Lambert’s

During road trips to Chicago, we would often go to a few places: The Flying Fish in Little Rock, Arkansas; Cracker Barrel (anywhere we went through the South had a Cracker Barrel, so we were pretty fortunate in that sense); or McDonalds. During one road trip to Chicago (I think it was during my winter break), we decided to go outside our comfort zone and try a restaurant called Lambert’s, which was located in Missouri. We didn’t know much about it, other than that they were called “Home of the Throwed Rolls.” We were pretty intrigued by the title, not just by the intentional grammar choice but because as a kid I was picturing a scene where a bunch of waiters and waitresses were throwing rolls at people in a sort of Sylvester Stallone action type movie. Would I get hit in the eye? The groin? The nose? How would I dodge these rolls once the waiters and waitresses started throwing them? And would this go down as a food fight, the kind I saw in movies like Max Keeble’s Big Move? I am exaggerating, but from what I can remember they were serious about throwing the rolls. And even more serious about the portion sizes.

We walked into the restaurant and blues music played on the stereo. It was a bustling day, and there were quite a few people. Even though we didn’t eat red meat or poultry, we ate fish, so we ordered four plates of fried catfish. They would charge us extra if we shared a plate. I didn’t know what was in store for us when we set foot in the restaurant, but let me tell you, it was neither Cracker Barrel nor The Flying Fish. It was a completely new experience.

Waiters came around with tin cans of a sticky syrup called sorghum. Up until I stepped foot in this restaurant, the only sweeteners I had consumed were honey and cane sugar.

“Sooorrrrghum on your rolls!” a young mustachioed waiter hollered as he came around with sorghum. Fluffy hot rolls flew at us, and we caught them with serious baseball sportsmanship.

“Macaroni and tomatoes!”

I nodded, and the waitress heaped my plate with macaroni and tomatoes. I ate. Mmmm, I said, as I dug into the buttery pasta. My stomach shelf was at about 40 percent. I ate a bread roll with sorghum. It was an interesting taste. I chewed the roll and swallowed, and it worked its way through my throat like warm glue. Oh, gosh, my stomach groaned. You are at sixty five percent, kid. Slow down.

“Fried okra!” As a kid who grew up in the South, I couldn’t say no to some fried okra. It was just too good. I savored each bite. My stomach was yelling a little louder. You are at seventy-five percent! Don’t give me any more food to digest!

But I couldn’t. I also didn’t want to hurt the waiters’ feelings by saying “no, thank you.” Our plates of fried catfish came around, and by the time they got to our table, our stomachs were smaller than our eyes. I wanted to take a break, but the food just kept coming around. My stomach was screaming, STOPPPP!!! IT IS WAY TOO MUCH FOOD! You are at 110 percent!!! I weakly eyed my catfish, and my stomach nearly lurched. I grabbed my fork and cut through a sliver of the fried fish filet and took a bite. Delicious. I took more forkfuls and almost made it through half of the catfish. My family was almost done with theirs and they were getting pretty full, too. We groaned from the pain of eating more than your stomach allows you to.

“Macaroni and tomatoes?” A woman came around with a bowl of macaroni and tomatoes. She had a Santa hat on, and a cheery disposition.

I waved my hand in defeat. I might as well have waved my white napkin and called a truce between me, my stomach, and all that delicious Southern goodness.

“No thank you, ma’am.”

She gave a concerned look.

“Are you allergic to the food?”

I shook my head.

“No, ma’am, I am just full.”

She moved on to the next table.

We paid the bill and thanked the people at the restaurant. We slowly got up and used the restroom and then waddled our way to the car, sleepy and full. I don’t know how Mom and Dad are going to drive back, I thought. We ate so much food.

We got in the car, and the first thing my sister jokingly said was, “Wow. Let’s go get some ice cream!”

We all gave her dagger eyes. I couldn’t drink alcohol because I was underage, but it wasn’t until I ate in that restaurant that I learned you can be intoxicated just from eating a lot of good Southern food until your stomach is begging for mercy.