Eat like a Lumberjack

Samoa Cookhouse
908 Vance Ave.
Samoa, CA



Nobody would confuse me for a tree hugger.

But even jaded ole Suit757 can get just a bit awestruck staring up into the California coastal mist at a 500 year old, 350 foot tall redwood tree.

There’s something mysterious gazing upward at a grove of redwoods that have stood as silent witness to the centuries.
Just standing there quietly rising into the misty sky. Just doing their thing -- sprouting heavenward until one day they’ve become among the largest living things on the planet.

Equally amazing, hearty redwood is virtually immune to insects, termites, fire and rot. It’s among the most ideal building materials ever created by God.

So naturally, when modern man discovered these majestic giants clinging to the hillsides along the California coast, a new industry was born.

The stately historic mansions that dot the hillsides populated with wealthy San Francisco leftists were built from redwood trees.

Redwood lumber became a lucrative natural resource.

Burly men from across America came up into these remote mountains of Northern California to swing axes and work the sawmills that turned redwoods into hotels, hospitals and homes.

These manly men worked up quite an appetite, as you might imagine.

That’s where Samoa Cookhouse was born.

Samoa was a company town for the Vance Lumber Company, where Paul Bunyan types would live in company housing, shop at the company store and dine at the company cookhouse.

Each morning Samoa Cookhouse would fry up hearty breakfasts of all-you-can-eat stick-to-your-ribs cooking to line the stomachs of lumberjacks for their long day ahead out in the woods.

Believe it or not, that tradition has continued uninterrupted here at the Samoa Cookhouse, even though the Vance Lumber Company -- and the town it built and owned -- is now nothing but barbed wire and crumbling buildings.

Of course today nobody swings axes and grinds saws against 350 foot tall redwoods. The tree huggers have put an end to all that.

Besides, who wants to work in a sawmill when you can elect a Socialist like Barack Obama to the White House and then collect unemployment, food stamps, subsidized rent, free healthcare, Obama phones and 250 free minutes per month?

I mean, that’s progress, right?

Big burly men these days are more likely laying on an Army cot in their Section 8 housing collecting welfare than out working for a living.

Sure enough, the only folks chowing down at Samoa Cookhouse these days are tourists planning a long day navigating their SUVs through the paved scenic drives of Redwood National Park.

Oh, well. Tourists have to eat too, I suppose.

I guess that explains why Samoa Cookhouse has survived and thrived serving meals uninterrupted for 120 years.

At some point during the 1960s, after the ecofreaks told Paul Bunyan and his buddies to find another line of work, Samoa Cookhouse opened its doors to the general public.

Today this is the last remaining lumber camp cookhouse in North America. It says so right on the historic plaque outside the front door.

The set-up is still the same as during the glory days of the lumber camps.

Long communal tables draped in red checkered table cloths are arranged neatly through the cavernous dining hall.

Industrial sized pots and pans clang in the open kitchen.

Paintings and pictures of mustached lumbermen felling unimaginably gigantic redwoods line the walls interspersed with tools of the trade.

A 26 foot long hand saw is mounted above a picture of a dozen men proudly posing in front of the 25 foot diameter redwood log they just conquered.

Snapping pictures and toggling the cruise control on a Ford Explorer may not burn as many calories as working a 26 foot long hand saw all day, but that doesn’t stop those tourists from loading up on lumberjack breakfast food anyway.

Just like in the old days, you don’t get any say in what you’ll be eating.

Don’t like it? I’m pretty sure there’s a Denny’s somewhere across Arcata Bay in Eureka.

The food was better than I thought it would be.

I mean, let’s face it. The system here isn’t that far removed from your college “caf” dining hall. Or those god-awful banquet hall rubber chicken dinners you get at every political fundraiser and wedding reception.

Perhaps coming here for breakfast was a good call.

Breakfast food holds up better under mass production assembly lines than industrial chicken cordon bleu.

First out of the kitchen was a plate of biscuits and a bowl of cream sausage gravy.

Not the greatest biscuits and gravy, but a good way to kick off a stick-to-your-ribs kinda meal.

Next came communal bowls of scrambled eggs and good link sausage.

Best of all were the pancakes.

I’m not normally a big pancake guy.

Too often pancakes are boring bland soggy sponges for low quality syrup.

But not at Samoa Cookhouse.

These were some of the best pancakes in the history of breakfast.

Sweet, tasty and griddled to a perfect dark brown, they held up stoutly to the butter and maple syrup.

Rather than being simply soaked up by the pancakes, the good syrup actually complemented the doughy taste of the flap jacks.

The efficient waitresses at Samoa Cookhouse will keep on bringing out the bowls of food until you holler “Mercy.”

By the time I pushed back from the checkerboard dining table and explored the lumber camp museum and artifacts behind the dining hall, I was more than satisfied.

Stomach lined for a long day ahead I was ready to head up into the California forests.

Like everyone else at Samoa Cookhouse, Suit757 was acting like a tourist today, cruising through the redwood forests that the Vance Lumber Company never got to.

As I gazed up into the sky at trees taller than 30 story sky scrapers and wide enough to drive a truck through, I appreciated the fact that there are still plenty of redwood groves around for tourists like me to gawk at.

Just don’t call me a tree hugger.

Rating: Seriously Thought about Buying the Shirt.

Too Much is Never Enough at Maple Street Biscuit Company

Maple Street Biscuit Company
2004 San Marco Blvd.
Jacksonville, FL





You ever meet one of those stick-in-the-mud type people who complain, “Oh, that’s too much for me?”

Yeah. Me neither.

I don’t hang out with people like that.

For me, there’s no such thing as too much of a good thing.

Lots of people who agree with me crowd into Maple Street Biscuit Company every day for ludicrous gastronomical combinations of good food.

The vibe at Maple Street Biscuit Company is one of a place trying to keep things upbeat and fun.

Aforementioned stick-in-the-muds need not apply.

Instead of giving you a number to remember when you place your order, the perky girls at the order counter ask you a question.

Every customer gets the same question -- but the question changes every day.

Today it was “What is your favorite game?”

Apparently I just looked at her blankly.

“Huh? Game?”

“You know, video game, computer game, card game,” my order taker explained cheerfully.

Um, Suit757 doesn’t have time for games.

“Okay, well, what was the last game you remember playing?”

Followed by a perky, patient head tilt.

Uhhhh. Monopoly? During the Carter Administration, maybe?

“Great! When we call Monopoly, come get your order!”

More perky smiling.

Look, you better be in a good mood when you come in here. Because a meal at Maple Street Biscuit Company is like a trip to Disney World for your taste buds and arteries.

Everything here is cheerfully over-the-top.

Such as my “Five and Dime”, a teetering tower of heart-clogging comfort food.

As the name on the door implies, the specialty at Maple Street Biscuit Company is…

…well…

…biscuits.

And I’m sure Maple Street Biscuit Company makes fantastic biscuits…

…it’s just kinda hard to tell for sure with all that other goodness piled on top on my Five and Dime Biscuit.

Fried chicken.

Melted cheese.

Pecan smoked bacon.

A drippy over-easy egg.

Whew!

All topped off with a healthy ladling of sausage gravy!

Holy quadruple bypass, Batman, this just might be the single most over-the-top concoction to ever slide by my taste buds!

If you are disgusted, well…

…why exactly are you even reading this website?

If you are thinking, “Well, Suit757, does the Five and Dime taste as good as it sounds?”…

…the answer is a resounding YES!

What might be a tad over-whelming in the hands of mere mortals turns into delicious at Maple Street Biscuit Company because this place takes each and every one of the components of its culinary creations seriously.

Fluffy but firm biscuits, all-natural fried chicken, organic eggs, gourmet thick-cut bacon, quality real cheese.

All smothered with an off-the-hook sausage gravy.

Some sausage gravies served at those little chain joints along Southern interstate exit ramps camouflage the bits of sausage in a bland cream gravy.

There’s nothing subtle about the sausage in Maple Street’s sausage gravy.

This place doesn’t do subtle.

Generous chunks of zesty sausage make their presence known in every delicious forkful of creamy gravy.

And with a nice hint of spicy kick, this sausage gravy perfectly complements the smoky flavor of the bacon and the earthy warmth of the scratch-made biscuit.

Likewise, the runny egg lends a nice textural contrast to its crispy fried chicken kissin’ cousin.

Needless to say, this isn’t a Hardee’s biscuit sandwich you could eat one handed driving down I-95.

Even with a knife and a fork, there is no conceivable way to get even a small sampling of all the various components onto one forkful. Thus every bite offers a new and different thrill ride for the taste buds.

Most folks who come here don’t have much room for the side dishes.

Most folks are missing out.

And Suit757 definitely isn’t most folks.

The macaroni and cheese is a crock of melty cheesy goodness topped with crumbled Cheese Itz crackers. Like everything else here -- over-the-top good.

The collard greens deserve a spot in the vegetable Hall of Fame.

Both sweeter and spicier than any greens that have ever before graced my taste buds, these collards were swimming in a wicked broth of flavor and seasoning.

Biscuits, fried chicken, eggs, cheese, bacon, sausage gravy, collard greens and mac and cheese?

All for one suit’s lunch?

Too much?

Nope. If it’s good, there’s no such thing.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Shipping Off to Guantanamo Well Fed

Blackstone’s Café
205 Scott St.
Beaufort, South Carolina





If President Obama were kind enough to offer me one final meal before he slapped on the cuffs and exiled me to Guantanamo, it would have to be shrimp & grits.

Nothing beats fresh wild caught American shrimp. And good Southern grits are one of those rare side items perfectly at home on a breakfast, lunch or dinner menu.

In combination, shrimp & grits encourages creativity. Like Mitt Romney’s position on abortion, no two versions are alike.

I’m happy to report, the chef at the Blackstone’s Café here in the heart of South Carolina’s Low Country takes full advantage.

Blackstone’s “Cajun” Shrimp & Grits are LOADED!

Onion. Green Pepper. Red Pepper. Crumbled breakfast sausage. And mounds of melted cheese.

Oh, and a good generous portion of local shrimp buried amid all that goodness and grits.

Whew!

That’s an explosion of flavor in every bite.

My only quibble with my “Cajun” shrimp & grits was with the “Cajun” part. These shrimp & grits need a bit more spice to earn that label.

On the side came a warm golden Southern biscuit which can only be described as buttery perfection.

Of course I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to sample Blackstone’s specialty of the house, homemade corned beef hash.

A mishmash of crispy fried corned beef and potatoes, this is as good as hash can get.

There’s just something about that wonderful textural variety of soft and crunchy corned beef mixed with skillet browned home fries that makes a breakfast like this worth getting up early for.

And trust me, folks here in Beaufort are happy to do just that.

Packed with that classic breakfast joint eclectic mix of hung-over partiers and freshly scrubbed after-churchers, I chose the less crowed, though less interesting, back patio to enjoy my meal.

Though quiet and pleasant on a cool morning, I kind of missed being amid the hub bub inside. Plastered with prep school banners and Marine Corp paraphernalia, Blackstone’s décor reflects its local flavor well.

Just down the road from Paris Island, Blackstone’s Café reflects the conservative pro-military bias of this corner of the Palmetto State.

You’ve got to love a restaurant owner passionate enough about saving America to post the “Tytler Cycle of Democracy” in the men’s room.

The average age of the worlds greatest civilizations from the beginning of history, has been about 200 years. During those 200 years, these nations always progressed through the following sequence:

From bondage to spiritual faith
from spiritual faith to great courage
from courage to liberty
from liberty to abundance
from abundance to selfishness
from selfishness to complacency
from complacency to apathy
from apathy to dependency
from dependency back to bondage.

– Alexander Fraser Tytler (1747-1813)

Never mind that no one can actually definitively cite the 18th Century Scottish historian as the originator of this bit of wisdom, but the message stands on its own. Nothing like educating a captive audience!

Unfortunately, Suit757 doesn’t put much stock in the “educate the masses” theory of saving the country. See above about that “apathy” thing.

Too many folks just can’t be educated – even captive with manhood in hand. Much more effective to mobilize the ALREADY educated.

But still, as I paid my tab and walked out the front door, prominently adorned with a “Fair Tax” bumper sticker, I felt good having given patronage to a philosophical soul mate.

I’m pretty sure the owner of Blackstone’s is right up there next to Suit757 at the top of Obama’s political enemies list.

Come to think of it, I’m pretty excited about that. At least we’ll be well fed down in Guantanamo.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Good Southern Cooking Stays off the Endangered List in South Georgia

Steffen’s
550 S. Lee St.
Kingsland, GA




Occasionally as I drive the backwoods two-lane blacktops that criss-cross this country of ours, I’ll pass an old fashioned establishment that is just too authentic, too nostalgic, too quaint – too endangered – to pass by.

Steffen’s, out here a stone’s throw from the Okefenokee Swamp on old Highway 17 just north of the St. Mary’s River Bridge that separates Georgia from Florida, is one of those establishments.

The first time I ever drove by, I immediately knew something special had to be happening in this place.

The retro neon sign. The low-slung decades old building. The packed parking lot.

There aren’t too many places left like this any more.

Why? The answer lies just a couple miles away at the Kingsland exit off of I-95.

Corporate chain restaurants, motels and fast food joints as far as the eye can see.

Kingsland may still be a small sleepy Southern town, but it’s been discovered in the corporate boardrooms of every fast food conglomerate from Arby’s to Zaxby’s.

Location. Location. Location.

Tourists speeding from the frigid northeast to sunny Florida pull off at the Kingsland exit in throngs to sleep, eat and perform necessary bodily functions. And then quickly zoom back down 95 toward the land of Mickey Mouse and Casey Anthony.

Five decades ago, Steffen’s might have been one of those places. Back before there was a 95. Back when 17 was the only way to get from Virginia to Florida.

But those days are long gone.

And it’s testament to the business savvy and good cooking of the folks who have kept Steffen’s open for over half a century that I can still pull into the parking lot for a home cooked Southern breakfast that wasn’t designed in a test kitchen in Chicago.

Steffen’s is so local and low key, you won’t find it in any of those “Eat Your Way across the USA” type books.

That annoying guy with the spiky hair on the Food Network won’t be stopping by here any time soon either.

But that’s okay. Steffen’s does plenty of business without them.

Town cops, local politicians and little league coaches all crowd into Steffen’s every morning to slap backs, yuck it up about the high school football team’s latest state championship and gossip about Mark Richt’s future as head Bulldog.

But what really keeps the locals coming back is the food.

My French toast, Wainwright Sausage and biscuit and gravy were the perfect cross section of Steffen’s good country cooking.

I think it’s actually illegal to come to an old fashioned Southern place like this without trying the biscuits and gravy.

Steffen’s didn’t disappoint.

Crispy on the outside, and soft on the inside, Steffen’s biscuit held up well under the generous spread of white cream country gravy specked with sausage.

The French toast consisted of four huge halves of Texas toast battered, buttered, seasoned and sprinkled with powered sugar. Best of all, it came with real sugar cane syrup made on a farm just a few miles up the road.

Less sickenly sweet than the more ubiquitous maple syrup, homemade Georgia cane syrup was the perfect complement to the already plenty sweet French toast.

On the side, my Wainwright Sausage, made by W. J. Wainwright and Son Meat Curing up the road a ways in Nahunta, put regular limp breakfast sausage links to shame. This is dense, smoky thick sausage that packs a porky wallop.

You got to love it. Local syrup. Local sausage. Local gossip.

It’s little touches like that -- homemade country cooking with local flavor that makes a place like Steffen’s always worth the effort to drive past the “golden arches” and Cracker Barrels out by the interstate.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Sausage Gravy Worth Getting Up For

All American Café
1817 South Fern Creek Ave.
Orlando, FL


Suit757 is not a morning person.

And that’s damn inconvenient because at least a couple times per week my travel alarm goes off around 4am so that I can catch yet another early morning flight to some forgotten corner of fly-over country.

But other than the need to work for a living, there are two words that will get me stirring before high noon.

Sausage. Gravy.

By the time my plane touched down at the Orlando International Airport at 9:30am, I had already been up for nearly six hours.

The real problem with being a non-morning type person who has to get up at o-dark-thirty on a semi-regular basis is that no matter how early that alarm is set for, I just can’t seem to get myself into bed before midnight.

What I’m trying to say is, by the time I got my sorry butt to the All American Café on this Saturday morning, I was tired – and hungry.

All American’s sausage gravy was the cure for what was ailing me.

My waitress helpfully advised me to go for the half order.

Good call.

If this is the half order, it made me wonder what man (and his army) could consume a whole one? A giant dinner plate buried under a mound of pepper specked gravy. Somewhere under there were two halves of a biscuit.

I think. I could hardly find the plate, let alone the biscuit.

And you know what? I lapped up every last morsel.

This is some top notch sausage gravy. Hearty, thick and peppery, the creamy gravy was generously studded with big chunks of crumbled sausage. This is as good as biscuits and sausage gravy can get.

But you know what? Man can not live on sausage gravy alone.

That’s why I got a side order of sausage to go with my sausage gravy.

My links were juicy and crisp, but didn’t come close to overshadowing the star of my meal.

A dumpy little place on a live oak canopied street in a residential Orlando neighborhood, the All American Café is all about the food.

Atmosphere? Not so much. Unless you happen to have a special place in your heart for plastic chairs and tables on astro-turf.

Three or four tables inside. Four or five outside. That’s the extent of the dining options.

But when you are in the state of mind that only a gigantic plate of overflowing sausage gravy can cure, this is the place to come.

Just don’t ask me to meet you there before noon.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.