Southern

Granny Foster made the best fried chicken in the world—salty and golden brown with a crackly crust that gave way to meat as moist and tender as could be. The secret is the overnight brine of water, salt, and spices that drives extra moisture and flavor into the meat, where they are locked in during the cooking process.

When I was in college I had a job waiting tables at the Half Shell, a little wood-paneled restaurant in Memphis that makes the best fried oysters I have ever eaten. They serve their perfectly crisp-on-the-outside, juicy-on-the-inside oysters by the half-dozen, with lemon wedges and tartar sauce, but you can also get them layered with slaw in a creamy po’ boy sandwich or sprinkled atop eggs Benedict. A few years ago the Half Shell moved across the street to a larger location, and while it’s never felt quite the same since they moved, I still drop by for their fried oysters every time I visit Memphis. My Half Shell–inspired version of basic fried oysters makes a perfectly good meal on its own, but check out the four easy serving suggestions if you want to take things one step further.

Étouffée is a traditional New Orleans one-pot dish whose name literally—and appropriately—comes from the French word for “smothered.” Like gumbo, étouffée is a highly seasoned stew of fish or meat and vegetables that is served over steamed rice. Also like gumbo, it has a big-hearted, homey quality that makes it one of my favorite dishes to serve to crowds (especially when they include friends who aren’t from the South). Although serious purists might disapprove, I never make étouffée the same way twice, and I don’t take sides when it comes to never-ending debates about the proper shade of roux or whether there’s room for tomatoes in a bona fide étouffée. For me, one of the joys of Cajun and Creole stews is their variability, so feel free to experiment.

With blue crabs, sausage, corn on the cob, and tender new potatoes, this lowcountry-inspired shrimp boil makes for a rustic and utterly delicious spread that is just the thing for impromptu summertime gatherings. I sometimes serve it in individual tins or buckets, but that’s about as refined as I ever get with this low-key dish, which is best eaten right out of the bucket or from a big pile on the table, with a crowd of friends, and always with your fingers.

This easy butter preparation adds an unexpected flavor dimension to any dish and is equally good on steaks, steamed broccoli, roasted fingerling potatoes, or fish and rice.

I used to make crab cakes using all kinds of herbs and vegetables for added flavor and texture, but the ultrasimple crab cakes Peter and I enjoyed on a recent trip to the Maryland shore convinced me that in this case, less is more. I don’t add much more to this dressed-down version than is needed to hold the cakes together, so the only time to make them is when crab is in season and at the peak of freshness.

Soft-shell crab season, which generally lasts from May through June, is short and highly anticipated. That’s because soft-shell crabmeat is unbelievably tender and buttery-sweet, and the shell, which you eat along with the meat, is perfectly crunchy without being the least bit tough or chewy. True fanatics don’t let a moment of soft-shell crab season go to waste, eating them for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, in sandwiches or served solo. Ask your fishmonger to clean them for you.

I grew up on these tasty little fried cakes, which Granny Foster used to serve for breakfast with fried eggs and biscuits, or sometimes for supper along with mashed potatoes and coleslaw. Like most Southerners, Granny used canned salmon in her croquettes. I opt instead for freshly poached or grilled salmon, a move that allows the delicate, grassy flavor of the fish to come through. Crispy and satisfying (the name croquette comes from the French for “to crunch”), these easy treats are an excellent way to revitalize leftovers from last night’s salmon dinner, ensuring that the switch from canned to fresh fish does not necessarily sacrifice convenience.

I like to make this in early summer, when the first summer vegetables are coming in and the flounder, which can grow to as much as twenty-five pounds, are running small—what our fishmonger calls “plate size.” They are so fresh and dainty at that time of year that I usually budget one whole fish per person. I sometimes serve this simple dish with a green salad or fluffy steamed rice, but you don’t have to, as it’s really a complete meal in and of itself—the vegetable ratatouille, made with smaller-than-usual dice, doubles as both a sauce and a vegetable side.

Last time I was at the SeeWee, an old-school seafood restaurant outside Charleston, I had an incredibly good plate of grilled grouper with fresh tomato salsa. Not only was the fish superfresh and perfectly cooked, but the salsa, a rough mix of vine-ripe tomatoes, white onion, and cilantro, was so simple and bright that it enhanced the flavor of the fish perfectly without overpowering it. I was so fond of it that I’ve been re-creating it at home ever since. It’s just the sort of light, fresh supper you want in the dead of summer.

Despite its name, this traditional shrimp dish isn’t so much barbecue as a savory, saucy stew. It gets its full-bodied flavor from Worcestershire sauce and dark beer, and a dose of fresh lemon gives it a bright, clean finish.

It may not be deep-fried, but with a satisfyingly crunchy cornmeal crust, this skillet-fried catfish has all the flavors and textures that you would expect from fried fish. Most important, served with a healthy dollop of Herb Tartar Sauce or a heap of Roxy’s Grated Coleslaw (page 260), lemon wedges, and cold beer, it is just as sure to draw a crowd. This recipe can also be made with snapper, flounder, or any other flaky white fish.

When I was young, we ate pancakes or waffles for breakfast almost every Saturday morning, and my dad was the self-appointed commander of the waffle iron. Dad’s waffles were crispy, light, and puffy, perfect with a drizzle of honey or—his pick—molasses. My version of our old weekend favorite does my dad’s waffles justice. They are wonderfully crispy with a slightly tangy bite imparted by the buttermilk. Serve warm with butter and honey or sweetened cream and fresh fruit.

Every Southern cook has his or her own version of this stratalike breakfast soufflé, but I’m willing to bet that each and every one begins with white sandwich bread. In the past, I’ve tried to fancy it up using challah or brioche or some other bread, but it was never quite as good. I first had this particular variation on a visit to Meridian, Mississippi, catering my cousin’s rehearsal dinner. My crew and I were working so hard we hadn’t even stopped to eat. One of the local ladies, Mott, brought us this soufflé, ready to bake. Hot out of the oven, it was utterly delicious. Note that it should be prepared the night before, allowed to soak overnight, and baked the following morning.

This hearty dish, which is a great way to reinvigorate leftover Foster Family’s Pot Roast with Herb-Roasted Vegetables (page 199), is inspired by Southern dishes featuring “low” cuts of meat. With savory layers of potato, roast, and poached eggs finished with the cool heat of the Horseradish Mustard Vinaigrette and brightened with fresh greens, this crowd-pleaser makes for a decadent Sunday brunch, but it can just as comfortably double as the main event at dinner. Serve with warm, crusty toast for a complete meal.

Red-eye gravy—which for most Southerners is the only acceptable sauce for country ham—is a savory and slightly bitter mixture of black coffee and the pan drippings left behind from frying country ham. I’m not sure how the coffee first made its way into the pan, but I like to imagine it was one of those happy accidents born of necessity. It rings true, anyway, because Southerners love gravy so much that they will find a way to eke some out of a greasy pan no matter what. I lighten my version of this quintessentially Southern dish with a bright shock of fresh, green asparagus, which plays perfectly off the saltiness of the red-eye gravy and the richness of the runny egg yolks.

A good hash is like soup: you can toss together all the odds and ends from your fridge and pantry and end up with something rustic and hearty that is much more than the sum of its parts.