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