A Shack off the Beaten Track

 

The Shack by the Track
246 Jackson St.
St. George, GA




Did you know that it is possible to drive southbound out of Florida into Georgia?

It is.

I just did it.

Traveling south down County Road 121 through the cattle farms and under the live oak canopies in Nassau County Florida, I hung a right onto Florida Route 2, crossed the St. Mary’s River and found myself in St. George, Georgia -- a good 17 miles southwest of Hilliard, Florida.

St. George is a tiny dot on the map on the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp in that little nook in Southeast Georgia that juts into Florida.

It’s the kind of place I’d daydream about exploring when I was a kid.

Technology has taken all the mystery out of life.

Young Suit757 loved maps.

Loved them.

I’d throw an atlas on the floor and occupy myself for hours exploring the nooks and crannies of the world, using my imagination to wonder what some little obscure dot on the map like St. George, tucked away in some forgotten corner of the world, must be like.

I know. Right?

Kids were so easily amused back then.

Thanks to Google Earth no one needs to wonder any more.

With the click of a mouse, you can place your avatar right there and see for yourself.

Of course viewing the landscapes, dirt roads and boarded up trailers of forgotten little towns on a computer screen doesn’t tell you much about what it might be like to live there among the locals.

But that’s what reality television is for.

Thanks to “Swamp People”, “Snake Salvation”, “Gator Boys” and “Ice Road Truckers”, what nook of America is left to the imagination?

Well, that’s what makes being a Suit in a Strange Place so much fun.

Sure, Google, TLC, Animal Planet and Anthony Bourdain can take couch potatoes virtually to a lot of cool places, but isn’t it more fun to actually check them out yourself?

I think so.

Especially when you bump into backwoods barbeque shacks serving up some of the best smoked pork you’ll ever find, like I did here in this forgotten pocket of the Peach State.

All you’ve got to do is follow your nose to the source of the hickory smoke emanating from the appropriately named Shack by the Track.

Tucked under the Spanish moss-draped live oaks, hard against a busy railroad track, stands a mishmash of sheds, trailers and hand-painted signs beckoning the locals and log truckers barreling through this tiny dot-on-the-map town.

A single take-out window punctured through the knotty pine paneling is where you go to place your order.

Smoke pours out of the chimney rising above the battered tin roof.

A pile of hickory logs stand ready for duty beside the outdoor smoker.

Just as I am about to place my order, the shriek of a Norfolk Southern locomotive horn shatters the tranquility of the steamy Southern landscape.

The shack and ground rumbles as the double-decker train roars past just mere feet from the back of the smoker.

Within a minute or two, I am opening my Styrofoam box to reveal a monstrous mound of pulled pork piled thick between two buns.

There is no humanly possible way to lift it up and eat it like a sandwich -- at least no way that would spare my suit from an expensive dry cleaning bill.

Fortunately, the Shack provided a handy plastic fork.

This is some of the most exquisite barbeque that has ever graced my taste buds.

Soft tender strands of smoky pulled pork gilded with a just the right amount of sweet savory tomato-based sauce, this is the real Southern barbeque I dream about late at night.

It’s the kind of authentic smoked pulled pork that is getting surprisingly hard to find in many large and medium towns in the South -- let alone obscure backwaters like St. George.

Barbeque this good takes real hard wood…

…and real smoke…

…and real pit-masters practicing their craft for hours under Spanish moss and a leaky tin roof.

Now that Brunswick’s Georgia Pig has shut down, I bet there’s not a barbeque sandwich like this within a 150 mile radius.

And this out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere shack, a stone’s throw from the alligator-infested Okefenokee Swamp, seems like the perfectly appropriate place to find it.

And I’m damn glad I did. Because you know what?

No matter how much you paid for that fancy high def TV, The Food Network and Travel Channel just can’t deliver the aromas and flavors of sweet smoked Southern barbeque.

Nope. You’re just going to have to break out that old road atlas and come down here to this obscure little nook of Georgia to experience that yourself.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Georgia Coasting

Skipper’s Fish Camp
85 Screven St.
Darien, GA




“Guys, it just doesn’t get any better than this.”

Remember that iconic Old Milwaukee television commercial -- all the dudes sitting around a campfire on the beach, sun setting into the lake, knocking back cold ones?

Yeah. That’s what I was thinking to myself on this sunny spring afternoon as I sipped my ice cold Sweetwater 420 sitting on the back deck at Skipper’s Fish Camp.

Sun shining down, a cool breeze blowing off the Darien River, shrimp boats motoring by and Charlie Daniels and Hank Williams, Jr. on the outdoor sound system.

Ahhh, yeah.

It just doesn’t get any better than this.

Other than the Outlaw Country soundtrack, the only other sounds are the cries of the sea gulls and the
locals at the table next to me calling out their “hey y’alls” to the shrimpers who just tied up to the pilings across the salt marsh.

Darien, Georgia is a fleeting little coastal town, one of the few remaining still genuinely tied to the bounties of the surrounding waters.

The one block downtown consists of four or five buildings.

Just downhill toward the water’s edge lies Skipper’s and a row of shrimp boats -- an increasingly rare sight on the southeastern coastline.

Cold hard economics makes it difficult to cling to this fading, salty way of life.

With diesel at four bucks per gallon, it can cost several hundred dollars to fill a shrimp boat’s fuel tank for a day of trawling the coastal waters.

Even at the $11 per pound going retail rate for local jumbo shrimp, it’s hard to eke out much of a profit.

Worse yet, folks can go to the local Piggly Wiggly and buy shrimp for $3-$4 per pound.

Of course that bargain shrimp doesn’t come from the Darien River. It comes from a shrimp farm in Thailand.

Can you taste the difference?

Absolutely.

No comparison.

Local Georgia shrimp are firmer and sweeter.

Besides, seafood is supposed to come from the sea -- not some Third World farm on the other side of the planet where masses of frankenshrimp swim in their own waste.

But don’t worry about the health consequences of such shrimp factories. The fish food the shrimp are fed is spiked with mass amounts of anti-biotics -- so you won’t get sick.

Some Department of Agriculture bureaucrat would probably try to convince me this is “progress”.

No thanks.

Give me a plate of shrimp that came right out of the deep blue sea in front of me.

That’s what you get at Skipper’s Fish Camp where your meal probably came right off one of the boats docked out back.

A favorite way to enjoy local wild-caught shrimp here in the Low Country is shrimp and grits.

Skipper’s version piles a whole mess of shrimp in a bowl of cheese grits topped with smoky bacon.

I got my local shrimp blackened with a crab cake combo.

With a light peppery seasoning, my shrimp had a nice skillet char on the outside while remaining succulent and tender on the inside.

My crab cake was a Low Country version typical of this part of the coast.

Around the Chesapeake Bay, crab cakes tend to be baseball shaped mounds of moist crab meat faintly held together by mayonnaise and a few traces of bread crumbs.

They do crab cakes a bit differently down here.

Skipper’s crab cake was flattened rather than round, with more seasoning, less mayo and a nice dark crust from the skillet.

I’m not going to start any fist fights over which version I like better, but let’s just say any open-minded “when in Rome” crab cake connoisseur won’t be disappointed at Skipper’s.

Skipper’s sides were a highlight rather than an afterthought.

Collard greens chockfull of pork fat.

Sweet potato casserole mixed up with lots of pecans and brown sugar.

And top notch homemade onion rings. The batter compliments rather than overshadows the thick, sweet, juicy rings of local Vidalia onion.

Of course no trip to Coastal Georgia is complete without sampling some local alligator.

Skipper’s gator bites back as the tender greasy meat is deep fried and then tossed in a fiery hot buffalo sauce.

I had to order several pints of Georgia’s favorite craft brew, Sweetwater 420, to douse the flames.

Yep. Had to.

Drinking beer in the sun on a Wednesday afternoon. Local shrimp, crab and gator.

Nope. It doesn’t get much better.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Low Country Let Down

Desposito’s
3501 Marye St.
Savannah, GA




It’s an eternal search.

I can see it clearly in my mind.

A backwater fish camp tucked away under the Spanish moss draped live oak trees patronized by hard-scrabble shrimpers and watermen downing American beer.

Weathered worn picnic tables out back right by the water piled high with really cheap fresh seafood (because the owner bypasses the middle man by purchasing straight off the shrimp boat of his second cousin Bubba).

As you pull into the gravel parking lot of Desposito’s just across the Wilmington River from Savannah’s infamous Bonaventure Cemetery, the little cinder block dive gives rise to such expectations.

But ultimately, Desposito’s falls a bit short of my Suit757 fantasy fish camp.

First of all, despite the low overhead of this ramshackle little joint, the place isn’t exactly cheap.

Eleven bucks for a dozen oysters. Nineteen bucks for a pound of crab legs. Three bucks for a 12 ounce bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Desposito's sure isn’t giving it away.

Most disappointing of all – especially on this beautiful sunny 72 degree winter day (I thank Al Gore for global warming everyday) – is there is no outdoor seating at Desposito’s.

You sit inside the cinder block walls peering out the painted shut windows.

I know firsthand Coastal Georgia’s infamous sand gnats can be brutal, but I’d love the chance to escape the A/C and take my chances outside on a day like this.

Heck, I’d settle for a screened in porch. Or even a sea breeze through an open window.

Oh well.

But what Desposito’s lacks in seaside ambiance, it makes up for with fresh no frills seafood.

You know it’s a good sign when you walk in and see every table outfitted with pages of the Savannah Morning News classified pages to soak up piles of oyster shells and crab carcasses.

Unfortunately, blue crabs were out of season, but I still managed to create my own Coastal Georgia seafood feast with good local oysters and shrimp.

The steamed oysters were spot-on, especially after a quick dip in Desposito’s own spicy cocktail concoction. Creamy and spiked with a dash of mustard, it was one of the better seafood condiments I’ve ever tried.

My Low Country Boil of shrimp, potatoes, corn and sausage could have used more spice. I’m used to my shrimp being drenched in Old Bay. But these were hardly seasoned at all.

And as a Suit with Irish ancestry, I can tell you there is no food more boring than bland boiled potatoes. Thank goodness for Desposito’s cocktail sauce.

The sausage, on the other hand, was first rate, juicy with a sharp snap in every bite.

The shrimp salad did not suffer from any such seasoning rationing. Sweet with curry and relish and served on toast with lettuce and tomato, this shrimp salad sandwich might be the highlight of Desposito’s limited menu.

All in all, while Desposito’s came up a bit short of embodying the seafood shack of my Suit757 dreams, it’s not a bad place to sit a spell and enjoy the bounty of the local waters.

But I know that magical fish camp is out there.

Some where.

And you can rest assure, my loyal Suits in Strange Places readers, Suit757 will keep searching.

Rating: Would Wear a Free Shirt.

Feelin’ Good Again with Old School Beers and Burgers

Crystal Beer Parlor
301 West Jones St.
Savannah, GA



Crystal Beer Parlor is an important part of what makes Savannah one of America’s best cities.

You never know what you’ll bump into as you stroll through the spooky Spanish moss-draped squares and narrow side streets of the “Haunted City”.

There always seems to be some exciting hidden discovery around every cobblestone corner.

Like Crystal Beer Parlor.

I’ve been exploring the historic district of Savannah for years and never even heard of the place until I happened to stumble into it on a side street somewhere between Pulaski and Chatham Squares.

And it’s not like Crystal Beer Parlor is some Johnny-come-lately joint recently opened by some relocated Yankee entrepreneur for the hoards of tourist masses.

The place has been serving beer and burgers since 1933 – and brags that it was one of the first bars in America to open after the repeal of Prohibition.

Back then, beers were a dime and burgers a quarter.

Thanks to seven decades of central bank fiat currency printing, the prices are a bit higher today. But I’m guessing the quality of the food and beer selection has improved too.

Crystal Beer Parlor lives up to its name – and proves that you don’t have to have 200 taps to qualify for outstanding beer selection.

The back wall behind the bar is lined with about 20 taps of exciting, unusual and hard to find fresh microbrewed beer.

For example, Sweetwater Brewing out of Atlanta has become fairly prevalent at bars with decent beer selection throughout the South. But it is almost always the 420 – a standard American pale ale.

Getting your hands on a frosty mug of Sweetwater’s much more interesting seasonal brews is like scoring a young hot female TSA agent to fondle you at security. I suppose it’s theoretically possible – but it never seems to happen.

That’s why I was so excited to see Sweetwater’s Festive Ale on Crystal’s beer list.

This is a beer drinker’s beer. Dark, strong and heavy, with just a touch of cinnamon, Festive Ale lives up to its name. At nearly 9% alcohol by volume, it is definitely a sipping beer.

Not for beer chugging contests.

I tried another top notch hard-to-find winter brew, RJ Rocker’s First Snowfall, out of Greenville, South Carolina.

Lighter in color and body than the Sweetwater, First Snowfall was like pumpkin pie in a glass, with nutmeg and cloves

And what self-respecting, patriotic beer-drinking Suit could resist a pint of Brew Free or Die IPA from California’s 21st Amendment Brewery?

I felt like I was striking a blow against the imperialist federal nanny state with every sip of this hoppy, powerful beer.

Fitting its retro-style ambiance, Crystal Beer Parlor even has a menu of “Beers of our Fathers – the Beer Your Dad Used to Love”, including Stroh’s, Rheingold and Genesee Cream Ale (a favorite of Suit757’s dad).

But unless you happen to be a Ninth Century monk, man can not live on beer alone. Fortunately, Crystal Beer Parlor offers some top notch bar food.

My crab stew to start was chock full of lumpy crab meat. A bit sweeter than most she-crab soups I’ve enjoyed, this version certainly didn’t skimp on the crab. I found the meat of an entire crab claw buried under all that creamy goodness!

Better yet was the bacon cheese burger.

I know this might sound somewhat shocking coming from Suit757, but I hesitate ordering burgers in restaurants. No matter how you order it or how much you plead with your waitress, you just know the burger that comes out of the kitchen is going to be charred, dry and overcooked.

Burgers are one of those food items that almost always taste better when you grill ‘em to your own liking. As Robert Earl Keen once said, “There is nothing like your own backyard.” (I have a theory that every experience in life can be derived from a REK song.)

But Crystal Beer Parlor’s burger was love at first sight.

As soon as I saw the pink juices staining the sturdy bun, I knew this was a burger done right. Perfectly pink medium – just like I ordered it.

Juicy, greasy deliciousness.

Always on the look-out for something different, I ordered “Ocilla Slaw” on the side.

Named after a small South Georgia town in Irwin County, Ocilla Slaw is shredded cabbage, peppers and onions mixed with a sweet vinaigrette. More sweet than vinegary, Ocilla Slaw went down perfectly with my slab of dead cow and luxurious microbrewed beers.

A big juicy burger, crab stew, Ocilla slaw and three high potency beers later, I stumbled out of Crystal Beer Parlor excited. And full.

Excited that no matter how many times I return to a fantastic city like Savannah there is always something new to discover. Even if that something “new” has been around since the dark days of prohibition.

Savannah and Crystal Beer Parlor are parts of what make being a Suit in Strange Places so much fun.

“The road goes on forever…and the party never ends.”

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Stuck in the Non-Smoking Section

Don’s Famous Bar-B-Q
217 East US 80
Pooler, GA




It’s easy to be skeptical about Don’s Famous Bar-B-Q.

No billowing smoke. No piles of hard wood out back. No pickups in the parking lot. No customers inside.

Not even a chimney.

No chimney? How to you operate a BBQ joint with no chimney?

Most suspicious of all, the sign says “Don’s Famous Bar-B-Q, Lexington, NC Style.”

Lexington, NC style? In Pooler, Georgia?

Hmm.

Well, I have a feeling that the folks up in western North Carolina would be none too pleased to discover a chimneyless, smokeless BBQ shack in Georgia passing itself off as “Lexington style”.

Lexington, NC considers itself the barbeque center of the universe, boasting more BBQ joints per capita than any other place on earth.

In Lexington, barbeque is smoky pork hacked to smithereens and flavored with a vinegar sauce sweetened with just a touch of tomato.

When done right, like at Wayne Monk’s Lexington Barbeque No. 1, it’s good stuff. Slap your grandmamma good.

But down here in the Low Country, folks are more likely to look upon Lexington barbeque as some sort of Yankee conspiracy (after all, the stuff does come from NORTH Carolina).

Nope. Folks here along the I-95 corridor hanker for smoked pulled pork slathered in golden mustard sauce.

From Duke’s up around Walterboro and Ridgeland to Wall’s in Savannah down to Island BBQ in Yulee and Fred Cotten’s in Jacksonville, peppery mustard-based sauces are the required condiment on pulled pork and ribs along this southern stretch of I-95.

Suit757’s preference?

Call me the Newt Gingrich of barbeque eaters. I like to maintain an open relationship with all styles.

So if some pit master wants to serve Lexington style barbeque deep in the heart of coastal mustard country, I’m okay with it.

If it’s actually good.

From the looks of Don’s Famous BBQ, he’s not winning too many converts.

The empty place looks like a dilapidated former Dairy Freeze, complete with peeling paint and hand stenciled lettering on the roof.

But that’s not a problem. Looking from the outside like the place needs a visit from the health department is in no way a disqualifier for good barbeque.

Not actually smoking your barbeque most certainly IS.

The well scrubbed inside offers no more evidence than the outside that any barbeque is being made here.

Folks, by definition, barbeque has to be smoked. Over real wood. Otherwise, it’s not barbeque. No matter how much peppery North Carolina sauce you slather over your meat.

Of course the real test is to taste it.

The sweet and tangy vinegar sauce nicely complimented the minced pork on the sandwich. But there was no discernable smoke flavor.

The Carolina-style vinegar spiced red cole slaw was an interesting diversion from the sweet stuff more typical of these parts – and a nice textural crunchy addition on top of the soft finely hacked pork on my sandwich.

The sugary baked beans and crunchy hush puppies were fairly standard.

The Brunswick stew was interesting. Surprisingly spicy, the stew was much hotter than the self-described “Hot” barbeque sauce provided on the table. Strange.

Like the minced pork, the ribs also are covered in tasty sauce, but no tell-tale red smoke ring. And the meat is so tender, one has to suspect the ribs were boiled rather than smoked.

“Fall-off-the-bone” might be a good marketing slogan for Applebees, but barbeque connoisseurs recognize it as a dead give away for faux que.

Real slow-smoked ribs are tender, but offer up just a bit of tooth resistance. Enough so you can see your teeth marks in the meat after that first bite.

Look. I don’t want to be too accusatory.

Saying a BBQ pit master doesn’t actually smoke his meat is like calling someone a racist. It’s just about the worst epitaph you label someone with.

But I’m just sayin.

No smoke flavor. No smoke. No wood. No chimney.

I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

Rating: Wouldn’t Wear Shirt If You Paid Me.