In the Kitchen | By Nat Mundy
The South has its delicacies—the low and slow simmering of field peas, the honeyed hush of buttermilk biscuits, the melodic rise of cornbread in a cast iron skillet. But for those who were raised somewhere between the garden rows and the dinner table, nothing quite wakes the soul like the first bite of a perfectly made fried green tomato.
I was reminded of this just the other morning while having breakfast at my favorite hometown spot, Dixie Cream Café, nestled in the heart of Windermere and run by the gracious husband-and-wife team, Brian and Stephanie Desaulniers. It’s the kind of place that greets you like a screen door in summer—familiar, warm, always swinging open and all the easy comfort that makes a place beloved.
As I sipped on hot coffee and contemplated whether I wanted sweet or savory, I noticed something unexpected. There, on the menu, nestled among the usual morning offerings, was the phrase: Fried Green Tomatoes. I blinked twice. It’s not a dish you just stumble across, especially not on a breakfast menu. It’s a declaration. A challenge, even.
You see, I don’t say this lightly—I’m a connoisseur of Southern delicacies raised under the sharp, wise eye of a mother whose kitchen should have had more Michelin stars than a clear night sky over the Butler Chain. You could say I’ve been chasing the taste of home for most of my adult life—my palate shaped by the red clay of Stone Mountain, Georgia, the rolling farmland of South Carolina’s Midlands, and the marshy breeze of the Lowcountry, where the live oaks lean and the air tells stories if you listen long enough. It's a triangle of Southern experience that taught me the value of history, community, and the kind of small-town charm you don’t find just anywhere.
Mama had a ritual for fried green tomatoes. She’d send me out into the garden barefoot, to pick the biggest greenest tomatoes from the vine—firm but not hard, with a whisper of give when pressed. The breading, she said, had to cling like a promise and fry like a blessing. The skillet? Black iron, seasoned by time, and kept clean in a way only Southern mothers understand: just enough flavor left behind to tell a story, but never so much it would steal the spotlight.
So, with all that in mind, I ordered. But I didn’t get my hopes up. Experience had taught me that was dangerous. One too many pretenders had broken my heart with soggy crusts and tart afterthoughts.
Then the plate arrived. No grand introduction. Just a simple, elegant offering: four or five perfectly sliced rounds, golden and delicate, resting on a bed of crisp lettuce with a side of remoulade that hinted at secrets. I stared, fork in hand, like a man who had just seen an old friend across the room at a funeral.
I took a bite. And just like that, I was in my Mother’s kitchen again. The tang. The crispness. The subtle balance of salt and soul. I couldn’t finish my meal without getting up and going around the back. That’s where I found Ron, one of the cooks.
“Are you the one that made those tomatoes?” I asked. He nodded.
“Well then,” I said, shaking his hand, “you’re an artist. Those were the best fried green tomatoes I’ve had since my Mama made them, and that’s not a compliment I’ve ever handed out before.”
So hats off to The Dixie Cream Café. Thank you for a wonderful breakfast, and if I had an award for the best Fried Green Tomatoes in Florida—you’d already have it.
