What a beautiful, colorful, artsy, ghostly, quirky place Savannah is. I adore it. What I discovered during my trip there a few weeks ago is that Savannah is not a place one goes to eat — at least I did not find the food there to be anything special. Perhaps I missed something? Obviously there is The Lady and Sons, for all your fried butter needs, and the famous Mrs. Wilkes’ Dining Room, which everyone raves about but which keeps such prohibitive hours that I’ve never been able to enjoy the family-style dining or the delicious southern cooking.
The drinks, on the other hand? What’s that? One of a handful of areas in the U.S. without open container laws? Yes, please. I mean, were it not for being able to drink while walking down the street how else would I have learned that a giant to-go cup of sweet tea vodka is basically the same thing as a power nap?
One of my favorite things about Savannah was seeing the stacks of cups resting next to the front door of any establishment that sells booze:
One of the problems here is that Savannah seems to love its styrofoam. The photo above was a rare exception to the styrofoam-only rule to which most other restaurants and bars seem to cling. The sustainability craze has clearly not arrived in Savannah, though I must admit I did not let that get in the way of me sauntering out the front door with my next beer in hand.
Here is a pretty half-moon sampler; it was not all for me:
I was impressed by the perfectly placed orchid on the rim of the martini glass; turns out it didn’t look near as lovely behind my ear.
It could be argued that the above-chronicled patterns of consumption led to the following two exhibits of creative photography. Who could blame me for the first? It’s Debbie Harry!
The second gallery, however, is a little more suspect. As the night progressed, I caught up with an old friend by visiting a litany of bars, at the last one of which we noticed a silver glint coming from the corner; it was a distinct shimmer emanating from the hallway by the bathroom … like that scene in Pulp Fiction when they open the brief case; a mysterious, mesmerizing glow that called to us.
I went to investigate.
It was like I was on safari, stalking prey. I slumped off the bar stool and skittered over toward the bathroom, rounded the corner, headed toward the light. And there it was before me:
The stalking metaphor was absurd to begin with, but this is where it gets completely worn out because I had no other weapon than my new camera (!) and some wrinkled dollar bills — and what danger, besides? The machine itself posed no greater risk than eating my dollar bills were I not to heed the 5 second insertion warning. So I moved in closer …
And closer still …
I reached out …
Then BAM! Suddenly I was seventeen again swinging by the Dixie Queen on Mt. Moriah to shake a soft pack out of the vending machine.
This picture makes a sound. You can hear it, can’t you?