My daughter tried far more different flavors in her first two years than I did in my first 18. Some might say that has something to do with growing up in Little Rock, but, you see, Hunter Robinson is growing up in River City, too.
If that city nickname doesn’t seem familiar, you probably weren’t here in the ‘70s and early ‘80s. Back then I was the towed-along tot, a youngster in the company of a single and determined mom fully engaged in the culture of this metropolis.
My mom took me with her all sorts of places. She was and still is a nurse — but back then she was an LPN on an erratic schedule. My earliest memories of being in the city involve listening to Pablo Cruise, Steely Dan and the Little River Band — usually in a car passing by or headed to the old Frostop (on Markham where the Walgreens sits today), Black Angus or The Shack. Those days, exotic foods were things like chocolate-dipped cones at Green’s Drive-In on Mabelvale Pike or the sopapillas at Mexico Chiquito. At Hunter’s age, I believe I may have already discovered the joys of the treasure room at Casa Bonita … and that a waiter would quickly come to the table if you raised the little flag. Mom even reminded me at Easter dinner about the whole plate of asparagus I ate one night at The Leather Bottle.
To me, nights and afternoons in those restaurants were real adventures. It would take a quarter of a century more for me to start writing about food professionally, but those memories are still with me.
Hunter’s food adventures started when she was three weeks old and I took her along with me to review a Japanese restaurant. Over the years, she’s accompanied me on trips to everything from country diners to upscale nouveau bistros, and eaten everything from jalapenos to jellyfish. And she’s only four.
Hunter’s soundtrack includes a different collection than mine did at her age. Her views of town from the window are accompanied by anything from Afro Celt Sound System to Zero 7, Deee-Lite to deadmau5, U2 to Calvin Harris. We travel a bit, though not as much out of town this past year, but there she is in the rearview mirror, bobbing her head to the music and singing along with the lyrics she’s picked up.
I sometimes think she knows more people than I do. There are restaurants we frequent that know her by name. Sammy at Star of India calls her his “star baby,” and the waitresses at Tokyo House seem to often “accidentally” bring her a second helping of ice cream. Most of the photos I have of her, she’s either eating or showcasing her food in some fashion, usually in a quite silly manner. She’s never known life without a camera around.
At her age, my accent was as influenced by the four channels on TV as the people I heard around me … the way somehow folks raised in Little Rock tend to round off the word “you” into “yah” and how we all seem to put another R in sherbet. Hunter’s accent is deeper than mine. I can’t explain it, but to me she sounds like she’s been steeped here too much.
It’s farmers market season now, and this year she’ll carry her own bag to accumulate the fruits she wants to take home with her. While the vehicle of my memories places me in the passenger seat of a sedan, hers just might include the stroller we often took to visit the Certified Arkansas Farmers Market in Argenta, or the River Market Oppenheimer Hall, or the Bryant Farmers Market, or so many more. The stroller ended up, by the time Hunter was comfortable walking a lot, as more of a strategic accumulation vehicle for whatever we wanted to take home fresh for the week.
When she looks back at her childhood, when she’s in her 30s, I wonder what the palate of her memory will be like. Will it include those purple fingerling potatoes and fresh tomatoes and strawberries and honey picked up at market? Or the varied tones of a dozen curry spices? Will she remember her fondness for broccoli and seaweed, and that she told everyone her favorite food was sushi?
Will she remember the way Little Rock tasted, like I do?