Mandy Newham-Cobb illustration
Had my dining experience in Sevierville, Tenn. been served to me in my obsessively health conscious home state of California, it might have been described as some pretentious variation of the following: A lightly-battered, round steak accompanied by chopped okra and sliced tomatoes each breaded and cooked in oil, served with a cornbread and slowly-thickened reduction of the meat’s natural juices. In the great state of Tennessee, however, such a meal’s description is far less manipulative and infinitely more appealing—fried everything, gravy abound.
A healthy person in general, I typically dine on lean meats and steamed veggies, live an active lifestyle and go so far as to wear one of the increasingly popular self-tracking devices on my wrist, which syncs to my phone and keeps tabs on everything from the number of steps I take to the nutritional breakdown of the food I consume. As I arrived in Sevierville, I surrendered my arguably absurd wellness pre-occupations and acquired daily steps. Let go and let gravy, I said.
At my first meal, at Sevierville’s The Diner, there was more gravy in the boat aside my plate than there was surface space on the dish—so much gravy, in fact, that one could argue that my chicken fried steak was a side item to it. I administered an appropriate amount to my chicken fried steak and was amazed when instead of spreading it held its tasty form in a primordial, delicious blob. I spread it, butter-like, and as I took my first bite, I imagined a great gravy tsunami washing over me, setting me adrift on a sea of savory.
The next morning I sat down to breakfast at Applewood Farmhouse Restaurant located at Sevierville’s famed Applewood Farms Apple Orchard. I ordered the Smoky Mountain Biscuit Benedict, which arrives as a giant steaming plate of gravy. I am simultaneously terrified and delighted. Two eggs, two biscuits and some sausage are unseen underneath the artery-clogging blanket of white. They are afterthoughts and go nearly unnoticed, overwhelmed by the pungent, creamy gravy.
Though it was not yet noon, I headed to Ole Smoky Moonshine in Gatlinburg to sample what rapidly is becoming one of America’s favorite libations. As the bartender poured tiny flavored samples of this corn based whiskey—blackberry, fruit punch, lemonade—all I could think about was gravy. I wanted gravy on everything. I didn’t need a fitness bracelet to track my steps anymore, just a bracelet to tell me how many steps I was away from gravy. I ate moonshine-soaked cherries that were outstanding and drank apple pie-flavored moonshine equally so. Perhaps my light intoxication would distract me from my obsession. Was Gravy-flavored moonshine going a bridge too far?
I had barbeque at Tony Gore’s and there was gravy; world famous slaw dogs at Frank Allen’s and there was gravy; even among the roller coasters and singalongs at Dolly Parton’s eponymous theme park there was gravy. Having replaced most of the blood in my body with gravy, I felt compelled to try to convince my sister to change my nephew’s first name in its honor.
On my last day in town, what I needed was a lifetime supply of Lipitor and some broccoli to bring my morbidly unhealthy albeit delicious runaway gravy train to end. What I got was two eggs, two biscuits and a side of sausage—but there was no gravy. When my waitress asked if everything was all right, I felt uneasy. How about a bowl of gravy with a shot of moonshine to wash it down?
Then I caught myself.
Moonshine in the morning? Let’s not be ridiculous. As for another side of gravy? Make it three.