I don’t profess to shine much as a cook. I would rather have somebody
do it for me, but there are one or two things that I sometimes like to
fix on my own hook.
Years ago there was some sort of a Centennial Exposition out in
Nashville, Tenn. I don’t remember what they had to celebrate, but
at any rate I had to take it in. I didn’t know a soul and good old
Al Williams, the snake man—who died last year—gave me a letter of
introduction to the Turk who ran the Hoochy-Koochy show on the
midway. It is the only time I ever used a letter of introduction with
efficiency and delectation. This Turk—who, incidentally, was one of
the finest looking chaps I ever saw, and a man of education—welcomed
me with open arms. First of all I had to see the show, and I was so
enthusiastic about the gyrations of the sumptuous beauties that he did
me the great honor of asking me to dine with him, _en famille_. It was
a great experience. All the Hoochy-koochy dancers were there, in their
stage costumes, with ma and pa and mother-in-law, and mother’s great
uncle and a rabble of other folks, large and small. We had a lot of
funny things to eat, but there was one dish that really appealed to me.
They called it “Salada” and I ate of it in such copious portions that
my friend, the Turk, insisted on showing me how it was made. I have
made it many times since for my own pleasure, at least—and most folk
who try it once will try it again.
It is a salad of ripe tomatoes, cucumbers and onions. The main point
is that you must not slice them up but—after you peel your onions,
cucumbers and tomatoes—put them whole into a chopping bowl, and chop
them into chunks with a chopping knife. The chunks should be about as
large as the end of your thumb. After the chopping operation, put the
whole business on the ice until it gets good and cold. Then drain off
the juice.
Add a sharp French dressing, get a big spoon and a plate and go to it.
If it doesn’t taste good, I’ll eat it myself.