In an era when overexcited food reporters swoon over desserts that are decadent or sinful, chess pie is probably too virtuous for the spotlight. But to the educated pastry devotee, it is a study in the sort of cookery that exalts simple goodness over strained excess. No doubt, there are relatively fancy chess pies— chocolate chess, amaretto chess, even caramel chess—but the essence of this pie is purity. Eggs, butter, sugar, and a bit of cornmeal are the only necessary ingredients, and sometimes the only ingredients at all. A dash of vanilla or lemon zest gives it a nice twist, and some Old South cooks add a teaspoon of vinegar that adds twang to its mighty sweet nature.
A great chess pie is unambiguous: Flaky crust holds a ribbon of sunny yellow curd, its top perhaps faintly browned, its interior an adult pabulum of unspeakable tenderness. Chess pies sometimes are crowned with meringue or whipped topping, which is fine for flavor but does detract from any texture the top of the filling may have.
Rarely found outside the South, where it is a staple on cafe menus, at fried chicken restaurants, and even in some barbecues, chess pie’s name is a favorite puzzler among food etymologists, whose speculations range from it being a bastardization of English cheese pie to a cook who, queried about what kind of pie he had made, answered, “Nothing special. Jes’ pie.” Or because it keeps well in a pie chest, it might originally have been named chest pie.