Sarah Golibart Gorman wasn’t born on Virginia’s Eastern Shore, but she grew up there—a “come here” rather than a “from here.” Not that any of that mattered years later, when she slid into a booth with her family and ordered drum ribs for the first time. A fascinating look at the underappreciated delicacy of an underappreciated part of the country.
In A South You Never Ate, southern folklorist Bernard Herman writes about a conversation he had with Violet Trower, a Shore native who grew up eating drum head stew. Trower said, “That’s where the sweetness is, next to the bone of a fish.” And Trower was right. Underneath a fried, golden crust lay sweet, juicy fish. Needing no dressing, the tartar sauce stayed lidded. Perfectly salty, reflective of the bay and the ocean from which it came, the drum was a taste of home I tried to memorize, allowing its briny flakiness to anchor me.
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