolling back in bliss. Adam could not resist eating the crumbs from the table once again. We had not even finished lavishing praise on Palios’ fried chicken when Jimbo suggested another indulgence, ice cream. “The place looks like a 7-11,” Jimbo said of the store he had in mind, “but they have great Cuban ice cream. Do you want to go?” Without a tinge of guilt, newly-liberated Adam nodded, and we were off, a two-car convoy on a classified mission to indulge in Cuban ice cream.
Snack City is a simple-looking store, an utterly unremarkable structure at Howard and Columbus that one can drive by without so much as a glance. Even inside, the building looks slightly run-down with a few tables and a counter. The robust, friendly man behind the counter had just finished taking an order for one hundred one-gallon buckets of mango ice cream from an Indian gentleman. “People from India are crazy about mangoes,” Jimbo quipped. When asked about the ice cream, the Indian gentleman said simply, “It is the best I’ve had.” His massive order would supply a party he planned on throwing. Images of a vast ice cream orgy sprung to mind, except that the participants would be fully clothed and the moans would be mango-induced.
There are many flavors to choose from, but Jimbo insisted we try the maméy (pronounced ma’am ay) flavor, derived from a Cuban fruit of the same name. Maméy is considered to be Cuba’s national fruit, and looks somewhat like an avocado with a red interior. The ice cream resembles a pink sorbet, with a subtle and intriguing flavor, somewhat like guava and not too sweet. After hearing the Indian man’s praise, we tried some mango as well. The mango and maméy contrasted each other in glorious fashion, but shared qualities delicate and delicious, light and refreshing. Cuban ice cream is neither as sweet nor as creamy as its counterpart here in the U.S. Unlike the decadence of American Heath Bar Crunch and Cookies ‘n’ Cream flavors, Snack City offers ice cream made with dignity and restraint that seems to touch off subtle possibilities instead of cloying extremes.
We thought we’d done it all at Palios, but Snack City offered something more exotic and slightly less sinful. Once again with our eyes rolling about, Adam and I thanked Jimbo for the generous invitation to explore Tampa’s culinary delights.
In parting, Adam said, “After all this, I think I’m going to reschedule my doctor’s appointment.” He rescheduled the appointment for one week later. His cholesterol went through the ceiling, but it sure tasted good.
I’m in the final throes of writing and editing the Columbia Spanish Restaurant’s Centennial history and cookbook, but it isn’t all solitary toil. I tried out a few of the restaurant’s recipes at a recent cookout, and the results were impressive. For a simple gathering, I chose to make the Mojito Chicken and Rice and Corn, with grilled asparagus on the side.
For the rice, simply cook onions in a little bacon fat and add the corn and rice. Use the liquid from the canned corn with broth. When the rice is finished, add the crumbled bacon and stir. I made the mistake of trying to stretch the recipe a bit by adding 50% more rice. While it was tasty, I will follow the recipe next time.
The chicken’s marinade is mojo with plenty of lime juice and fresh mint added. While the chicken got started on the grill, I made the simple glaze of sugar, water, mint, lime, and rum by boiling and thickening it. The sweet, fragrant, and sour mixture heightens the grilled chicken flavor admirably. It is easy to see why the dish is a popular special at the Columbia restaurant. I gave the cooked chicken a final brush with the glaze before serving. The grilled chicken has a caramelized mojito crust.
I finally got a grilling basket for fish and vegetables. It sure helps with the asparagus. The bottom of the basket sheltered the veggies from the harshest heat and I toss them as if they were in a pan, making it much easier to cook them la dente.
Wake up your chicken with the Columbia Spanish Restaurant’s great recipe. My centennial history of the restaurant (kind of like the Sopranos, except with less bullets and more food) is due out in Summer/Fall 2009, to be published by the University Press of Florida. I’ll leave it at that tonight and discuss it in more depth another time.
This article is a slightly altered version of my piece that ran in Cigar City’s July/August issue, “Go West”. The editor suggested that I write something about Boliche Boulevard, which inspired the culinary crawl documented below. I’ve also included the photos I chose to accompany the article: a friend snmapped one or two of them.
A Culinary Crawl Down Boliche Boulevard
For many years, Columbus Avenue has been fondly known as “Boliche Boulevard” because so many Latin restaurants could be found there. The namesake dish is an accurate mascot for Tampa’s Latin comfort food. A beef eye round roast stuffed with chorizo and topped with tomato based gravy, boliche is a common blue-plate special, the Cuban equivalent of meat loaf or brisket. I recently took a trip down Columbus to appraise its status as Boliche Boulevard. Beginning at its intersection with Dale Mabry, I drove east in search of good food.
You won’t find any fancy bistros on this chow trail, where Cuban cuisine is the norm. Tampa’s Cuban culinary scene remains frozen in the pre-Castro days of the 1950s. Cuban exiles have largely been cut off from developments on their mother island. Culinary change in Cuba itself has been slowed by shortages and Communism’s suppression of the restaurant scene through regulations. Tampa’s Cuban cafeterias specialize in comfort food like the “meats and threes” of the Deep South. The old style food reminds one of a time before Castro, the Cold War, and the U.S. trade embargo.
Tampa’s Cuban community celebrates its cuisine daily in humble diners and cafes on Boliche Boulevard. Three standbys uphold old-fashioned Boliche Boulevard: Arco Iris, La Teresita, and the Lincoln. Arco Iris is my current favorite, although that is subject to change. La Teresita’s counter is tough to beat, especially when dining solo, because no one there eats alone. It is also open all night on weekends, a great plus for the dancing and drinking crowd. La Teresita is the Cubano version of the greasy spoon. The Lincoln’s Spanish bean soup is among the best in town, although I’ve heard the food was better under previous ownership. With Arco Iris, which boasts the highest quality food, all three restaurants provide a comforting, predictable experience. The food in these places will rarely surprise or disappoint you. They are the old guard.
Intent on having Boliche on the boulevard, I enjoyed a tender and flavorful roast at Arco Iris. But first, I delved into a bowl of Caldo Gallego, a Galician soup of white beans, turnip greens, and abundant pork fat. Yes, that floating mass in the bowl is a hunk of pork fat. And don’t forget the Cuban toast. Enjoy!
Some Cuban favorites in Tampa: black bean soup, morro rice, Spanish bean soup, fried plantains, Cuban roast pork, and boliche. Arco Iris does Cuban diners proud.
Further down the street, you will find Snack City, a humble little place that has one secret weapon: Alfredo Naranjo’s wonderful ice cream. His vibrant tropical flavors cater to a variety of immigrants. His coconut, mamey, and guava flavors satisfy the local Cubans. Mexicans love the strawberry. Several Thai restaurants serve Alfredo’s wonderful ginger ice cream for dessert. Colombians love the guanabana, or soursop. Indians treasure the mango, cashew/raisin, and kesar pista, a curious blend of saffron and pistachio.
Although Snack City is known especially for ice cream, it serves full meals as well. My favorite is the Cubana frita, a hamburger with ketchup, onions, and loaded with potato sticks. A burger and fries in a bun.
Colombian food, with its penchant for beef, seems right at home on Boliche Boulevard. Down the street at the intersection of Howard, Antojitos is one of many relatively new Colombian restaurants in Tampa. Antojitos serves up huge platefuls of steak, fried fish, and a fried pork chop as big as your head.
You’ll notice the hot case at the counter, brimming with all kinds of exotic-looking treats. The chorizo is juicy and larger than its dried Spanish cousin. The dark blood sausage is mild and flecked with rice. Arepas are a Colombian snacking mainstay, an unleavened corn cake often topped with farmer’s cheese. The white farmer’s cheese is thick and mild and the arepa crisp. The corn-crusted empanadas score big points, especially loaded with aji, a thin green salsa with a spicy heat but no burn. The aji seems to compliment most of the food, especially the fried and grilled items.
Cold drinks, in turn, balance aji’s insistent heat. Colombians love fruit we don’t even have names for. Fruit nectar shakes come in 15 flavors such as pineapple, mango, papaya, and tamarind. I especially like to order flavors I’ve never heard of. A curuba milkshake is a favorite, as is blended lulo and ice.
On a cruise down Columbus, you might want some lighter fare than the chicharrones (fried pork skin) down the street. If so, get thee to Grass Roots Organic Restaurant, where the food is radically different from the nearby Latin eateries, and no less earnest. This haven for vegetarian, vegan, and raw diets relies on fresh vegetables and inventive seasoning.
This is no simple beans and rice kitchen. Instead, Grass Roots seems to have thought deeply about how to make such healthy food a little fun, too. The zucchini “spaghetti” is actually a highly stylized salad. The zucchini is shredded into long, thick noodle shapes. The “alfredo” sauce is an intriguing paste derived from cashews and spices, with a nice pinch of black pepper. The “meatballs” were crumbly veggie matter that tasted more nutty than meaty. The shredded house salad sports a smooth mango dressing. The falafel and veggie burgers are tasty, satisfying, and quite healthy. Veggie drinks include a variety of natural juices, fruits and vegetables, including seaweed.
For those who cannot go without meat and dairy, there is one more essential stop on Boliche Boulevard. At 60 years old this year, Brocato’s is the oldest restaurant along our chow trail, and it wins a loyal following with massive sandwiches, stuffed potatoes, and some of the best deviled crabs in the Tampa Bay area. Just north of Columbus east of 50th Street, hard hats, blue collars, and hungry locals crowd the dining room and counters on weekdays. Truly a Tampa institution, Brocato’s has expanded several times to accommodate its growing clientele. There is an outdoor dining room and shaded picnic tables for al fresco dining, nice alternatives to the loud, cramped, and crowded dining room during lunch rushes.
The regular sized sandwiches are too much for most, and for a couple dollars more, the large is truly massive, even for this ravenous writer. The Italian sub above is a well stuffed, well pressed feast for three. The Cuban sandwich is impressive and generously laden with meat, but not overstuffed. The roast pork sandwich is a real winner, and the meatball is hard to resist. The chicken parmesan sandwich is also massive, with a two layers of fried chicken cutlets with the sauce and cheese.
There are a variety of other great sandwiches, and a few entrees, but the devil crabs stand out among the region’s best. So many other devil crabs are greasy dough balls with questionable seafood content. Moist and not the least bit doughy, accented with tiny pieces of onions and bell peppers, you will probably find a bit of crab shell in Brocato’s croquette, and take comfort in it. They are worthy successors to the old Seabreeze’s legendary devil crabs. Don’t forget the stuffed potatoes, they are too good to be ignored, stuffed with a real picadillo, not plain ground beef. The olives are especially appreciated.
By my estimation, Boliche Boulevard still lives up to its name quite well. It reveals a Tampa in constant flux, where various ethnic roots and lifestyles vibrantly mingle and coexist. One can taste that diversity and goodwill on a culinary crawl down Columbus Avenue.
The lunch special this week featured a hearty and healthy marinara with ground turkey breast. I cooked a pound of ground turkey breast and set it aside, being careful not to overcook it.
Then I sauteed a diced onion and green pepper. Once the veggies were soft, I added lots of chopped garlic (10-12 cloves), dry oregano (1.5 tbl), and fennel seeds (3/4 tbl). I recommend that you crush the fennel seeds in a mortar and pestle first.
A minute or so later, I added 2 14-oz cans of whole tomatoes. Once the moisture had almost completely cooked down, I added 2/3rd a cup of burgundy to deglaze the pan. After the wine had thickened, I added 2 cans of crushed tomatoes and 2 tbl sugar. The newly-added tomatoes really brightened up the color and flavor of the sauce.
I finished the sauce by adding the cooked turkey breast, 1-2 tbl pepper, and an entire package of fresh basil. The resulting sauce is chunky and rich, but almost completely devoid of fat or excess salt. It is also very flavorful, and the fennel seeds, oregano and fresh basil add a wonderful Italian bouquet to the sauce. Served over high-protein pasta with fresh fruit on the side, this sauce made a great healthy meal all week long.
I wrote this article in 2006 after attending the Angola Prison Rodeo in Louisiana with a buddy, Shane. I had foolishly hoped the southern food at the accompanying festival would be tasty. I was wrong. It is a prison, after all. While the food was lousy, at least it was not seasoned with ground glass. Besides, the rodeo was a lot of fun.
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I never thought I would go to prison, much less for a rodeo. The drive from New Orleans lasted over two hours to the infamous Louisiana State Penitentiary for the Angola Prison Rodeo. The event sells out every time it is held, filling the five thousand seat arena to capacity.
I flashed my ticket to the guard at the gate and she waved me through. A few trees dotted the open landscape of the prison grounds, and police officers on four wheelers herded us to a field for parking. After a long walk to the entrance, I turned around the moment I saw the sign. Cell Phones Prohibited. In an honest mistake, my buddy brought his cell phone from the car. We joked that he was desperate to stay in touch with friends and family while in the belly of the beast.
The atmosphere of a flea market prevailed at the convict crafts fair surrounding the arena. Those looking for sincere gifts and art will be disappointed. Those seeking surreal people watching will never want to leave, as it justifies the ten dollar admission by itself.
“Clocks!” a convict announced from behind a chain link barrier, “We got a deal on clocks today!” His fingers clawed into the chain link. He leaned against it as if he held the bars of his own cell. His young face gestured toward a long table between us on my side of the fence. The simple varnished clocks reminded me of those I made in woodshop as a boy: honest and shiny. Dozens of other convict craftsmen ogled the passersby. “Hey Beyonce!” one called to a young lady from behind the fence in a playful tone. A light rain fell from the gray sky.
Another table contained crude wood miniatures of an electric chair bearing burnt lettering which read “old Sparky.” I briefly entertained the idea of buying one for a friend, a scholar of criminal justice. I decided the joke wouldn’t last as long as the walk back to the car. To be fair, some of the wooden furniture looked handsome, and I saw several pickup trucks stacked with sold pieces.
Walking among the crowded stalls, I brushed up against what appeared to be a craft-laden table. It collapsed slowly and the bad woodwork slid into the mud. Beneath the upset plank of wood were not the legs of a table but a soggy cardboard box that succumbed to the weight of its wares. A few people gasped at the spectacle, and a trustee cried “Oh” as if he caught a roving vandal in the act. Surely there would be swift, brutal retaliation for my carelessness, the tone of his voice implied. I lived to tell the tale.
I heard the Angola Rodeo offered a wide range of junk food, fair food, and Southern food. I sought barbecue brisket and pulled pork, gumbo and gator tail, funnel cakes and greens. My friend made the mistake of asking a vendor where to find good barbecue. Our erstwhile host led us to a bored-looking group of erstwhile sandwich vendors. We waited for at least ten minutes while the supposed pit-masters ignored us. I smelled a rat and pulled on my buddy’s sleeve—time to go. But he’d already given over his money. When confronted, the sandwich slingers apologized and handed over a heavy bundle wrapped in paper. Inside, we found the nasty evil twin of the McRib. The spongy meat tucked into a bun never saw a wood fire in its short life, from food processing factory to prison. I did find a passable gumbo. It would have to do. Those poor prisoners, I thought.
The spectators crowded into the tidy arena and the show commenced. A homespun master of ceremonies presided over the activities, but not from a skybox. He announced from horseback in the arena itself, donning elaborate cowboy regalia. The rodeo band played keenly casual music from a high platform in the shade. They made the most of the shifting events, giving voice to the comedy, potential tragedy, and tentative interludes that afternoon.
The announcer played the straight guy against the rambunctious rodeo clowns. Parts daredevil, drunk idiot, carnie, and clown, they never failed to tease out chuckles from all ages of the audience. The hokey routines abounded with silly Southern drawls, lending the atmospheres and attitudes of Ringling Brothers and Hee Haw. The announcer and clowns traded one liners between the many events. The variety and brevity of each competition unfolded at a brisk pace, which provided constant entertainment.
Teams of three convicts each attempted to subdue and milk wild cows. Most of the time, the irritated cow pushed and dragged the men around. Still, a couple men showed evidence of milk on their gloves, and won.
A surreal sideshow act may have been the most entertaining event of all. A trainer unleashed fours dogs into the arena, but these were no ordinary canines. The trainer saddled them up like horses. Small monkeys dressed like cowboys rode the dogs. Together, they herded a group of sheep. Nothing else in the arena that day proved as well trained as those dogs—certainly not the convicts, most of whom seemed to be complete amateurs at riding.
One event showed just how untrained these convicts were with animals. A single convict rode across the arena on a bareback horse. On the opposite side, another convict stood atop a barrel, waiting for a ride. In an awkward dance, the riding convict maneuvered his horse beside the barrel, while other jumped off onto the horse’s back. Such hijinks may look impressive in Western films, but horses clearly do not like being jumped on by grown men. They threw many a convict in irritation. Two wannabe cowboys suffered a bouncy turn on horseback. They unwisely rode sitting straight up, so they had no leverage. Judging by how slowly they rose after being thrown from the horse, any hopes of fathering children in the future is questionable at best.
Convict poker is perhaps the most famous event at the Angola rodeo. Four convicts sat at a card table going through the motions of gambling. Officials released an angry bull into the arena, and the rodeo clowns teased the bull into charging. They dove out of the bull’s path, and it blindly charges. If a convict stands or is forcibly unseated, he forfeits the prize of five hundred dollars. It sounds terribly dangerous, but bulls—even enraged ones—are easily distracted, and often pranced around the edges of the arena and gazed at the audience.
Far more impressive and dangerous was convict pinball. The same principle applied, but convicts had to stand in fixed circles. A particularly large white bull scared three of the four convicts out of their circles, sometimes with a mere glance. In one violent sequence, a rodeo clown stood in a barrel and taunted the bull. When the beast charged, the hapless clown hunched into the barrel. With one sweep of his horns, the powerful bull threw the barrel through the air. The dazed clown emerged from the upturned barrel after the bull moved on to his next victim.
The final event is also the most desperate for the convicts. A bull with a poker chip tied between his horns entered the arena. About twenty waiting convicts tried to grab the chip and avoid the bull’s horns. This finale event is so interesting because the convicts do not simply try to avoid the bull. If they want the rodeo’s biggest prize, they must seek it out. One convict did just that and held the chip without getting gored. With this climax, the rodeo ended.
On the way to the parking lot, I glanced a simple piece at a crafts stand. A mirror framed in wood and barbed wire. I thought it terribly mundane then, but that mirror is profound now. For a few dollars, anyone could see their living portrait surrounded by tangled, uneven justice.
Aside from the regrettable food, something else aroused my sympathy for the convicts at Angola. Earlier that day, nothing could be as simple as entering the prison and being led to a parking place. Hours later, nothing could be more chaotic and frustrating as getting out of there. The friendly guards on the four wheelers were nowhere to be found on our way out. Automobile anarchy ensued. Thousands of cars lined up to get out on the single two-lane road to freedom. It took a good two hours to bust out of that joint, during which my buddy stringed up my guitar and fretted away. I improvised some lyrics as we idled by a frowning guard. In a joyous, raspy voice I sang, “It’s a good day to break out of prison!” For a moment, the guard smiled as we crept by.
We found our freedom as the sun set and a heavy rain beat down. Famished for lack of edible food in prison, we vainly searched for an open restaurant that Sunday evening in the backwoods of Louisiana. At least we had our freedom and a new song to sing. The further we traveled away from Angola, the more impressive our memories of the rodeo became. I silently hoped the bulls were already out on the pasture again. Of course, the convicts would have to wait a bit longer, with or without a prize from that day’s rodeo.
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Shane and I wrote a couple of songs inspired by the event while staying at a cushy bed and breakfast in the Marigny district of New Orleans (the city was, and is, still raw from Hurricane Katrina). You can listen to the Angola Rodeo Song here. Shane is an excellent musician, and I just write the lyrics and sing along.
In a perfect world, I would take my nephews to see the Angola Prison Rodeo. Let’s set aside any ethical objections to prisons or rodeos for a moment. As a boy, I would have been completely enthralled by the action and very scenario of the rodeo. It would have been like watching the circus. In prison.
I’m happy to get some of my history-related writing up here, as there has been so much about home cooking. My Creative Loafing article came out in their annual Food Issue in June. Click here and tell me what you think.
I have two articles about to be published. “A History of Tampa in Ten Meals” will appear in Creative Loafing’s annual food issue in June. Writing about ten historic events in 3,000 words is not easy. I think it a fun taste of Tampa history.
“A Culinary Crawl Down Boliche Bloulevard” will be appear in Cigar City’s July/August issue. I go from one end of Tampa’s Columbus Avenue to the other and offer suggestions for good eating. I discuss Cuban food, Colombian food, raw vegan “pasta” “alfredo” with “neatballs”, and monster sandwiches from Brocato’s. I will post the article here once it has run in Cigar City.
