"I take it all back. The Nationals-Phillies game was great fun at RFK last night. Vile but irresistible hot dogs; a new foodstuff known as dippin' dots; occasional flashes of excitement interrupted by really hot guys with guts spitting into the grass; and, the piece de resistance, Karl Rove down front, chatting on his cell-phone. We had a blast." (Andrew Sullivan, italics added)
Sully, you need to get out more.
Sorry for the delay in the results, as I know most of you probably kept checking back here into the wee hours of the morning to find out, but it’s now safe to declare a winner in last night's race: The ol’ county seat has gone wet.
Seriously, I didn’t even know it was on the ballot until my parents told me the outcome last night. I’m betting the liquor stores at the state lines on Lookout Mountain and The Fillin’ Station, just on the other side of the Tennessee River, are as unhappy as an Indymedia message board today.
And what will become of the Big Rock, where generations of my home county's teen-agers have kicked back with a few cold ones after convincing someone in the neighboring county's governmental seat to purchase booze for them?
I keep trying to picture beer ads and convenience-store coolers filled with six packs in the Sock Capital, but I think I’ll have to see it to believe it.
The times they are a-changin'. I can hear their chants in the streets of the valley from here: Four more beers!
A couple of weeks ago, I told Ben at Occasionally Wright about several low-scale Atlanta dining establishments that I think he and his girlfriend should try once he relocates from Canada. I thought I’d share them here, along with the reasons why I recommend each one. Here are two to get things started.
Harold’s Barbecue
My former boss, now a highly regarded speechwriter for the CEO of one of Atlanta’s corporate giants, has roots in rural Alabama just as I do. But I suspect, if she had a choice, she would hire day laborers to sever hers — or at least transplant them to a flowerbox on the balcony of a luxury condo overlooking Central Park. She was always rolling her eyes at me: my accent, my love for college football, my religious heritage and my ignorance and apathy concerning the latest and greatest bistros and hangouts in Atlanta’s bohemian neighborhoods.
But the one thing she didn’t scoff at was my taste for fatty, greasy, traditional barbecue joints. That’s because she shared it, no matter how many times she may have tried to purge it from her system at Watershed or Eclipse di Luna. And she loved Harold’s Barbecue. If I ever returned from a trip there without an order of Brunwick stew and cracklin’ cornbread for her, I would be shamed for days.
She and I aren’t alone in our love for the little brick building on McDonough Avenue. Writer Rick Bragg and comedian Jeff Foxworthy are among the more notable customers who have praised all things pig at Harold’s. But don’t let that stop you. The nearby federal prison has managed to keep most tourists at bay, preserving the escape into the rural South that this in-town eatery provides.
If you go for lunch on a weekday when the State Legislature is in session, expect to line up for a table with lawmakers and lobbyists in addition to the regular crew of lawyers, law enforcement officers, mechanics, Delta employees, state workers and native Atlantans who satisfy their hankering for hog meat in the entrée, bread, stew and even the salad.
Six Feet Under
There’s no shortage of restaurants in Atlanta proper for which being seen and namedropping to others where you ate over the weekend takes precedent over the dining experience. The food may suck, the service may suck and the atmosphere may suck, but, wow, don’t you look cool standing in line for 90 minutes for an overpriced, overrated breakfast.
That’s what makes Six Feet Under, which specializes in seafood, one helluva nice change of pace. It’s in one of the city’s most heralded locales for “in-town living,” Grant Park. Yet the wait staff is friendly and helpful and isn’t, in my experience, (apologies for quoting John Cougar Mellencamp) putting on their best James Dean. The food is tasty, understated and simple. You won’t even find a photo of Che Guevara or a paint-splattered Easy-Bake Oven masquerading as art mounted on the wall.
Crazy, I know. Somehow this restaurant with the moniker inspired by the neighboring Oakwood Cemetery has managed to attract a diverse crowd of not only hipsters who check their attitude at the door but also some of the same people you’d expect to grab lunch after church with Hank and Peggy Hill.
More to come ...
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