Blairsville
Georgia
November 2012
There was a woman some years ago in Arizona. Her name was, and is, Randi. According to a source to be named later, Randi was a thirteenth generation armadillo farmer. Did you get that? That’s a lot of family and that’s a lot of armadillo.
For thirteen generations, Randi’s family ran the armadillo farm out there in Arizona until 2003 when the Federal Highway Administration decided it was time to lay down an interstate highway smack up against Randi’s farm. This idea was supported by the truckers as it would make their drive through the area much easier and quicker, and therefore more efficient and cheaper. Randi, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in selling her land and sincerely did not want a superhighway plowing through, what with the noise and exhaust and disturbance to her armadillos. Arguments ensued. Bad blood, name calling.
This all ended late one August evening with a fate-changing event. As usual, Randi let out her roll of armadillos to roam. (A group of armadillos is called a “roll.”) Seven wild-eyed truckers jumped into their tractor trailers, fired them up and laid waste to her land by driving berserk in random circles, killing almost every one of Randi’s critters.
There wasn’t much she could do. These were big men, and they were in very big trucks.
Armadillo is a Spanish word that means “little armored one.” The Aztecs called them “turtle rabbits.” With reference to the Great Depression, armadillos are also known as “Hoover hogs,” “poor man’s pigs” and “poverty pigs.” The meat is edible and in some places, it was cheaper than the more popular meats. In the depths of the Depression, it might have been the only meat some folks could afford.
On the other side of the food chain, what do armadillos eat? Insects, grubs and beetles, spiders, amphibians, ants and termites, and vegetables. They often prefer cloth tablecloths.
When there is no Great Depression, what eats the armadillo? Coyote, bobcat, cougar, wolf, bear, raccoon and some birds of prey. And still, as I say, humans. Armadillo fits snugly in the middle of the food chain.
We’re all somewhat familiar with the little armored Cingulata, bony plates covering their back, head, legs and tail. Alas, armored as they are, they are still no match for a tractor trailer.
Knowing that people sometimes eat armadillo brings us back to Randi. After a brief bout of despair, the Great Truck vs Armadillo Hostility led to the next phase of Randi’s life.
After the 2003 massacre, Randi opened up a taco stand and called it the “TacoDillo.” Her main servings were armadillo tacos and armadillo salsa. Think about that. While it is true that humans eat armadillo, it is also true that only a small number of humans eat armadillo. You don’t see armadillo pictures on the lighted signboard over the shoulder of the teenager who is serving you at the fast food restaurant, and it is rarely on the menu of any restaurant that has lit candles on the tables, where diners prefer tablecloths. This is also true of formica-topped table restaurants, or pretty much any other type of restaurant. But really, let’s be fair. These days, would you look at a chicken in the barnyard, feathers and beak, toe nails and wattles, comb and fluff, and be motivated to say, “Hmm, this critter looks like good eatin’!” Why not armadillo?
Somehow, in spite of just scraping by, Randi was unaware of the general reluctance of the public to eat the turtle rabbit and she kept trying. Sadly, her armadillos, in taco form, did not — pardon me — go like hotcakes.
May I now introduce Jason. Jason grew up outside Atlanta where he became familiar with the local cuisine, based on beef and chicken. Seeking broader horizons, both geographical and gustatory, he moved to Arizona where he discovered the foods of the Southwest. This cuisine has a strong Mexican influence and includes cornmeal, beans, peppers and other spices, even fry bread and tomatillos. You can get salads, stews and of course tacos. Jason learned to blend the distinct Southwest flavorings with his familiar Southern cuisine. And Jason also became very fond of Randi’s tacos. He became a regular at the TacoDillo.
“What’s wrong with my specialities?” Randi would ponder.
“Nothing’s wrong with your specialities,” Jason opined. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with your salsa anyway. The issue is with your armadillo. It’s just not that popular a dish on this planet.” Or any of the other eight planets either. (Pluto was still a planet when Randi and Jason met.)
I don’t have any idea what Randi and Jason actually said to each other. I’m making this part up.
“Let’s tweak the menu a bit,” he suggested, “and see if we can get people to eat the meat when they believe it is something that is not armadillo.”
They tried, it worked. Business at the TacoDillo became fruitful, so to speak. And look what else became fruitful. Randi and Jason began to hang out together and soon became an item. Obviously it was more than Randi’s tacos that Jason had been interested in, although he remained interested in Randi’s tacos, if you know what I mean. They sold the restaurant, bought themselves a Winnebago Limited Cruiser and hit the road. They stopped driving when they got to Blairsville, Georgia, where they opened up another restaurant, calling this one, in spite of Jason’s opinion, the Armadillo Grill.
This is the very same Armadillo Grill where Lisa and I are having dinner the evening before our summit hike to Brasstown Bald, the very Armadillo Grill owned and operated by none other than Randi and Jason.
The Armadillo Grill wasn’t our first choice for dinner. We tried the convenient View Grill, just on the other side of the parking lot from our hotel. Although we arrived two hours before the posted closing time, the View Grill was closed. “We haven’t had a customer in three hours,” said the guy with the white, gravy-stained apron.
“Hey, we’re customers,” I offered.
“Kitchen’s closed.”
“I don’t know. Do you think you might get more customers if you opened up the kitchen and served food?”
Which brings us to the Armadillo Grill, just up the road. I would like to point out that this is up the road, not squashed on the road.
When we sit at our table, the server brings us water and a four-page newspaper which is really the menu. It’s called the Daily Dillo and in addition to the Dillo Dip and the Rattler Burger is a lame story about a nine-banded armadillo failing at his attempt to roll himself into a ball. Silly nine-banded armadillo. Everybody knows that only three-banded armadillos can roll themselves into a ball.
As you might have figured by now, the Armadillo Grill is a theme restaurant. The signs on the wall read…
ARMADILLOS ARE PEOPLE TOO
WHAT’S THE DILLY YO
DILLOS ROCK AND ROLL
ARMADILLO TASTES LIKE CHICKEN
Actually, armadillo tastes more like pork.
One more event concerning the Armadillo Grill is this. We order beer with our dinner. The server responds by writing on her little pad and then asks, “May I see your I D please?”
“What? You’re carding us?”
“Like the sign says, we I. D. everyone.”
“Seriously? The last time I got carded Richard Nixon was president.”
Of course she can tell that I am over 21. But that’s not the point. I am happy to show her all the identification I have. Besides, she admits to being a Steelers fan.
I now have a totally different opinion of armadillo, on so many levels, than I had before.
Oh, and I’m sure the food is better here than at the View Grill.