PORK CHOPS AT PRINCESS PAMELA'S

I grew up in the rural south and have carried a deep-seated affection for southern culture with me all my days.  Finding my life unfolding in Connecticut, I took some solace in exploring the soul food joints of New York City - afterall, soul food and southern food are largely one and the same.

My best friend at the time, the best man at my wedding and a guy who, unfortunately, I've let time and miles come between, having lost touch with him years ago, - anyway, my best friend at the time was a Columbian-born, Florida-raised guy named Charley, who'd also lived down in Nashville before relocating to Manhattan.  Like me, he had a passion for southern cooking and soul food, and he did a nice job of scouting out various places for us to eat.

One summer night we're on the prowl, in the city, looking for dinner and craving some down-home cooking.  Charley tells me he wants me to try Princess Pamela's.  Time had taught me that Charley was a capable frontman in the ongoing Soul Food sojurns, so I was easily convinced.  Off to Greenwich Village we headed.

We're walking down this nondescript block in the village, passing pedestrians, yellow cabs, the occasional street person, when we come across this unmarked doorway on some grey building.  Charley raps on the door, waits a few second, and it opens about three inches to reveal a chain lock still in place, and a youthful, pretty, dark-skinned girl peering out at us asking "what'd you want?".  "We want to eat", Charley says.  The door closes for a second, then opens wide, the chain lock finally unsecured.  Wordlessly, the young lady lets us in, and leads us to a table, then retreats behind an open counter into the kitchen.  

We find ourselves sitting, back to the counter that seperates us from the kitchen, at a small table with a white linen tablecloth spread on it, plus a paper napkin and silverware, and nothing else.  It's one of about seven tables crowded into a rectangular dining room about the size of an automatic car wash.   Plus, in the front, to the left of the doorway, sits an upright bass, a drum set and a piano, wedged together in an incredibly small amount of space, the property of a jazz trio that plays every Sunday...a jazz trio who must double as contortionist to work in the confines Princess Pamela's presents them with.

There's a yuppie couple at the table in front of us, talking and talking about their travels, their exploits, their general cleverness and grooviness.  At the table to our left sits a large, (I'm sure well over 300 pounds) middle-aged black lady with a southern accent and a sassy voice, counting money and holding court, engaging Charley and me, the yuppie couple, and the young lady who let us in in a conversation whether we wanted in or not.  This, I realized, was the immortal Princess Pamela!     

There were no menus at Princess Pamela's.  Every night they prepared a soul food dinner and you either ate it or you didn't.  Yuppie girl found that out the hard way.  That young lady who let us in...she did all the heavy lifting.  She not only served as doorman, but she was the cook, the waitress and the bus boy, all in one.  She meanders over to the yuppie table to announce what's for dinner..."Tonight at Princess Pamela's we're serving fried pork chops, macaroni and cheese, collard greens..." when yuppie girl interrupts to blurt out, "Oh, that won't do.  I don't eat meat.". Our African-Americna superwoman responds without missing a beat "well, you better carry your a-- somewhere else then."  Startled, the yuppie retreats.  And, yes, that night, she did eat meat.  I know, I kept an eye on her to see.  She was diggin' that pork chop!  

Our food arrives.  Soul Food joints generally believe in quality and quantity, and Princess Pamela's was no exception.  The meal came on these large oval-shaped dishes, actually over-flowing the dishes.  A couple nice, fat chops, a nice mound of homemade macaroni and cheese, a healthy serving of greens, some green beans, a tossed salad right on the plate, some corn and a big chuk of hot cornbread.  It was fantastic!

So fantastic that I didn't even mind the self-absorbed yuppie couple yammering on and on.  Charley and I were much more interested in what Princess Pamela had to say - she was quick-witted, sarcastic, observant and funnier than most stand-up comedians dream about.  But it was hard to miss our couple's boast of their world travels on a dime.  Something about freight airliners getting some kind of tax break for carrying passengers and freight.  Supposedly some of them have one seat on board for a passenger.  They'll sell you a ticket for next to nothing and you can see the world for cheap.  Princess Pamela kept asking how they could afford to travel so much and they just kept smuggly repeating that story - because they were smarter than any of us, you see?  

Anyway, we're eating, jabber-jawing with the Princess, watching that young lady that ran the kitchen hussle, and keeping an eye on the pork chops disappearing from our yuppie-vegetarian friend's plate, having a good ol' time and ruling the universe, when the couple finishes, says thanks to the Princess, gets up and, once that young lady in the kitchen comes and unlatches the door, head out into the Greenwich Village night.

On her way back from the front door to the kitchen, Superwoman stops to bus the departed yuppies' table.  She's gathering plates, silverware and glasses in one hand when she pauses, gets a slightly disgusted look on her face, scoops some money off the table and heads back to the kitchen.  On her way she stops at Princess Pamela's table, where the mystery of the evening is about to be solved.

Without saying a word, the young lady holds out her right hand and the tip contained within. Princess Pamela takes one look at her outstretched palm and says knowingly, like a grandmother who's just caught a kid reaching into the cookie jar,  "Uh-huh, now I see how they can afford all them trips to Europe."