There is a lot of good food at the annual Bonnaroo music festival in Manchester, Tennessee. Much of it, along with dozens of good bands giving it their all, can be found in the central area of the festival, but for a perennial favorite of my brother-in-law Andrew (of Andrew Leahey and the Homestead), we were going to have to venture out into the great beyond. We were headed to the end of the line, and we were on the hunt for a mean tofu scramble.
A little background here: because both Andrew and my husband write about the festival for various publications, I have become an exceedingly spoiled Bonnaroo-goer over the past few years. They had once again managed to land us in “guest” camping, which boasted benefits like free showers and actual trees to shade our tents from the broiling Tennessee heat. (“Oh, no! This weekend, we’re like the one percent!” Andrew said, with a tiny bit of genuine class guilt.) But to get a taste of a particular dish that Andrew and his wife, Emily, had come to crave in Bonnaroos past, we needed to wander into the melee of the general camping area, where the great ninety-nine percent were partying in every conceivable fashion.
It is almost impossible to describe the verve, conviviality and downright filthiness of general camping. “I bet the best food is somewhere out here,” Andrew proclaimed with authority. His theory had to do with the fact that real estate outside Centeroo is significantly less expensive and perhaps more fertile ground for delicious experimentation. I liked this theory, as it is similar to how I feel about my home base of Brooklyn in comparison with Manhattan. Festival-goers who don’t poke their nose out here are like Manhattanites who are terrified to step off their tiny island. I immediately felt a new allegiance to general camping. Power to the people.
And I found support for Andrew’s hypothesis as we continued to wander. It’s true that Bonnaroo has a decidedly hippie vibe, but even considering that, the food vendors in general camping covered a significantly broad spectrum. We found everything from the food of austere abstention (Krishna Kitchen and Local Raw Vegan Love) to the food of an extreme case of the munchies (the wacky ice cream sandwich of Wonder Waffle and the fabled one dollar grilled cheese sandwiches).
Eventually, we came to the Solar Café (hailing from New Hampshire and solar-powered since 1994), right next to a space called Darth Shader, where festival-goers could pass out in hammocks under a canopy and indulge in “free granola and games.” I ordered the peanut noodles, which were cool and saucy, and Andrew got the tofu scramble that he so fondly remembered. Even though I had forced him to come out here during a break in the schedule when he was not particularly hungry, he still groaned with pleasure when they were reacquainted. It was moltenly hot and packed full of tofu, red cabbage, stewed tomatoes, broccoli, and salsa. “It’s got a fresh Mexican mise-en-scène,” he explained.
As I retired to my wonderland of camping comfort that evening, I was grateful for the showers but also cognizant that it was general camping that really made this place tick. Long live the tofu scramble. Long live Brooklyn.
Want me to take you to lunch? Send your End of the Line suggestions to Submissions@Pitchknives.com.