Pepper pot soup erases the miles between Ghana, upstate N.Y., and Philadelphia

As the chef at a historic artists’ residency, I have the responsibility to design menus that are both exciting and nourishing to the artistic process. It is a creative mission that gives me endless avenues to explore. Our artists come from all over the world, different countries with foods that utilize different ingredients and methods of preparation.

Food is a conduit, connecting us to various aspects of our lives and history. Food is a defining characteristic of home. In fact, it can chart pathways between the unlikeliest of dwellings, revealing hidden histories.

One afternoon recently, I happened upon a resident — Ghanaian author Nana-Ama Danquah — staring intently at our refrigerator deciding what she wanted. She was in our pantry, a place that is filled with snacks, pastries, breakfast items, and more. I asked how she was doing.

“I’m feeling homesick,” she said, closing the refrigerator door. “I wish I could have some pepper soup.”

Suddenly my mind traveled to my own home, conjuring weekend adventures with my dad. “I know that soup,” I said. “Pepper pot. It’s a Philadelphia specialty.”

“Philadelphia? Pepper pot?” Danquah asked, an eyebrow raised. “Is that like a soup with red bell peppers or something? That’s not the soup I’m talking about.”

Despite her skepticism that this Jewish chef in upstate New York could know precisely what she was craving, I was certain we were speaking about the same dish.

“It’s warm, spicy and made with tripe and other offal, right?”

With each word I said, I could see her eyes getting wider and wider. To her amazement, we were speaking the same language.

 “But how?” she wanted to know.

The first time I had pepper pot soup was with my father, at a small African market in Philadelphia during the late 1990s. My father — one of the main influences in my becoming a chef — was a man of many interests, and cooking was one of them.

His thoughts were regularly focused on food and he would often experiment with new recipes. One afternoon, he needed to pick up some items at a market in West Philadelphia for a dish that he was making that weekend.

“Hey kiddo,” he bellowed in his calm yet slightly imposing voice. “Grab your coat. We’re gonna take a drive.”

As those of us who live here know well, Philadelphia is a sprawling city made up of pocket neighborhoods. These neighborhoods have their own identities, often shaped by the nationalities and ethnicities of the communities that are clustered in them.

We drove from the suburbs into one of these pockets by going down Lincoln Drive — a tight, windy road under a canopy of trees carved alongside the Wissahickon Creek to the sprawling Kelly Drive, which runs parallel to the Schuylkill — and then headed for West Philadelphia.

Our destination was a market that looked and felt utterly unfamiliar. I was used to shopping at suburban grocery stores that were bright and as sterile as a dentist office, filled with people who looked just like me. But this market was full of food in colorful packaging and aromas I didn’t recognize. The people shopping there had a range of skin colors and spoke with various accents that blended together like an orchestra.

There was a counter and a small seating area, and my dad sat and ordered us two pepper pot soups. They came out quickly and we started to eat. I was not like most kids when it came to food. I was brought up seeing and eating the “weird things” — chopped liver, the jellied chicken feet my grandmother used to make, and tripe, which happened to be in the bowl that I was just served.

My dad took a spoonful of the soup, looked at me, and said “this is neat” — meaning that he liked it. I tasted it and instantly liked it too. It was deep with flavors and spices. We mostly sat in silence. Not much to say while we were eating. The shop was busy with people getting their groceries. We finished our soup, and my father picked out the items he needed.

A few years later, I learned more about pepper pot soup. My dad was always watching PBS shows that were food related, especially A Taste of History, which starred Walter Staib who was the chef at the City Tavern downtown.

Staib gave wonderful accounts of the history of food in the Americas during the 18th century, such as Philadelphia’s history of pepper pot soup. Brought to the city by formerly enslaved people, some of whom later became street vendors, the soup became a regular dish sold in the taverns and markets and on the streets of the city.

Pepper pot was even heralded as the meal that gave sustenance to the Continental Army during the harsh winter at Valley Forge.

The soup had become such a steadfast part of Philadelphia culture, it was immortalized in paintings such as John Lewis Krimmel’s Pepper-Pot: A Scene in the Philadelphia Market and Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup can series.

African cuisine has become increasingly popular in the United States, but if you learn the different routes it already traveled — through the Middle Passage and across this nation — you realize it is no novelty. African cuisine has influenced many dishes we call our own.

Many of those remind us of home and bring us comfort during times of loneliness — whether that home is in Accra, in Saratoga Springs, or Philadelphia.

Timothy Brockmon is the executive chef at Yaddo artist retreat and residency in Saratoga Springs. He grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia and is a professional chef, amateur ceramist, and writer.