Southern Sweetness at Sweet Cheeks – Boston

Dear Fellow Foodie-Southern-Girl-By-Origin-Gone-to-Boston Transplant,

I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re out there. And I know you’re just like me. You went to college and figured out that there was nothing left for you in your small hometown that they claimed was a city, and you fearlessly took your diploma and the first flight north. You struggled through the city but found your way, but you tried to shed your southern roots on that long road to becoming a true-blue city girl. You artfully avoided the “Where are you from?” questions by answering “Fenway” or “South End” or “BU”, and you followed that with a snarky comment about your neighborhood or job or life so that people were too distracted to ask again. But once in a while when you’re drinking iced tea or that sugar-added afterthought they dare to call sweet, you start to crave the smoky fall-off-the-bones barbecue you spilled on your favorite faded denim miniskirt with your legs dangling off the back of your boyfriend’s truck.  

My southern girl, I know you get as homesick as I do sometimes, and I know that every time you go home you take daily trips to Bojangles and start to bleed their sweet tea after a few short days. I’m sure you may have despaired of finding a taste of home, but there is hope for you yet. Sweet Cheeks in Fenway is a high-end version of the real thing, but it’ll be just enough to curb your craving.

I know there’s no buzz like you get from the moonshine in Uncle Jethro’s bathtub, but the apple cider moonshine from the Rocky Top will make you just talkative enough to be charming...at least that’s what I kept telling myself…And if it’s the back-porch lemonade you’re craving, the Dollywood will make you as friendly as a southerner while quenching your thirst.

If you told me the food was made in a bathtub like real moonshine, I wouldn’t believe it. The food is clearly higher-end than your down-home southern, as exemplified by the Hush Puppies. These well-fried balls of cornmeal are irreproachable, and the honey butter was pretty…baller (groan!), but the finely ground cornmeal somehow detracts from the backyard connotation of coarse grains of ground corn.

The Fried Okra was clearly and easily my fave part of the entire night, brilliant use of half-slices of okra to prevent battered okra syndrome. This puts the chef’s brilliance on par with Eli Whitney, and we both know just how much we worship the god of the cotton gin.

The meat is clearly higher grade than what grandpa’s shotgun brought down, but the smoky essence of Texas-style barbecue unmistakably permeates the fatty Pork Belly, and I strongly suggest dipping everything in the hot bbq sauce – the regular isn’t nearly as good. The Brisket is a little dry on the outside but the flavor went all the way through – just tell grandma to take it off the grill sooner at the next pig pickin’. The Pork Ribs were fall-off-bone-pink, and your grandma needs to write Soulfire that this is how it should be.

Sides are often a lost art, but the ones at Sweet Cheeks haven’t suffered any neglect. The broccoli and cheese casserole tastes like a creamier, mashed-up version of quiche. I wouldn’t call it a southern girl must-have, but no one in their right mind would object. The collard greens can’t compare to Soulfire, but the mac and cheese is good stuff.

My pet peeve is that you can’t substitute a biscuit for the white bread on the trays, and I’m mad enough to shoot a gator over not getting to try the biscuits that night. A southern dinner without biscuits is like fried chicken without the breading, but we just didn’t want to order yet another side. Our loss.

My sweet southern girl, if you need to wait 40 minutes for a table at 7 on a Wednesday night, either the place is good or it’s new. Sweet Cheeks is both. And probably as pinchable as yours according to your grandma.

From one secret southern girl to another, own your southern roots sparingly, but let them show at Sweet Cheeks. Sweet Cheeks will make you momentarily unashamed to admit that your middle name is Mae or Sue, that you really do know the proper way to say y’all, and that your favorite pastime was daddy’s tractor-driving lessons. Meet me there so we can dip the fried okra in some moonshine and gear up for a long night of stargazing…and cow tipping.

xoxo,

Foodie Houser, MD