Several months ago, after over a year of staring at an empty house, somebody finally moved in across the street. Our new neighbors are a fun couple, Amber and Eve (I did not make that up), who hail from parts outside of Florida. Now, considering that I’ve only met three people who were verifiably born in the Sunshine State, that’s really no surprise. However, when people (and by people, I mean Eve), who have lived their entire lives in Chicago want to take me out for “good pizza and beer,” I start to panic.
Florida may be known for many things—its weather, its beaches, its dizzying array of outlet malls—but “pizza capital of the country” it is not. Heck, we’re not even the pizza capital of the South (a distinction that, I would wager, belongs to Atlanta). But you know what? I can’t figure it out. I mean, all of these people—pizza-making people—come from places like New York, Boston, Chicago. These are the pizza capitals of the country; places that practically run on pizza. So why is it that when my neighbor wants to know where we can get some good pizza and beer, I’m clueless?
All right, I know. I’m being a bit hard on our metro area. The fact is, there are some pretty great pizza joints around here. When we get delivery, Maria and I call Joey Brooklyn’s downtown and have reveled many times in their yummy, doughy crust and fresh toppings. Central Pizza and Subs, on the “Pasadena side” of Central, puts together a decent pie, too. But these places (Joey Brooklyn’s few tables notwithstanding) are truly delivery-only. There’s no ambiance; there’s no beer.
So, the other night I wanted to take my new neighbor somewhere that could hold its head up against Chicago (okay, well maybe just Atlanta). You see, as a lifetime resident of the Windy City, Eve is under the impression that Chicago does everything better. She’s still in that new-to-Florida stage where northern transplants complain about our lack of seasons, our inconvenient store hours, our “I-don’t-care-if-we-ever-get-there” driving habits. That’s cool. I’ve seen enough of them come in my lifetime to know that this time next year, she’ll be warming her feet by the fireplace in two sweaters, swearing that “these tourists” are just crazy to go to the beach.
But back to the pizza. Our hunt began with the block and a half walk to the Grand Central District’s Roman Gardens Ristorante & Pizzeria. Nice little place; great ambiance. They must have some pretty good food, too, because the dining room was packed. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything about their pizza. On a Saturday night, they had only one server who frantically informed us that we were welcome to sit down, but she seemed to have no idea when we would eat. Not good enough for our hungry crew.
So, we set out in the direction of downtown, vacillating between Fortunato’s in the Janus Landing block, or Dal’Italia on 4th Street and 22nd North. Now, Maria and I have ordered out from Dal’Italia on many occasions, and I’ve eaten at the place at least a couple of times. I can tell you that they do have decent pizzeria ambiance, and the service has always been efficient. Dal’Italia also stocks good beer (imported anything, if you’re wondering what my standards are), many of which are on tap, but honestly, I don’t love the pizza. A lot of folks really dig it, but I find that their toppings are just too, well, big. They don’t dice the onions or peppers, and the result is a slippery, stringy piece of topping that kind of sticks in my throat. Oh, and they use canned mushrooms, which I am especially not fond of.
That in mind, I pushed for Fortunato’s on Central. I have had so many butter-dripping garlic rolls and hearty slices at this deli-style eatery, I was sure we’d find something to appease the hungry neighbors. The inside is all fluorescent lights and cafeteria-line service, but they have breezy table seating on the sidewalk, totally available on an early Saturday evening. Mind you, I have only ever been to Fortunato’s during the lunch hours, so I’ve never really bothered with what kind of beer they offer. A quick check of their icy tub revealed an unfortunate variety of domestics—mostly light, tasteless brews. Strike two.
Appetites mounting, we stood out on the street while I silently cursed the disaster that is St. Petersburg’s pizza-and-beer situation. Of course, if we’d been in Chicago, we’d already be patting our bellies and sipping our Peroni’s at some quaint, 50 year old pizzeria famous for its delectable deep dish. How could I salvage this night? I cast about the street for some sign of redemption, and then I saw it.
Now, CitySearch.com bills this place as a four-star restaurant, which I’m certain is a mistake, but Jojo’s in Citta was voted “Best of the Bay 2007” (though for what, exactly, I don’t know). Here’s what I do know about the place: great service, great outdoor seating, and an exemplary beer selection (no less than three honest-to-God Italian brews!). I’d been to Jojo’s a million years ago, and was not impressed, but clearly the place is under new management. (At my request, one of the waiters even took pains to find out when the Bucs’ game started on Sunday.) They don’t do “full-sized” pizzas, but the personal sizes we ordered—one “custom” with pepperoni, tomato and basil, and one “Special” with just about everything you can throw on a pizza—were more than enough, and incredibly tasty. Also, if you go, do not miss their bruschetta: little toasted breads with garlic heaven on top.
So, in the end I (or rather, Jojo’s) somewhat redeemed St. Petersburg. It’s not every day that you can take a “Chicago girl through-and-through” out for some decent pie in Florida. But, let this be a call to all of you northern transplants: Bring us your pizzerias! I’ve got to impress the neighbors.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 12/13/2007
December 11, 2007
How the Grinch Sold Christmas
My mother loved to shop. As a child, I was toted to every department store, discount store, outlet store and garage sale within 30 miles of our house. Needless to say, Tyrone Square Mall was our second home. Frankly, some of my earliest memories involve me hiding inside racks of clothing, trying to entertain myself with safety pins while my mother spent countless hours examining every possible outfit and shoe combination.
Now, I don’t begrudge the woman. We hardly ever had any money in those days, so my mom’s excursions were usually just fodder for her wish list. But I don’t mind telling you that as a kid—as a teenager, and even as an adult—I have despised shopping. For me, getting new clothes is right up there with a visit to the gynecologist. About the closest I come to shopping is perusing the wine list at a restaurant or browsing the stacks at my local bookstore. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how my mother and I were ever related.
All of this is to say that I, like so many other people who loathe shopping, am in a quandary this time of year. Put aside my personal opinions about how commerce has stolen anything that was ever sacred about the holidays; put aside how it infuriates me that families with no religious inclination whatsoever will put themselves into a yearlong debt just to keep up with their neighbors.
The truth is, I have long wanted to tell my family that I have donated all of the money I would spend on their presents to some deserving charity. But really, how do you tell a little kid that their gift is the knowledge that some homeless person will sleep in a warm bed tonight?
I know, I know. In that way I have succumbed to all of the marketing and commercial come-ons that saturate our holidays. But, two days after Halloween I visited a Walgreens and found myself face-to-face with a giant, inflatable Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (itself an entirely commercial character, created to entice Christmas shoppers in the mid-twentieth century). Alas, with so much marketing stacked against us and our wallets, how can we possibly resist?
Undoubtedly the commodification of Christmas (or the “Holidays” if you want to get a piece of everyone’s money) has become an indispensable part of our economy. There are plenty of businesses that would fade into the sunset without their November-December sales figures. And, while I miss the Charlie-Brown-Christmases of my youth, I cannot deny that once the holidays are upon us, the manifest from society is “Go forth and spend.”
So, gentle Gabber reader, that is why this year I am extolling the virtues of the small business.
I mean, really. Why should Macy’s and Penny’s and Best Buy get most of your “good will”? In my opinion, giving all of your hard-earned money away to these holiday profiteers is just one step away from selling your soul. For yourself and for your giftees, I say: You can do better.
Remember the Art District? Yeah, that’s not just a quaint promenade for you to stroll twice a month. These are (tiny, community supported) businesses with way cool items for sale—items that would make a very fine (and interesting) contribution to the extravaganza under your tree. Anyone can walk into Circuit City and get a flat-screen TV or some yuppie HD radio, but c’mon. If you can afford that stuff, chances are your family can as well! Let them get the impersonal, big-ticket items.
Local businesses are what make our communities such fine places to live. They’re what we’re built on. Think about it: Why not make your loved-one happy AND contribute to the local economy? As Martha Stewart—the First Lady of creative gifts—would say: It’s a good thing.
I am not here to endorse any one business over another, or any one district over another. (Though, for that matter, the Grand Central District in St. Pete is the perfect place for you to pick up some enchanted item for that finicky gift-receiver.) All I’m saying is that if you, like me, are crippled by the expectations of the gift-giving season—if the thought of setting foot in a mall makes you break out in hives—there are alternatives.
Personally, I’m still pulling for the real spirit of Christmas. And I’m hoping that this year, my family will not be too outraged by a wee fewer presents under the tree. What I mean to say is that you see, little Susie…your gift this year will be the satisfaction of knowing that Aunt Shelly is spending Christmas under a palm tree in Puerto Rico.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 11/27/2007
Now, I don’t begrudge the woman. We hardly ever had any money in those days, so my mom’s excursions were usually just fodder for her wish list. But I don’t mind telling you that as a kid—as a teenager, and even as an adult—I have despised shopping. For me, getting new clothes is right up there with a visit to the gynecologist. About the closest I come to shopping is perusing the wine list at a restaurant or browsing the stacks at my local bookstore. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how my mother and I were ever related.
All of this is to say that I, like so many other people who loathe shopping, am in a quandary this time of year. Put aside my personal opinions about how commerce has stolen anything that was ever sacred about the holidays; put aside how it infuriates me that families with no religious inclination whatsoever will put themselves into a yearlong debt just to keep up with their neighbors.
The truth is, I have long wanted to tell my family that I have donated all of the money I would spend on their presents to some deserving charity. But really, how do you tell a little kid that their gift is the knowledge that some homeless person will sleep in a warm bed tonight?
I know, I know. In that way I have succumbed to all of the marketing and commercial come-ons that saturate our holidays. But, two days after Halloween I visited a Walgreens and found myself face-to-face with a giant, inflatable Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (itself an entirely commercial character, created to entice Christmas shoppers in the mid-twentieth century). Alas, with so much marketing stacked against us and our wallets, how can we possibly resist?
Undoubtedly the commodification of Christmas (or the “Holidays” if you want to get a piece of everyone’s money) has become an indispensable part of our economy. There are plenty of businesses that would fade into the sunset without their November-December sales figures. And, while I miss the Charlie-Brown-Christmases of my youth, I cannot deny that once the holidays are upon us, the manifest from society is “Go forth and spend.”
So, gentle Gabber reader, that is why this year I am extolling the virtues of the small business.
I mean, really. Why should Macy’s and Penny’s and Best Buy get most of your “good will”? In my opinion, giving all of your hard-earned money away to these holiday profiteers is just one step away from selling your soul. For yourself and for your giftees, I say: You can do better.
Remember the Art District? Yeah, that’s not just a quaint promenade for you to stroll twice a month. These are (tiny, community supported) businesses with way cool items for sale—items that would make a very fine (and interesting) contribution to the extravaganza under your tree. Anyone can walk into Circuit City and get a flat-screen TV or some yuppie HD radio, but c’mon. If you can afford that stuff, chances are your family can as well! Let them get the impersonal, big-ticket items.
Local businesses are what make our communities such fine places to live. They’re what we’re built on. Think about it: Why not make your loved-one happy AND contribute to the local economy? As Martha Stewart—the First Lady of creative gifts—would say: It’s a good thing.
I am not here to endorse any one business over another, or any one district over another. (Though, for that matter, the Grand Central District in St. Pete is the perfect place for you to pick up some enchanted item for that finicky gift-receiver.) All I’m saying is that if you, like me, are crippled by the expectations of the gift-giving season—if the thought of setting foot in a mall makes you break out in hives—there are alternatives.
Personally, I’m still pulling for the real spirit of Christmas. And I’m hoping that this year, my family will not be too outraged by a wee fewer presents under the tree. What I mean to say is that you see, little Susie…your gift this year will be the satisfaction of knowing that Aunt Shelly is spending Christmas under a palm tree in Puerto Rico.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 11/27/2007
The Performance is the Thing
When I was seven years old, I made my theatrical debut as Thomas Jefferson in Bear Creek Elementary School’s version of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. It was heavy stuff; I wore a cotton ball wig and delivered my one line with all of the gravity fitting a venerable founding father: “We hold these truths to be self-evident…”
Of course, I had no idea what I was saying. But, my parents – and maybe even a few other parents – thought I was brilliant. I have the pictures to prove it.
Clearly, the public cannot get enough of me, as I have been called, once again, to try my hand at the craft. Required in not one, but two of my current courses, is a public performance, upon which my grades tentatively rest. Of course, by “public,” I mean a handful of classmates, and by “performance,” I mean squeaking out a few memorized lines, but the bile rises in my throat even as I think about it.
I do not consider myself a shy person but, like all “normal” people, I have a healthy fear of public speaking. On a scale of one to ten (one being an agoraphobe, ten being a circus clown), I am probably somewhere around a four. I have no problem speaking my mind, but performance – be it in a job interview or the recitation of poetry – makes my face feel funny and sweat run down my back.
So, good little nerd that I am, I have been doing my homework. Perhaps, if I can prepare myself enough, if I can really “get into” my roles, then the fear will go away. I have been reading about the fine “art” that is acting; I have been digging into my characters’ motivations. And, uncultured though I may be, I have even gone to the theater.
Last Saturday, I attended the Studio@620’s production of Hamlet: The Unforgettable Fire. Admittedly, my reason for attending had less to do with “preparation,” and more to do with the fact that there were extra credit points involved, but never has homework been less of a chore.
The Studio@620 is a “creative home for the visual and performing arts” with an eye for integrating the various disciplines of the artistic community. The Studio is a fantastic addition to the blossoming culture of downtown: They put on (largely) contemporary plays, host poetry readings, screen films and provide a space for public forums and events, among other things. Oh, and at many events, they serve a considerable selection of adult beverages and gnoshing items for a small donation…but I digress.
Hamlet: The Unforgettable Fire was directed by Bob Devin Jones, one of The Studio’s founders and something of a giant in the arts/theater community. However, set to the music of U2, with a modern set and costuming, this was not your typical Hamlet. Now, with my limited study of Shakespeare, and my nonexistent knowledge of theater, I’m not going to embarrass myself by trying to critique the play. I usually, and quite stupidly, figure that a play is good if the price of the ticket forces me to break out a credit card. What really interested me, however, was how these performers do what they do.
If you think Shakespeare is tough to read, try “being” Hamlet for a group of 50 or more strangers. Trying to remember those endless lines must be daunting enough, but, unlike my third grade performance, these actors have got to actually know what they mean. My Modern Drama professor, Dr. Jon Conlon (Polonius in 620’s production), says that some Shakespearean performers do not have a clue what they’re saying. And, while this is sad, it was clearly not the case Saturday night. These actors were so compelling that even I sometimes knew what was going on.
Once, when I asked my grandmother why she loved tennis so much, she explained that she didn’t love it until she tried to play it. A few weeks of lessons soon taught my grandmother what the professionals already know: Tennis is hard
And so, actors, as I try to calm my pre-performance jitters in the coming weeks, I take my hat off to you. Acting is hard. Sucking up the stage fright, remembering your lines and then…making us believe? It’s beyond me. It might just be the toughest job in the world.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 11/15/2007
Of course, I had no idea what I was saying. But, my parents – and maybe even a few other parents – thought I was brilliant. I have the pictures to prove it.
Clearly, the public cannot get enough of me, as I have been called, once again, to try my hand at the craft. Required in not one, but two of my current courses, is a public performance, upon which my grades tentatively rest. Of course, by “public,” I mean a handful of classmates, and by “performance,” I mean squeaking out a few memorized lines, but the bile rises in my throat even as I think about it.
I do not consider myself a shy person but, like all “normal” people, I have a healthy fear of public speaking. On a scale of one to ten (one being an agoraphobe, ten being a circus clown), I am probably somewhere around a four. I have no problem speaking my mind, but performance – be it in a job interview or the recitation of poetry – makes my face feel funny and sweat run down my back.
So, good little nerd that I am, I have been doing my homework. Perhaps, if I can prepare myself enough, if I can really “get into” my roles, then the fear will go away. I have been reading about the fine “art” that is acting; I have been digging into my characters’ motivations. And, uncultured though I may be, I have even gone to the theater.
Last Saturday, I attended the Studio@620’s production of Hamlet: The Unforgettable Fire. Admittedly, my reason for attending had less to do with “preparation,” and more to do with the fact that there were extra credit points involved, but never has homework been less of a chore.
The Studio@620 is a “creative home for the visual and performing arts” with an eye for integrating the various disciplines of the artistic community. The Studio is a fantastic addition to the blossoming culture of downtown: They put on (largely) contemporary plays, host poetry readings, screen films and provide a space for public forums and events, among other things. Oh, and at many events, they serve a considerable selection of adult beverages and gnoshing items for a small donation…but I digress.
Hamlet: The Unforgettable Fire was directed by Bob Devin Jones, one of The Studio’s founders and something of a giant in the arts/theater community. However, set to the music of U2, with a modern set and costuming, this was not your typical Hamlet. Now, with my limited study of Shakespeare, and my nonexistent knowledge of theater, I’m not going to embarrass myself by trying to critique the play. I usually, and quite stupidly, figure that a play is good if the price of the ticket forces me to break out a credit card. What really interested me, however, was how these performers do what they do.
If you think Shakespeare is tough to read, try “being” Hamlet for a group of 50 or more strangers. Trying to remember those endless lines must be daunting enough, but, unlike my third grade performance, these actors have got to actually know what they mean. My Modern Drama professor, Dr. Jon Conlon (Polonius in 620’s production), says that some Shakespearean performers do not have a clue what they’re saying. And, while this is sad, it was clearly not the case Saturday night. These actors were so compelling that even I sometimes knew what was going on.
Once, when I asked my grandmother why she loved tennis so much, she explained that she didn’t love it until she tried to play it. A few weeks of lessons soon taught my grandmother what the professionals already know: Tennis is hard
And so, actors, as I try to calm my pre-performance jitters in the coming weeks, I take my hat off to you. Acting is hard. Sucking up the stage fright, remembering your lines and then…making us believe? It’s beyond me. It might just be the toughest job in the world.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 11/15/2007
A Place to Soothe the Snobby Entourage
I am blessed to have a sort of extended family of friends around me. I don’t really have acquaintances.
Okay, that’s probably not true. I guess everybody has them – the neighbor next door, the girl you sit next to in class, the guy you keep bumping into at the bar – but on the whole, my social world is filled with people who would probably notice if I fell off the face of the earth.
My point, other than to say, “Hey, I’m so popular!” is that I know a fair group of people, from all different walks of life. And, I feel that I can safely tell you: These people are a bunch of weirdos. Aside from a rather dry sense of humor, and a gift for sarcasm, we have very little in common with each other. Although, in one way, I’m the oddball. You see, my friends – each and every one of them – all do share one more particular quality: An intense and absurdly critical opinion of food.
I myself am not a “foodie.” I do not care if my steak is overdone or if there are a few extra bites in my amuse buche. Heck, I didn’t even know what an “amuse buche” was until Maria made me watch Top Chef last season. When it comes to food, I really have only a few requirements: that it be edible and entirely free of anything that will make me spend the next few days on the toilet. Okay, well that, and that my pasta be al dente (jargon, once again, courtesy of Top Chef). I hate mushy pasta.
Anyway, as you can imagine, this creates quite a gulf between my friends and I when it comes time to pick a restaurant. You see, I don’t really give two lobster tails about where we go to eat, so long as it’s casual. I want a place where the “proper attire” is flip flops and cut-off shorts. I want a place where the music isn’t too loud and the beers are from a country I can’t find on a map. I want a place that provides outdoor seating and a decent, happy helping of a little thing I like to call “ambience.”
Yeah, I know it’s a French word, but don’t let that scare you. Ambiance is what it means when you walk into a place, with your three or sixteen friends in tow, and say “Hey! I can definitely see us sitting here into the next millennium and leaving with a bar tab big enough to fund a presidential campaign!”
This, my friends, is about the only thing I look for in a restaurant. I am an ambiance snob. And, there are very few places in the Bay area (though, admittedly, I have not been to every place in the Bay area) that conform to my high standards. Moon Under Water comes to mind. I am a huge fan of New World Brewery in Tampa (though, that’s really just a bar). Perhaps Ceviche – over the bridge and here in the ‘Burg. – and The Garden downtown (though, I will admit, even to a non-foodie, their cuisine has slipped a few notches below edible).
But there’s one more place that ranks high on my list, and even incorporates my love of urban history: The Chattaway in Bartlett Park (corner of 4th Street South and 22nd Avenue). Oh, I know, I know. Our paper has printed not-so-nice articles about Bartlett Park. Hey, I’ll admit, the neighborhood can be a little…unnerving. But, I’ve been to The Chattaway (sometimes called Chattaway’s or just Chattaway), at least half-a-dozen times, and I can guarantee you that my car has never been broken into.
Still not making you head for the door? Okay, fine. But just remember: Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And there is a lot to gain at this historic restaurant.
Tacked together over fifty years ago, with what I can only assume was cinder block and plywood, The Chattaway passes my ambiance test with flying colors. On the huge outdoor patio, shaded by Jacaranda, Rubber Tree and Ficus (and the only place to sit, in my opinion, though I am told they have indoor dining with a “proper” tea room), you will find a rag-tag assortment of accommodations for your rear end, including diner-style booths and a fiber optic picnic table detailing the solar system on it’s eating surface. Really, if that’s not enough to convince you, I don’t know what will.
But, there’s more. Check out the “babbling brook,” complete with live fish, garden statuary (pink flamingos included!), or the myriad bird houses and lush, Florida style landscaping. My personal favorite is the sign over the restrooms: Beware of pickpockets and loose women.
As one friend recently quipped, “It’s like Key West. Only, Key West isn’t this low-class anymore.” Who could ask for a finer compliment?
Bring your dog. Bring your appetite. Oh, and bring cash. I think the Chattaway is angling for a “Last Cash-Only Establishment in the Known Universe” designation with the folks over at Guinness.
But, speaking of appetite, the Chattaway is really no slouch in the food department. Given what I have just revealed about myself, I would understand if you don’t believe me, but know this: The Chattaway is consistently voted “Best Burger in the Bay Area” by the various publications which judge such things.
And if that’s not enough for you, be reassured by the fact that almost all of my friends will agree to meet me there.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL, 10/25/2007
Okay, that’s probably not true. I guess everybody has them – the neighbor next door, the girl you sit next to in class, the guy you keep bumping into at the bar – but on the whole, my social world is filled with people who would probably notice if I fell off the face of the earth.
My point, other than to say, “Hey, I’m so popular!” is that I know a fair group of people, from all different walks of life. And, I feel that I can safely tell you: These people are a bunch of weirdos. Aside from a rather dry sense of humor, and a gift for sarcasm, we have very little in common with each other. Although, in one way, I’m the oddball. You see, my friends – each and every one of them – all do share one more particular quality: An intense and absurdly critical opinion of food.
I myself am not a “foodie.” I do not care if my steak is overdone or if there are a few extra bites in my amuse buche. Heck, I didn’t even know what an “amuse buche” was until Maria made me watch Top Chef last season. When it comes to food, I really have only a few requirements: that it be edible and entirely free of anything that will make me spend the next few days on the toilet. Okay, well that, and that my pasta be al dente (jargon, once again, courtesy of Top Chef). I hate mushy pasta.
Anyway, as you can imagine, this creates quite a gulf between my friends and I when it comes time to pick a restaurant. You see, I don’t really give two lobster tails about where we go to eat, so long as it’s casual. I want a place where the “proper attire” is flip flops and cut-off shorts. I want a place where the music isn’t too loud and the beers are from a country I can’t find on a map. I want a place that provides outdoor seating and a decent, happy helping of a little thing I like to call “ambience.”
Yeah, I know it’s a French word, but don’t let that scare you. Ambiance is what it means when you walk into a place, with your three or sixteen friends in tow, and say “Hey! I can definitely see us sitting here into the next millennium and leaving with a bar tab big enough to fund a presidential campaign!”
This, my friends, is about the only thing I look for in a restaurant. I am an ambiance snob. And, there are very few places in the Bay area (though, admittedly, I have not been to every place in the Bay area) that conform to my high standards. Moon Under Water comes to mind. I am a huge fan of New World Brewery in Tampa (though, that’s really just a bar). Perhaps Ceviche – over the bridge and here in the ‘Burg. – and The Garden downtown (though, I will admit, even to a non-foodie, their cuisine has slipped a few notches below edible).
But there’s one more place that ranks high on my list, and even incorporates my love of urban history: The Chattaway in Bartlett Park (corner of 4th Street South and 22nd Avenue). Oh, I know, I know. Our paper has printed not-so-nice articles about Bartlett Park. Hey, I’ll admit, the neighborhood can be a little…unnerving. But, I’ve been to The Chattaway (sometimes called Chattaway’s or just Chattaway), at least half-a-dozen times, and I can guarantee you that my car has never been broken into.
Still not making you head for the door? Okay, fine. But just remember: Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And there is a lot to gain at this historic restaurant.
Tacked together over fifty years ago, with what I can only assume was cinder block and plywood, The Chattaway passes my ambiance test with flying colors. On the huge outdoor patio, shaded by Jacaranda, Rubber Tree and Ficus (and the only place to sit, in my opinion, though I am told they have indoor dining with a “proper” tea room), you will find a rag-tag assortment of accommodations for your rear end, including diner-style booths and a fiber optic picnic table detailing the solar system on it’s eating surface. Really, if that’s not enough to convince you, I don’t know what will.
But, there’s more. Check out the “babbling brook,” complete with live fish, garden statuary (pink flamingos included!), or the myriad bird houses and lush, Florida style landscaping. My personal favorite is the sign over the restrooms: Beware of pickpockets and loose women.
As one friend recently quipped, “It’s like Key West. Only, Key West isn’t this low-class anymore.” Who could ask for a finer compliment?
Bring your dog. Bring your appetite. Oh, and bring cash. I think the Chattaway is angling for a “Last Cash-Only Establishment in the Known Universe” designation with the folks over at Guinness.
But, speaking of appetite, the Chattaway is really no slouch in the food department. Given what I have just revealed about myself, I would understand if you don’t believe me, but know this: The Chattaway is consistently voted “Best Burger in the Bay Area” by the various publications which judge such things.
And if that’s not enough for you, be reassured by the fact that almost all of my friends will agree to meet me there.
First published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL, 10/25/2007
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