Once a week—maybe twice—I eat breakfast at Handy Andy, a barbecue joint here in Oxford, Mississippi. No, I don't order a pulled pork omelet. (Handy hacks its pork into bits; plus I like the barbecue better elsewhere.) I get a biscuit stuffed with sausage and egg. If I don't get a biscuit stuffed with pork tenderloin. The filling doesn't matter much. It's the biscuit that pulls me in the door. It's handmade. In the early hours of the morning. By a real live woman who wields a real live rolling pin. Handy Andy is likely one of only two places in Oxford where true biscuits are served daily. Compared to other southern towns of our size, that makes us lucky. Too often, when I'm on the road and stop at a locally famous cafe, and ask if the biscuits are made by hand, starting with fat and flour, I get a qualified response that reveals a tendency toward Bisquick or a raggedy-ass defense of Pillsbury. The plaint from the cheaters is usually about time. As in "Who's got the time to cut fat into flour?" If I had the gall to answer, I'd tell them about Handy Andy. Better yet, I'd point them to Biscuitville, a fast-food chain with more than 40 locations in North Carolina and Virginia. The ladies of Biscuitville cook scratch batches every 20 minutes, which, of course, begs the question: If a fast food chain can crank out honest biscuits, can't every cafe in the Southland?
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