Out to Lunch

September 23, 2024

Famoda Farm is off the beaten track, even for this area, which is saying something. But a scenic country drive for some might be a dreary, monotonous trek through the middle of nowhere for others.

The farm is a 300-acre homestead owned by the Brown family. William and Minnie Brown bought the land in 1945. “Famoda” comes from the first two letters of father, mother, and daughters. We read that over the years the Brown daughters, Shirley, Doris, and Heather took pride in every blue ribbon they won. At one point Shirley was the Shorthorn Princess, and Doris was named American Angus Queen.

Last week we saw the Famoda booth at the Greenville farmer’s market and stopped to hear the pitch. The friendly young woman stood in front of a display of the farm’s products, but didn’t try to sell. Instead she handed us a brochure. “Come out and see us, we’re in Taylors,” she said with a smile.

A few days later we drove up to Taylors. The farm is out in the sticks, about a 25-mile hike that seemed much farther. It was dreary and drizzling, but we found the place.  The road wound past large lots and wide pastures where cattle grazed. We passed a sign, “Entering Tigerville,” then found the farm a mile farther along.

We drove up the gravel driveway and looked around. We saw no one else and stepped into the “Farm to Table” shop. The place offered grass-fed beef and pork, non-pasturized milk and yogurt, local honey, jams, preserves. The inventory would appeal to the clientele of some hip urban health-food bistro. But this was down-home Upstate South Carolina. We browsed, the only customers, and bought a few things.

The lady at the register was happy to chat. She urged us to walk the property and see the animals penned in a nearby barn, the events venue, the ice-cream shop. “There’s a wonderful meat ‘n three just a couple of miles from here,” she offered.

Having lived in the South for a long time, I know a meat ‘n three is country for a local place where you tuck into your fried steak, fried chicken, or fried fish and a couple or three sides. “You mean the Hungry Drover?” I asked. “That’s it,” she said, smiling. “My daughter took me a while back, she said have the fried flounder, so I did. It was delicious.”

I wandered over to the barn. A half-dozen straw-lined pens were home to a couple of well-fed pigs, a dozen goats, some cows and donkeys. The pigs and goats pushed their faces through the slats and stared at me and whined, as if asking me to let them out.

A fence crossed a wide pasture where cattle grazed. Another barn stood a couple of hundred yards off, framed against the North Carolina Blue Ridge. The hazy rounded peaks extend northeast toward Asheville and northwest toward the far end of the state where the tall mountains rise, eventually becoming the Great Smokies.

It’s pretty country, an alluring quality of Upstate. But then, this is South Carolina. Slaves worked this land 160 years ago. Reconstruction brought years of racial violence and Jim Crow.

That was about it. We headed for the Hungry Drover, which I know is popular, the parking lot is always full. I had stopped there once and picked up a sandwich. It was lunchtime, we got lucky and found a spot. The name taps into the local cattle-raising business, which is all over that part of the county.

We’ve been to Hungry Drover-type places a hundred times. The tables are fitted with black-and white crisscross tablecovers. The patrons enjoy the meat ‘n three menu: chicken fried steak with sausage gravy; grilled smoked sausage and onions, peppers, and potatoes; a pulled pork plate; hamburger steak, onions, and gravy. You could also have tomato pie and bacon tomato pie. Then too, the fried flounder.

We went off-menu and got sandwiches. The place was packed but strangely quiet, serene, even. No large-screen TV hung on the wall broadcasting ESPN or Fox. Patrons, young and old, chatted. The crowd was a mix, women in jeans, guys wearing ballcaps and workshirts, white-haired seniors. A few folks in button-down shirts and dresses stood out. This is farm country, but the suburbs are encroaching, bringing subdivisions and mini-mansions.

Years ago we would visit the Cowan Café in Sandy’s hometown in Franklin County, Tennessee. It was the Hungry Drover of that time and place, the meat ‘n three, the good coffee, the good company, the sense that the world might be complicated somewhere else, but here and now things were okay. You had the same mix of farmers, truckers, and folks from up the street.

Her parents moved away from Cowan, we stopped going. The Cowan Café closed, now it’s a Mexican takeout. But the same kind of place springs up elsewhere, in the next town, in any town. Back east and up north, I think of Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, diners are everywhere, everyone goes, you hear Spanish, Italian, Arabic. The menus offer everything, steak, pasta, pizza—and your basic meat ‘n three. It’s the Hungry Drover in another place.

I wondered about the politics of the place. South Carolina is hard-core red Republican, one of the seven Congressional districts is Democratic. Yet six weeks before the election, Trump signs are scarce. In 2016 I drove across Pennsylvania, every barn advertised for Trump. Same in 2020 in backstate Virginia. Months ago he put on a rally in nearby Pickens. But since then, quiet.

Maybe the folks at Hungry Drover, and the crowd is probably similar every day, are thinking about other things. The bass tournament at Lake Hartwell is always big, now we’re in football season, high school games are a big deal, so is Clemson. The state economy is booming. Yankees are crowding in, buying big homes in new subdivisions.

It’s still quiet out in Taylors and Tigerville, the roads are near-empty, the cattle are grazing. The Brown family is still selling their grass-fed beef and pesticide-free eggs. Visitors like us drift in, look at the animals, stop at the ice cream shop. Then, if they’re up for a square meal, they may head for the Hungry Drover. Meat ‘n three sounds good.