This past weekend I went to Augusta, Georgia to a family wedding. The weekend was quite wonderful. I ate, among other things, grits and catfish and a tomato stew that somebody called pudding. And an amazing chicken pot pie. And fried pickle chips.
But that wasn't all. On the way down to Augusta from Columbia my sister and I followed John T. Edge's advice and stopped off very briefly at Kingsman Restaurant in Cayce for pimento burgers. Gorgeous. Now I only have 99 of his recommendations to go.
No trip to the South is complete without a pit stop at a Waffle House. I fell in love with Waffle House in 1990 on my first trip to the South. I love the simple diner aesthetic, the laminated menus, and the black-on-yellow signage. The grub is intense. At the right moments, it can hit the spot. Marisa and I found a nearly empty Waffle House yesterday afternoon near the Columbia airport full of friendly and talkative staff. It was an appropriate place to bid adieu to the region for the time being.
(Parting question: How popular would a single Waffle House in New York City be, on a sort of flagship abroad model? You'd have to wade through hipsters and Southern transplants to get in.)
