A look at three American regional dishes that can be found locally – if you know where to look.

When David Rodriguez revised the Seaside pizza joint that had been known as DeMarco’s in 2018, there was an unfamiliar item on the menu – one that did not necessarily suit his vision. At The Oven, Rodriguez prepares New York-style pies alongside a lineup using a West Coast sourdough crust. But plates of deep-fried ravioli were selling well.

“They were doing it before I took over, so I can’t take full credit,” Rodriguez explains.

Known in St. Louis as “toasted ravioli,” the version served at The Oven is properly done. Dusted with breadcrumbs before hitting the hot oil, the coating crisps up but the pasta retains some of its al dente give. Frying also lends a nutty character to the ravioli, which serves as a serene stage over which the four-cheese filling – ricotta, mozzarella, parmesan and Parmigiano Reggiano – romps.

Toasted ravioli is one in a list of regional foods that remain largely cooped up. Veteran restaurateur Kenneth Spilfogel of Flaherty’s Seafood Grill & Oyster Bar in Carmel suggests that the reasons some items gain national prominence while others are cast as curiosities include fear that unfamiliar dishes may not sell and public perception (Rochester, New York’s garbage plate or the horseshoe sandwich of central Illinois? Just weird).

Case in point: Manhattan clam chowder, a feature on Flaherty’s menu alongside the popular New England style. Both involve many of the same ingredients. But New England’s bowl is creamy and thick, while New York’s begins with a tomato base.

“I’m from Coney Island. I love Manhattan clam chowder,” Spilfogel says, with a caveat. “It’s not as popular as the cream chowder. And the lobster bisque is more popular than the cream.”

Manhattan-style has been derided by important culinary voices. None other than famed chef James Beard called it “a vegetable soup that accidentally had some clams dumped into it,” making certain to add “horrendous” to his description. And a story holds that the grandson of a man who claimed to have invented the Manhattan version was haunted forever by his grandfather’s “heinous act.”

Note that the grandfather, William Winters, had close ties to the crooked Tammany Hall political machine, which was apparently a more acceptable legacy. Culinary historians, however, trace the origins of Manhattan-style chowder to Rhode Island rather than New York, a soup derived from recipes of Portuguese settlers.

Toasted ravioli is also a misstatement, as the pasta is actually fried.

According to the most common origin story, a restaurant owner insisted that in the land of fried chicken, fried catfish, fried pork tenderloin and the like that the use of “fried” would put customers off.

And the tale of toasted ravioli just gets more unreliable – two different restaurateurs with the same name, German cooks who failed to grasp the basics of pasta and perhaps a few slugs of alcohol for encouragement.

Spilfogel is native to the tomato-based clam chowder region. Rodriguez inherited the crispy ravioli appetizer. But for chefs Goran Basarov and Alejandro “Hondo” Hernandez at The Quail in Carmel Valley, the introduction of Alabama white sauce – an extremely rare sighting on an area menu – was deliberate.

“That’s our jam,” Basarov says with the zeal of a regional rule-breaker. “The first time he made it for me was for a chicken sandwich. It’s a very good sauce.”

The baste of vinegar and mayonnaise is said to have been created by Decatur, Alabama pitmaster “Big Bob” Gibson in 1925 as a way to keep chicken from drying out on the smoker. Chefs can play with the sauce, adding lemon, cayenne, horseradish and such along with salt and pepper, without smothering the savor of smoked meat.

At Edgar’s, The Quail’s restaurant, it is served with chicken, brisket and ribs – a refined adaptation, with some sweetness to balance the homespun tang akin to buttermilk, a notion of fruit and an herbal flair.

“Chef Hondo is a barbecue champion,” Basarov says. “He gets to write his own narrative.”