Travel Rogue

August 19, 2005

Utica: Cajun Connection

Headed out for the second camping trip of the season last Friday. This time, Dave and I headed southwest to Starved Rock State Park, in the tiny town of Utica. By tiny, I mean that the main drag was exactly one block long, and had about five bars, one grocery store and a screenprinter. The whole block sat under the shadow of a huge grain silo, so even if you were in the middle of the street, your eyes would be drawn away from the run down storefronts and plywood signage and up toward the towering metal structure. But Utica is not about that little strip of retail. It is about the wooded beauty of Starved Rock and the damp, sandy canyons of Matthiessen.

After setting up camp, we headed about over to Ron's Cajun Connection. It was probably the only real, sit-down restaurant for miles, but it was damn good. It's the kind of place that's got so much character, it makes up for the linoleum floors and vinyl chairs. I started off with a salad (and got a mouthful from Chef Ron over that choice, last time I order a salad in Utica!), Dave had a cup of gumbo that was incredibly flavorful and chunky. We ordered a sampling off the menu, jambalaya, bubba shrimp, crawfish ettouffee and chicken fingers. Midway through the meal, Chef Ron himself comes bounding out of the kitchen and makes a pit stop at every single table. "Didja like it?" "How was it?" "Whaddya think?" He's got a mellow Louisiana accent and drawls out, "Don't leave yet. Just wait right there. Don't go nowhere." Disappears into the kitchen. About ten minutes later, he plunks down a plate with a sliver of pecan pie and two plastic forks. "Try that. Try to guess the secret ingredient." Chef Ron grabs for the Tabasco bottle and smacks it down at the head of the table. Leans one meaty palm into the cap and says, "Now I can't tell you what it is, but it's on this table!"

I'm thinking, that can't be right. There's no way you could put Tabasco in pecan pie. It just doesn't make any sense. I give Dave the first bite to see if his head explodes. When it doesn't, I take a tentative forkful for myself. Chew. Filling's good, not too sweet, not too gooey. Crust, pretty good, definitely homemade. Pecans, nice. Nutty, definitely roasted. I swallow it down. Then...BAM! There's the heat! Oh man, surprising and clever. It just sneaks up from out of nowhere, kind of like the restaurant itself.

After dinner, we headed into "town" to stock up on s'mores fixins. It was 9p by this point, everything was quiet. Even though the bars were open, all you could hear was silence. No talking, no laughing, no music. Very strange for us city-dwellers, but probably pretty normal for Utica. The grocery store was open though, and we got in seconds before the sign flipped from "Open" to "Closed." Back at the campsite, we got our new mantle lantern going, stroked the fire, and alternated between lazy chats and moments of reflection. There's something about a campfire that erases all traces of petty stress from my mind. I get so mesmerized by the flames, that my mind goes gently blank and I realize that my problems, my issues are really insignificant in the grand scheme of life. None of the concerns I have now will define my life.

Of course, when you're done being meditative, there's always the traditional ghost stories. To which, Dave says, "Drip. Drip." What an eerie foreshadowing...

Posted by carolyn at August 19, 2005 08:40 AM

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