Princess Pamela’s Little Kitchen was more than just a place to eat; it was an experience, a slice of home, and a testament to the indomitable spirit of its owner. Nestled in a walkup apartment in Manhattan’s Alphabet City in 1965, this tiny Soul Food Restaurant, run by the enigmatic Princess Pamela, became a legendary, albeit exclusive, culinary haven. Gaining entry wasn’t guaranteed; Princess Pamela personally vetted her prospective guests, often quizzing them on their Southern roots or simply relying on her intuition. For those fortunate enough to be welcomed into her kingdom of flavors, they discovered a soul food restaurant unlike any other, a place where the food was as captivating as the personality of the woman behind it.
This wasn’t your typical eatery. Princess Pamela’s soul food restaurant, operating out of her railroad apartment, defied convention from the moment you buzzed apartment 2A. She, claiming the name Pamela Strobel, would cautiously open the door, her eyes peering out, judging whether you were worthy to cross her threshold. This air of exclusivity only added to the allure of Little Kitchen. If you were part of her inner circle, a key might simply be tossed down from the window in response to your call from the street below. Stepping inside was akin to gaining access to a secret world. The space was intimate, barely 120 square feet, accommodating no more than fifteen patrons. Yet, within those walls, Princess Pamela reigned supreme, creating an atmosphere that was both homey and grand. Corrugated ceilings, mismatched furniture donated by local well-wishers, and walls adorned with portraits of her diverse clientele – from celebrities like Gloria Steinem and Ringo Starr to neighborhood regulars – contributed to the unique charm of this soul food restaurant.
Once seated within this eclectic setting, guests were attended to by Ada Spivey, the restaurant’s quiet cook, who would take orders for dishes dictated by Princess Pamela’s daily inspiration. The menu was fluid, less a fixed list and more a reflection of Pamela’s mood and the day’s freshest ingredients. Diners weren’t merely customers; they were guests in Princess Pamela’s personal domain, expected to adhere to her rules of decorum. Using the restroom without permission, for instance, could result in a swift and unceremonious ejection. Complaints about wobbly chairs were met with equal disdain, leading to immediate dismissal. Disrespect towards Princess Pamela was an unforgivable offense, resulting in a lifetime ban from her soul food restaurant.
However, for those who earned her favor and lingered into the evening, Princess Pamela’s Little Kitchen transformed. The doors would be locked, the “closed” sign figuratively illuminated, and the ambiance shifted dramatically. Princess Pamela would reappear, not as the gatekeeper and restaurateur, but as a performer, adorned in a red wig and a shimmering gold dress. The lights dimmed, and the cramped space morphed into a vibrant jazz salon. Accompanied by a band of percussionists, often including her romantic partner Bobby Vidal, Princess Pamela would captivate the room with her singing, her voice described as smooth and comforting as a nightcap. This metamorphosis highlighted the multifaceted nature of Princess Pamela’s soul food restaurant – a place of culinary delight by day and an intimate jazz club by night.
The culinary offerings at Princess Pamela’s soul food restaurant, while central to its identity, were just one facet of her multifaceted persona. Interestingly, the restaurant’s daily menu only hinted at the vast repertoire of recipes contained within her groundbreaking 1969 cookbook, Princess Pamela’s Soul Food Cookbook. This wasn’t just a collection of recipes; it was a culinary autobiography, encapsulating four decades of her life’s journey. From her humble beginnings as an orphaned child in Spartanburg, South Carolina, to her self-made success in New York City, the cookbook chronicled not only her recipes but also her resilience and culinary evolution.
The recipes themselves were unapologetically Southern, a rich tapestry of flavors deeply rooted in soul food traditions. Within its pages, readers discovered a treasure trove of dishes: pork spoon bread, peanut butter biscuits, ham hocks, oxtail ragu, catfish stew, giblet gravy, pickled pig’s feet, and even roast opossum. For decades, however, the cookbook remained elusive, available only in fragile paperback editions that were prone to disintegration. It wasn’t until nearly half a century later that this culinary gem was resurrected, thanks to a hardcover reissue spearheaded by Matt and Ted Lee, known as the Lee Bros., who recognized the book’s profound value and poetic integrity.
Princess Pamela’s influence transcended her physical restaurant. The publication of her cookbook catapulted her to fame, particularly within the East Village neighborhood where her first soul food restaurant thrived. In a New York City that was then sparsely populated with soul food establishments, she became a pioneering figure, a doyenne of soul food. This recognition was particularly significant considering the societal barriers she faced – her race, gender, and Southern accent were not merely aspects of her identity but genuine obstacles in the culinary world of that era. Her success was a defiant triumph over these limitations, making her achievements even more remarkable and unprecedented.
Despite her success and the vibrant atmosphere of her soul food restaurant, Princess Pamela mysteriously closed its doors in 1998, the reasons shrouded in ambiguity. Subsequently, in her late sixties, she vanished from public life, adding another layer of enigma to her already captivating story. Even her birth name remains uncertain, possibly “Addie Mae” Strobel, or perhaps even Mary. Census records offer no definitive answers, but her South Carolina birthplace of Spartanburg is a consistent detail in her narrative, a foundational element of her identity and culinary inspiration, repeatedly emphasized in her cookbook.
Cooking was deeply ingrained in Princess Pamela’s heritage. Her mother, Rosella, known as Beauty, was the pastry chef at Spartanburg’s prestigious Elite Restaurant, a culinary talent that seemed to run in the family, as her brother, Uncle Isaac, also excelled as a pastry chef. Princess Pamela never knew her father. Beauty relocated to Boston for work shortly after Pamela’s birth, entrusting her daughter’s care to her own mother, Addie.
Addie, her grandmother, was a nurturing yet firm figure, a formidable woman whose cooking prowess was legendary within their community. Every Sunday, Addie and Pamela attended Spartanburg’s Majority Baptist Church, followed by traditional Sunday meals of milk-baked ham and soda biscuits. Addie’s home on Park Avenue was a hub of hospitality, welcoming a constant stream of visitors, mostly women affectionately called “play mamas,” who bestowed various nicknames upon young Pamela, including the one that would become her moniker.
While her mother envisioned a future for Pamela as a concert pianist or a doctor, Pamela’s aspirations lay firmly in the restaurant world. Even as a child, she would playact running a restaurant, “cooking” for her dolls on a toy stove, playfully declaring that the chubby doll was the biggest fan of her culinary creations. A Sunday school lesson about Noah’s Ark sparked a whimsical business idea in her young mind: “I couldn’t help thinkin’ how he coulda opened up quite a place on the ark and had all that animal meat and no butcher bill,” she later wrote in her cookbook, revealing an early entrepreneurial spirit intertwined with her culinary imagination.
I couldn’t help thinkin’ how he coulda opened up quite a place on the ark and had all that animal meat and no butcher bill.
Princess Pamela
Beauty, despite her modest income, diligently supported her mother and daughter. However, tragedy struck when Beauty fell ill with an unidentified disease and returned to Spartanburg to die at just 28 years old, leaving ten-year-old Pamela orphaned. A year later, Addie also passed away, leaving Pamela without family in Spartanburg.
Undeterred, the resilient 13-year-old Pamela, with her signature pigtails, boarded a bus to Winston-Salem, North Carolina, carrying only her mother’s suitcase and a diamond watch. She secured a job at a corner restaurant within the R.J. Reynolds tobacco plant, initially washing dishes but quickly progressing to her true passion – cooking. She honed her skills preparing chops, steaks, gravy, and slaw, fueled by her innate culinary drive.
I been close to Jewish people and Eye-talians all my life. There is the kind of love in them that comes of bein’ hurt and healed a thousand times.
Princess Pamela
Years later, she moved to Newport News, Virginia, where she worked in a mobile kitchen and met Visee Dubois, a West Indian dancer. In 1950, the pair ventured to New York City. They shared a room in uptown Manhattan, Pamela working at a chemical factory during the day and in a restaurant at night, while Dubois pursued her dance career.
The decade that followed remains somewhat hazy, but in 1965, Princess Pamela’s Little Kitchen, her dream soul food restaurant, came to fruition. With only a dollar to her name, she relied on the generosity of her Italian and Jewish neighbors who, as she noted, possessed a “love in them that comes of bein’ hurt and healed a thousand times.” These friends provided the initial capital, pinning money to the walls of her nascent restaurant. With these funds, she purchased chickens and greens from a local grocery store. When seeking a printer for business cards in the East Village, the printer suggested the name “Princess Pamela,” a moniker she embraced, thus solidifying the identity of her now-iconic soul food restaurant.
Upon opening Little Kitchen, Princess Pamela’s signature dish was a plate of fried chicken, collard greens, and black-eyed peas, priced at an accessible $1.35. For the same price, patrons could also savor oxtail stew with collard greens and cold potato salad. Each meal was accompanied by biscuits, cornbread, and a simple salad. Apple cobbler was the sole dessert offering, and the only beverages served were water and coffee. The soul food restaurant’s operating hours were as unpredictable as its owner, opening at 5 pm and closing whenever Princess Pamela deemed it so.
Princess Pamela envisioned her soul food restaurant as a sanctuary of inclusivity: “Like Monaco, this is gonna be Princess Pamela’s Kingdom Come and the only passport anyone is gonna need, is lovin’ kindness and a good appetite for soul cookin’.” However, her concept of hospitality was rooted in mutual respect and adherence to her rules. She welcomed strangers into her establishment with the same warmth her grandmother Addie extended to churchgoers, provided they treated her space with respect.
She looked like she drank more than she ate. You know that look?
Ruth Reichl, author of ‘My Kitchen Year’ and former restaurant critic for The New York Times
In the summer of 1971, Ruth Reichl, then a resident of the “very cheap and very scary” Lower East Side, decided to visit Princess Pamela’s soul food restaurant. Reichl, who had discovered Princess Pamela’s cookbook years earlier, was intrigued by the Little Kitchen, which had already garnered positive attention from critics like Craig Claiborne of The New York Times. However, her visit took an unexpected turn. Reichl described Princess Pamela as a “wiry woman missing many teeth” who “looked like she drank more than she ate.”
Expecting dishes like chitlins and pig ears from the cookbook, Reichl was disappointed by the limited menu. When her companion jokingly inquired about sweet potato pie, Princess Pamela, taking offense, promptly ordered Reichl and her friend to leave, demonstrating her unwavering control over her soul food restaurant and her intolerance for perceived disrespect.
Andy Warhol, during a visit in 1979, offered a less flattering portrayal of Princess Pamela and her soul food restaurant in his diaries. He described her as “a colored lady in a bright red wig” who “looked like a drag queen,” and made disparaging remarks about the restaurant’s decor, suggesting a connection between the food and the death of Norman Norell from throat cancer.
In stark contrast, Alexander Smalls, a restaurateur and chef himself, and also a Spartanburg native, was captivated by the food at Little Kitchen. He saw Princess Pamela as an inspiration, a woman who had realized her Southern dreams far from her hometown. “I think she had visions of grandeur that were too big to be contained in Spartanburg,” Smalls observed, recognizing her ambition and drive.
I think she had visions of grandeur that were too big to be contained in Spartanburg.
Alexander Smalls, Restaurateur and Chef of the Cecil and Minton’s
Initially hesitant about a soul food restaurant outside the South, Smalls, who described himself as a “well-dressed, proper, fancy Negro,” found an immediate connection with Princess Pamela. They bonded over their shared Spartanburg heritage and the memories it evoked. “I’d walk in and she’d acknowledge me with a hug each time,” Smalls recalled, emphasizing the personal warmth that permeated Princess Pamela’s soul food restaurant, extending even to discerning newcomers.
The motivation behind Princess Pamela’s decision to publish her cookbook remains somewhat unclear. Cookbooks inherently demand precision, a concept seemingly at odds with her restaurant’s ethos, which emphasized intuition and feeling over strict recipes. As Milton Glaser and Jerome Snyder noted in a 1966 New York Herald Tribune review, Princess Pamela “cooks by feeling—soul—rather than measurement.”
However, Toni Tipton-Martin, in The Jemima Code: Two Centuries of African American Cookbooks, posits that Princess Pamela’s Soul Food Cookbook served as a “clever retort to scientific cooking,” prevalent in cookbooks authored primarily by white writers of that era. Tipton-Martin suggests that the cookbook functions more as a curated culinary diary than a rigid instructional manual. The reissue includes marginal notes by the Lees, filling in the gaps and elaborating on Princess Pamela’s original, often intentionally vague, instructions.
This was food for us, by us, that white people can’t understand.
Adrian Miller, Author of ‘Soul Food: The Surprising Story of an American Cuisine, One Plate at a Time’
Each chapter in the cookbook is prefaced by evocative prose, almost poetic cantos, that transport the reader to another time. These introductions act as both culinary and cultural commentary. Some offer folksy wisdom, like “You play ‘possum with that man and you end up cookin’ it for him,” preceding the roast opossum recipe. Others directly address the prevalent ignorance surrounding soul food in New York City. In her introduction to tripe, she writes, “Practically every kind of people eat somethin’ that somebody else make a godawful face at. If that don’t tellya what this race-hatin’ is all about, nuthin’ will,” highlighting the cultural and racial dimensions intertwined with soul food.
Adrian Miller, author of Soul Food: The Surprising Story of an American Cuisine, One Plate at a Time, describes the 1960s as a “culinary declaration of independence for soul food.” This era witnessed a surge in soul food restaurants in urban centers, accompanied by a powerful assertion of Black culinary excellence. “This was food for us, by us, that white people can’t understand,” Miller explains, emphasizing the cultural significance of soul food as a cuisine deeply rooted in Black experience and identity.
However, while soul food restaurants flourished within Black communities, mainstream America often misunderstood and misrepresented it, frequently associating it solely with unhealthy “heart-attack food.” This limited and prejudiced perception persisted, obscuring the nuanced history and artistry of soul food.
I think that it’s assumed that black women are good cooks, and therefore there’s nothing special about them or the food that they make. This couldn’t be further from the truth.
Carla Hall, co-host of ABC’s ‘The Chew’ and chef of Carla Hall’s Southern Kitchen
Chef Carla Hall, of Carla Hall’s Southern Kitchen, emphasizes the underappreciation of Black women’s contributions to cuisine. Reflecting on Princess Pamela’s cookbook, Hall connects it to her own culinary inspirations, drawn from memories of her grandmothers’ cooking. “I think that it’s assumed that black women are good cooks, and therefore there’s nothing special about them or the food that they make,” Hall states, challenging this dismissive assumption. She views Princess Pamela’s work as particularly relevant today, as Southern cuisine, and soul food in particular, undergoes a rediscovery and wider appreciation. “Comfort food, especially Southern food, has been on the rise for the last decade, especially outside of the African-American community,” Hall notes, highlighting the delayed recognition of soul food’s value by the mainstream culinary world.
In 1989, Princess Pamela relocated her soul food restaurant to a larger space on East Houston Street, across from Katz’s Delicatessen. The new sign read “Princess Southern Touch—Cuisine of South Carolina.” During this period, Princess Pamela’s performances increasingly became the main attraction, sometimes overshadowing the food itself.
Sherron Watkins, known for her role as the Enron whistleblower, frequented Princess Pamela’s soul food restaurant after moving to New York in 1987. Watkins, with her Texan drawl, was instantly recognized as a fellow Southerner by Princess Pamela, who welcomed her warmly. “Whenever I went there, and maybe it was because I was from Texas and had a southern accent and was blonde, she always seemed to be very welcoming of me,” Watkins recalls. She was drawn to Princess Pamela’s restaurant not just for the food but for the captivating performances, which Watkins described as displays of “blazing, easy magnificence.” Princess Pamela’s singing, like her cooking, expressed the complexities of her life, offering glimpses into her guarded personal history. As GQ writer Tim Sultan observed in her last recorded profile in 1997, her “voice goes with the face, which goes with the life led.”
“I heard she lost her mind here in New York at some point and went home,”
Alexander Smalls
The circumstances surrounding Princess Pamela’s disappearance remain unclear, giving rise to various theories. Alexander Smalls mentioned hearing rumors that she “lost her mind” and returned to the South, a narrative often associated with New York City “divas.” Sherron Watkins heard tales of police surrounding her soul food restaurant, fueling speculation about the legality of her business operations. However, the prevailing belief among those who knew her is that Princess Pamela’s health declined, leading to her passing. Despite these theories, no official obituary or death record has been found for a woman using any of her known names.
In 1998, Princess Pamela’s soul food restaurant on East Houston Street closed its doors permanently, the reasons for its closure remaining officially undetermined. Looking at the broader context of the time, the decline of many once-celebrated soul food restaurants from the 1960s provides some clues. Adrian Miller attributes this decline to a combination of factors: non-Black New Yorkers’ ingrained biases against soul food as unhealthy; the passing or retirement of original owners without successors; and gentrification in historically Black neighborhoods, leading to unaffordable rents.
The Lee brothers, in their years-long effort to reissue Princess Pamela’s cookbook, have also sought to uncover what happened to her after 1998. Her disappearance predates the era of ubiquitous digital surveillance, making it difficult to trace her life after her restaurant closed. Searches for “Pamela Strobel” yield little information, and photographic documentation of her is scarce. The Lees have collected Polaroids from former patrons and discovered a brief film appearance in Sheila McLaughlin’s 1987 queer film She Must Be Seeing Things, where she sings with a percussion ensemble.
Matt Lee describes the chills he felt upon seeing this film clip, which further motivated their search for Princess Pamela. They contacted nursing homes, scoured census records, and enlisted the help of New York Public Library historian Andy McCarthy, all to no avail. “Maybe she moved back to South Carolina and left the city,” McCarthy speculated, acknowledging the difficulty in researching someone whose legal name is uncertain and whose life was lived outside the mainstream. Privacy laws further complicate the search. Even contact with her last known landlord yielded no helpful information.
The Lees have also been unable to locate Ada Spivey, or determine if she is still alive. Their attempts to contact numerous Ada Spiveys in the South have been unsuccessful. They did confirm the passing of Bobby Vidal over a decade ago. The Lees believe that Princess Pamela’s deep connection to jazz might hold a clue to her whereabouts, a yet-to-be-discovered link.
After extensive research, McCarthy’s current hypothesis is that Princess Pamela may have been buried in Hart Island, New York City’s public burial ground for the unclaimed and indigent. While speculative, it aligns with the patterns of marginalized individuals being interred there.
Despite the lingering mystery surrounding her later life and passing, the reissue of Princess Pamela’s Soul Food Cookbook offers a renewed opportunity to recognize her legacy. It arrives at a time when food historians are increasingly focused on reclaiming the stories of Black women chefs whose contributions were historically overlooked. Princess Pamela is now being recognized alongside contemporaries like Sylvia Woods, Vertamae Grosvenor, and Edna Lewis, all pioneering Black women whose impact on American cuisine deserves greater acknowledgment. These women, united by their race, gender, and Southern heritage, faced similar systemic neglect in historical culinary narratives.
Nicole A. Taylor, author of The Up South Cookbook: Chasing Dixie in a Brooklyn Kitchen, cautions against oversimplifying these women’s stories by grouping them too closely. She emphasizes the distinct culinary voices and experiences of each, noting that “Princess Pamela had a whole other beat and experience than these folks. She stood in her own lane.”
Food media tends not to focus on black stories and black cookbook authors. There are dozens more waiting to be told.
Nicole A. Taylor, author of ‘The Up South Cookbook: Chasing Dixie in a Brooklyn Kitchen’
Taylor argues that Princess Pamela’s story underscores the issue of narrative control in the culinary world. Historically, the gatekeepers of culinary authority have been predominantly white, shaping which stories are told and whose contributions are valued. The fact that it took two white, male chefs to champion the reissue of her cookbook further highlights this systemic imbalance. “Food media tends not to focus on black stories and black cookbook authors,” Taylor asserts, pointing to the numerous untold stories still awaiting discovery.
Princess Pamela’s descent into obscurity reflects a broader societal amnesia regarding the contributions of Black culinary figures. Her story serves as a poignant reminder of the countless voices and legacies that have been overlooked, urging a more inclusive and comprehensive understanding of American culinary history, one that finally acknowledges the profound impact of figures like Princess Pamela and her unforgettable soul food restaurant.
The Rizzoli reissue of Princess Pamela’s Soul Food Cookbook is now available. If you have any information about Pamela Strobel’s whereabouts or memories to share, please visit princesspamela.org or email [email protected].
