Wherever she lived, Lewis brought her South with her. When I worked in Atlanta in the early 1990s, I took classes from Lewis and her protégé the Alabama-born chef Scott Peacock. I learned how to fry a small chicken in a big skillet of butter infused with country ham. Under her gaze, I pulsed butter with shrimp to make a paste that melted luxuriously over a bowl of grits. Later, as a graduate student, I interviewed Lewis about the ways she bridged the Virginia of her youth and the New York of her midlife prime.
Food followed her family everywhere, Lewis told me: “After people had gone off up north, we would send a big box of ingredients up to New York or Pittsburgh, a big cardboard box full of fresh ground cornmeal with eggs submerged in the middle, so that when they opened it up, they could have country eggs and cornbread. After I moved north, my sister would can watercress and then put it in a box full of cornmeal with maybe some ham and farm fresh eggs and ship it to me in New York City. I’d open it up and have a whole Southern meal.”
Lewis returned to Orange County to source ingredients. She returned to reconnect with family and neighbors. And she returned to tramp the woods, to forage for tastes that others thought lost. “I just hope people will like my cooking,” Lewis said before a New York City dinner she had provisioned with churned buttermilk, hauled from South Carolina. Her humility was honest. And it was attractive. Admirers flocked, first to the dinner parties she staged for the New York City creative class in the post World War II years, later to the restaurant kitchens she directed from the 1950s through the 1980s.
Lewis found her way while cooking in a New York City restaurant, remembered for combining Southern ingredients and French techniques, a tack that would, a generation later, describe the ethos of many American restaurants. When Johnny Nicholson and Lewis went into business together in 1948, she was about to take a job as a domestic, cleaning and cooking for a white family. Instead of returning to that work, which Lewis had been forced to do when she first arrived in Washington, D.C, she became a partner in a business that became a beacon of post-war possibilities.
Decorated in what Nicholson described as a “fin de siecle Caribbean of Cuba style,” Cafe Nicholson, on the ground floor of a 58th Street brownstone, served as a canteen for the creative class and a backdrop for fashion shoots. Nicholson was the Barnum of the social set, presiding with a parrot named Lolita on his shoulder. Lewis was understated, quiet. Her approach, like her cooking, was straightforward. “As a child in Virginia, I thought all food tasted delicious,” she said. “After growing up, I didn’t think food tasted the same, so it has been my lifelong effort to try and recapture those good flavors of the past.”
Cafe Nicholson employed a conceit that presaged the current white tablecloth aesthetic. They printed no menu, relying instead on the seasons and the availability of good produce and meats to determine the dishes. “We’ll serve only one thing a day,” Johnny Nicholson said to Lewis, as they schemed their opening. “Buy the best quality and I don’t see how we can go wrong.” Long before farm-to-table was a marketing concept, Lewis challenged chefs to learn “from those who worked hard, loved the land and relished the fruits of their labors.”
Nicholson imagined a “place where truck drivers eat and the food is really great.” It didn’t work out that way. Paul Robeson became a regular. So did Truman Capote, who sometimes came bursting into the kitchen looking for biscuits, which Lewis took pains to say she did not serve. Tennessee Williams, who lived across the street, often took his morning coffee at the cafe. He frequently walked Lewis home after work. Greta Garbo dined in the courtyard with her two poodles. After dinner one evening, William Faulkner asked Lewis where she had trained in France. She delighted in telling him that, at that point in her life, she had never left the country.
Lewis rose to fame cooking elemental and elegant dishes like roast chicken, which Clementine Paddleford, the reigning national critic of midcentury America, described as “brown as a chestnut, fresh from the burr.” She baked a chocolate soufflé that was “light as a dandelion seed in a wind.” She-crab soup bobbing with roe, pan-fried quail atop a bale of spoonbread, lemon pies poofed with meringue and chocolate cakes scented with coffee: Edna Lewis cooked food — first at Nicholson, later at Gage & Tollner in Brooklyn — that was rooted in the South but was not accurately categorized as soul food or country cooking. She actively rejected the term soul food, which she found limiting.
Her cooking was an act of recollection, a remembering of tastes and smells by a woman who delighted in the colors of wildflower petals and liked to stand in the middle of a cornfield to sniff the tasseled stalks. “This week we have been having beans and squash out of the garden, and they’re the best I’ve ever tasted,” she told a visitor to the family farm. “And I said to my sister, you know, in the city you put a lot of spices and herbs on food, but you really don’t need it. I don’t think people realize that. Food is so good out here.”
ABOUT THE STORY
Described by Penguin Press as “a people’s history of the modern South, told through its food,” John T. Edge’s book, “Potlikker Papers,” examines the history, politics and culture of Southern food from the civil rights movement to today. It includes profiles of prominent figures such as Colonel Sanders, Paul Prudhomme, Sean Brock and, of course, Edna Lewis, whose life ended in Decatur in February 2006. Her chapter is a bittersweet reminder of what a treasure she was and how much she is still missed.
Suzanne Van Atten
Personal Journeys editor
personaljourneys@ajc.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John T. Edge directs the Southern Foodways Alliance at the University of Mississippi, is a contributing editor at Garden & Gun and a columnist for the Oxford American. In 2012, he won the James Beard Foundation’s M.F. K. Fisher Distinguished Writing Award. Follow him on Twitter @johntedge, on Instagram @johntedge, or on the Web at potlikkerpapers.com
AUTHOR APPEARANCE
John T. Edge. “The Potlikker Papers. $45, includes book. 7 p.m. May 22. Highland Inn Ballroom, 644 N. Highland Ave, Atlanta. Presented by A Cappella Books. 404-681-5128, www.acapellabooks.com.
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