21 Southern Dishes and a Roundhouse, or, Why 24 Hours in Savannah Was Not Enough

While bicycling along the tree-canopied streets of the city that was Abraham Lincoln's Christmas present in 1864*, I stumbled upon a railroad museum that rivals that of Sacramento.

(An example of a beautiful old Savannah home. I am a writer, not a photographer, OK?)

The Savannah Roundhouse Museum is an antebellum railroad repair center that has tons of stock on display, in addition to loads of information about the railroad's role in the South, and the Central Railroad of Georgia. You can climb around and explore the facility to your heart's content, especially when you are the only visitor, as I was, and the only other humans there are two old men planting a garden in the same place that railroad workers used to keep theirs. There are photos of the men showing off prize-winning veggies proudly after their annual competitions.

(A steam locomotive from 1859!)

The site is also home to the Coastal Rail Buffs Society, who keep an amazing model railroad there, and have an informational video about their tireless activism to pressure the local government into developing a decent rail transit system in the city, and plans to build an expansive new multipurpose community center in the old buildings there. This is how rail fans work to enrich our lives, people!

Finally, came the moment that I had been anticipating with childlike excitement for so many hours.

Lunch.

I got in line at Mrs. Wilkes' and immediately befriended ten other hungry gluttons, who adopted me as their leader as I was alone and drooling most impressively. We were seated at a huge round table in the homey dining room plastered with pictures of generations of cooks, glowing reviews, and photos of Barack Obama eating there mere months before. I follow the President's culinary footsteps very loyally apparently. Upon close inspection of one photo, I realized that our very waitress had served him his sweet tea! In rapid succession, millions** of steaming dishes were placed before us, many of which I still would not recognize in a line up, but all of which seemed to be sufficiently salty, sweet, fluffy and/or fatty respectively. The fried chicken was a favorite, as were the sweet potatoes, which one presuming diner kept stealing from me. I did not feel the need or ability to consume anything else for a very long time after that meal, let me tell you.

Afterward, I rolled*** into the Historical Society, where I looked at beautiful old maps and read about an amazing Polish-American patriot called Count Casimir Pulaski. He met Benjamin Franklin in in Paris in 1777 and was so inspired that he came to to Georgia to help fight in the Revolutionary War, and was killed in the Siege of Savannah in 1779.

(One of many reasons to bike in Savannah)

I ended my tour in the city's creepy, haunted graveyard, and promptly hopped onto the evening northbound train, in search of some snow. Little did I know, it would get a bit closer than I would have liked, and sooner than I thought.


NOTES:

*After his famous March to the Sea, during which General Sherman made a habit of burning railroad ties, melting the iron tracks, then somehow picking them up and tying them around tree trunks and telegraph poles, he sent a telegraph to Lincoln on December 22nd saying, "I beg to present you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with 150 heavy guns and plenty of ammunition, and also about 25,000 bales of cotton."

**21 actually, I counted; Contact me personally if you would like a complete list organized in order of which dishes I liked most. I expect to be flooded with emails regarding this issue.

***Literally and figuratively at that point.

Post Script
I failed to find a proper place to incorporate this into all of the impressive things I learned about Savannah in such a short period, but:

1. The first steam ship to ever cross the Atlantic Ocean was the S.S. Savannah in 1819 and,

2. Juliette Gordon Lowe founded the Girl Scouts here in 1912.

Just thought you should know.

Oglethorpe's Dream: Savannah

There is a legend that the name "Savannah" originates from the cries of a party of people on a boat trip on the river when a young girl fell overboard.

"Save Hannah! Save Hannah!"

During my one night and one day in the city, I could find no one to corroborate this story, and believe me, I looked. The general consensus is that it is actually named for its resemblance to the African Savannah, which is much less interesting to me.

Nevertheless, the city itself is fascinating, and so full of controversial American history that I scarcely know where the begin. The historic city center is a rectangle on the southern side of the Savannah River, and was thought up, planned, and founded by a very depressed British colonist called James Edward Oglethorpe in 1733. I learned all about him in the Savannah Visitor's Center* in a video narrated by a British Oglethorpe impersonator. He founded the 13th colony of Georgia in an attempt to create a Utopian society full of hardworking honest Protestant farmers, differentiated from the other more capitalistic and cutthroat colonies already in existence by its egalitarian nature and perfect economy. When the settlers arrived, a Yamacraw chief called Tomochichi showed them where to build the city. Oglethorpe was a bit of a micromanager and planned the city with 22 perfectly spaced tree-filled plazas, and made all of his followers plant mulberry trees to cultivate silk worms. All this planning proved to be for naught though, and a plague killed most of the settlers. The Protestant colonists allowed a group of Jewish doctors to settle in the city in order to get medical treatment for the rampant disease, but alas, the trees could not be saved.



Anyway, Savannah is flat, beautiful, and mostly parks filled with those famous Spanish moss draped oak trees, making it a perfect bicycle city, and luckily, I came into possession of one of those very machines. After an enormous mug of coffee and a pile of day old pastries that were practically free at The Sentient Bean**, I took off to admire artwork by Savannah College of Art and Design students, and chat with the helpful and friendly grandmothers that run E. Shaver, Booksellers. I bought a copy of Mark Twain's last travel book, Following the Equator, there, and they gave me recommendations for lunch.

Here, I should explain a phenomenon in Savannah: the family style, all-you-can-eat, lunch buffet. The most famous, where I had originally planned to dine***, is The Lady and Sons, the temple to southern cooking celebrity chef/goddess of buttery cuisine Paula Deen. However, all of the locals with whom I broached the topic pointed me in the direction of a different establishment, Mrs. Wilkes' Dining Room and Boarding House. This was not, according to all of the midday gluttons of Savannah, an overrated tourist trap that existed solely in order to propagate the Paula Deen cooking cult, but a long standing and locally favored, quality business. When I passed by the former eatery to take a look for myself, and was up to my elbows in Paula Deen cookbooks, and paraphernalia, and the cookbooks of chefs she endorses, and her husbands book about living with Her Butteriness, I knew I would not be able to keep down my lunch were I to eat there. It would have to be Mrs. Wilkes'.

In order to build a sufficient appetite for the impending southern food extravaganza, I explored the riverfront shops and instigated a praline war between the two rival candy stores of Savannah. Originally there was one store, River Street Sweets, owned by a married couple. They had a nasty divorce and the husband disappeared for ten years before returning to Savannah to open his own competing shop, Savannah's Candy Kitchen. One block away, no less. It has been a bitter rivalry since then. I interviewed employees and sampled the product at both locations in the name of science, and I can assure you, there is a very noticeable difference between the service and quality of the shops, but you will have to determine which is better in each category for yourselves. I will say, however, that River Street Sweets gave much larger samples.

I was not expecting to come across any obscure pieces of 19th century railroading history that day, but after so many months of doing just that, I should have known better...


NOTES:

*Housed, fittingly, in what used to be part of an extensive railroad roundhouse and garage, complete with a museum and a café in an old rail car. It was easily the most interesting visitor's center I have ever explored. They had a mind blowing exhibit on agriculture and nutrition through which I learned that Georgia is third in the nation for peach production, during American revolution, tea was unpatriotic so coffee and chocolate drinks were favored instead, BBQ originated with the Taino Indians, soy meat was first invented in 1954, and the ice cream sundae was invented in 1890s to get religious Victorian-era people to go hang out in soda fountain shops. There was also a Jazz Hall of Fame sponsored by the Coastal Jazz Association.

**Haha! Get it?

***Read: Gorge myself.

North to Savannah on the Silver Service

I just met a very intriguing specimen of the human race, let me tell you.

It seems that the positive attributes of the Lounge Car have increased its fame past its capacity, because when I made my way there it was already so full that there was no empty table available for me to set up my avocado* sandwich buffet lunch. I saw an old man working on a laptop at one table and asked to join him. I think I had been seated for less than ten seconds before he launched into the most intricate monologue I have ever seen performed while in motion.

He started with relatively common conspiracy theories examining connections between the Bush family and the house of Saud, Al Jazeera and Osama bin Laden, and how young people today have no comprehension of why we are so lucky to be in a free society, but then delved into a whole new world of narrative. He explained how with the help of two friends he was able to use water to fuel a combustion engine, thereby proving the efficacy of the world's perfect fuel, and various other undertakings and accomplishments of his life, but then the story took a darker turn, as he explained that his wife, a Colombian citizen, has been refused re-entry to the U.S. for the past two years.

He has attempted with various means to procure for her the proper papers and legal status, often using a negotiation tactic called the "Southern boy's promise." This is not a threat, because a threat may or may not be followed through. This is a solemn vow that will be carried out no matter the circumstance, which usually is quite dire. In this vein, he is currently en route to Washington to announce that his wife is being held hostage by American bureaucrats in Colombia in hopes that this will convince the consulate to grant her citizenship. As if this endeavor was not enough to keep him busy, he is also selling tankless water heaters around the country in an attempt to reduce America's reliance on oil and increase our energy efficiency. A very busy man indeed.

About me, he said various things as well. I will reach far-flung places and it would be good for me to find a partner who will want to share my adventures with me, and who hopefully has money to give me the latitude to fulfill my potential. Other people living in a place that he called "Mundanesville" will live vicariously through me and my observations, which will make me very successful. I liked that very much.

Finally, after hours of discussing these issues and giving each other ideas for success in our relative pursuits, I excused myself to go back to my seat** and write down everything I possibly could, as though it were a dream that would be lost forever if I did not record it soon enough.

The ten hour ride to Savannah took us across plains, along coastlines, and through surprisingly dense jungle at one point. Later in the ride, my seat mate tried to convert me to her sect of Christianity, which follows the teachings of a modern prophet called Brother Banham. It was a hard sell, but I am really starting to come around and see the light, I think. We arrived at the station*** in Savannah right on time, and I was ready for my 24-hour whirlwind tour of the southern city deemed too beautiful to destroy during the Civil War.


NOTES:

*The avocado having been generously donated to me by a couch surfing host.
**My seat mate being an endearing Jamaican grandmother who patiently listened while I regaled her with my detailed recounting of all of my own grandmother's traditional holiday recipes. It is apparently already that time of year when every woman over the age of 60 becomes my dear Grandma Claire and I have to remind myself not to burst into tears and hug them.
***The train has serviced Savannah since the 1830s, however the historic, centrally located original passenger terminal was demolished in 1963 to make room for a highway onramp of all things, and a depressing shack was built on the outskirts of town, completely unreachable by public transit, making a taxi one's only connection to the actual city. America, why do you mutilate yourself this way?

In the Home of the Great Man Himself

My last evening with my French traveling companion was spent in Fort Lauderdale at a friendly little hotel called the Tropi Rock, but the only things that I can really say about the city are that:

1. It is not Miami,
2. It has a bar called the Elbo Room where gay men challenge you to dance-off competitions, and
3. It has a railway station.

So it passes in my book.

I planned to get the first train to Palm Beach to pay homage to Mr. Flagler at his mansion, (now a museum dedicated to his life and awesomeness) then take the next train a few hours later to arrive in Savannah that night. However, after my first experience with a truly evil Amtrak employee,* I got a bit behind schedule and decided to spend the whole day in that city and catch the train the following day.

About Palm Beach, all I can say is that it amazes me how two cities could be built up around the same purpose, by the same man, mere miles from each other, yet Miami could become such a disaster and Palm Beach could become quite lovely and enjoyable. Full of yachts and overpriced stores where each item costs more than It is appropriate to discuss with my sensitive readers, and not exactly culturally stimulating, but not actively offensive.

About the Henry Flagler Museum at Whitehall, I can say that I was more interested and spent more time there than at any other museum, ever.**

As we know, Henry Flagler was a very rich man. If you are wondering just how rich, I will give you an idea; the dividends on his Standard Oil Trust stock paid him on average about $150,000 per month during the end of the 1890s, a time when it was common to live off of a monthly salary of $100 or less. So yes, he had some disposable income with which to build the "marble palace" that his third wife, Mary Lily Kenan, had always wanted.

With admission you are offered a tour of the huge marble castle, furnished with most of the original pieces and gorgeously restored. The building of the place was meticulously documented and Flagler was involved in every aspect. For instance, Thomas Edison himself was actually the original electrical engineer for the project, but Flagler did not like his lightbulb shape and Edison refused to change it, so he was dismissed. Our guide was without a doubt the most dramatic, sassy, and passionately well informed museum docent I have ever encountered, and after the tour I was left a bit misty-eyed. They also have a great exhibit about the Florida East Coast Railroad, the whole family history, beautiful china sets, and, weirdly, traditional lace making. But, that is not even the best part.

In a beautiful lakefront pavilion next to the main building one can climb aboard Mr. Flagler's private railway car, Number 91*** and partake in a "Gilded Age Lunch" in their perfect cafe, served in the rich style of the era. Even the gift shop was nice, and I hate gift shops.

The next day would bring me back up the coast again, toward a famedw city just north of the Florida border: Savannah, Georgia.

NOTES:

*You know who you are, and I hate you.
**And I do not know anyone who likes museums more than I do, so that is saying something. That is not really something to brag about though, is it?
***Which was apparently the only one with its own private bathroom at the time, and he would often invite Mr. Morgan and Mr. Rockefeller to ride with him to show off.

91- Flagler's prized private car

The Ghosts on the Last Train to Paradise*

On January 22, 1912, the American pioneer spirit succeeded again with the arrival of the first train in Key West, after having crossed 130 miles of ocean from mainland Florida.

On December 11, 2010, that same spirit encouraged me to copilot a car along the same path with a French man convinced that one should never drive over the posted speed minimum, ensuring that we and the mile-long trail of cars behind us thoroughly savored the astounding views. It was a gorgeous, perfectly sunny day, and driving on a road surrounded on either side by nothing but ocean and sky felt like nothing else, but I could not help but feel a bit of longing for the train that once traversed the same distance.

Key West is the southernmost point of the United States, and lies a mere 94 miles miles from that evil Caribbean autocracy, Cuba. Its name is actually derived from the Anglicization of the phrase "cayo hueso," which refers to the bones the Spanish found there when they first landed there in 1521. Apparently, it was actually the most populous city in Florida until the mid 19th century, and it has over the centuries developed a reputation for attracting interesting, expressive characters such as Ernest Hemingway, Tennessee Williams, Henry Flagler, and myself. After experiencing it, I can promise you, this reputation is not unfounded.

On the island my chauffeur and I reunited with a Minnesotan cyclist we had met in the Everglades, who had ridden all the way from California and made her ultimate destination there. Together we stayed with a super hospitable couple who over the course of one evening exposed to us a world of cats trained to walk tight ropes, nudist bars**, holiday boat parades, various imaginatively assembled cocktails of all shapes and sizes, 90s cover bands called The Durtbags, and one man acoustic concerts covering everything from Phil Collins to the soundtrack of The Little Mermaid. I know where I am retiring.

The next day was passed admiring the beautiful homes ranging from simple, brightly colored beach cottages to ornate Victorian mansions, peering into the home of Ernest Hemingway, eating the biggest cookie that any of us had ever seen, and generally relishing the blissful environment in which we miraculously had found ourselves. We also visited the monument marking the Southernmost Point of the country, which is flanked by the equally, if not more famous, Southernmost Menorah. Yes, the place is touristy, but it has its own unique culture, history, and local population*** which keep it from losing its soul and becoming, say, Miami.

Subsequently we returned to the reality of the continental United States, but not before breakfasting on slices of the most expensive "All Authentic Key Lime Pie" in the entire world**** to properly prepare for the journey.


NOTES:

*This is a reference to the book I am currently reading, Les Standiford's dramatized chronicle of the rise and fall of the Key West Railroad Extension, Last Train to Paradise.
**Cleverly called The Garden of Eden, and no, we did not actually go inside, though some in our party who shall remain nameless desperately wanted to.
***Who call themselves "conchs" and made their own republic once in ----- for -----.
****I do not care if it is made with all authentic golden snitches, no slice of pie, no matter how big, should ever cost eight dollars. Blue Heaven how I resent you!

The French are Fabulous Kayakers