Turns out Mark Twain was an early locavore:
In fact, Twain was so exact about wild foods because, during years of rambling travels, he’d tasted them all at their best—which meant eating them where they were from. He’d eaten prairie-chickens as a boy in Hannibal, Missouri, just across the river from the great tallgrass, and terrapin as a printer’s assistant in Philadelphia. He’d eaten sheepshead and croaker fish as a steamboat pilot in New Orleans, and Lahontan cutthroat trout in Tahoe when he fled west, away from the draft agents of the Union and Confederate armies. In a very real sense, his menu was a memoir of fondly remembered travels, from the prairies to the mountains and from the New Orleans docks to the backstreets of San Francisco.