For these lowcountry kayaking trips I often come down on Friday night so that I don’t have to get up so early on Saturday. Wherever I am I like to find some place quirky and local for dinner, and this trip was no exception.
I checked at the front desk of the motel on I-95, and was informed that there were two good restaurants just up the street. I scooted round the corner to the first, Silverado’s.
The van, radio station banner, and balloons should have alerted me to trouble. I walked in the door and was greeted by a plume of smoke, and a boozy greeting from a woman with stringy hair and fewer teeth than I have.
Well, howdy, you sharp-dressed man, and welcome to Silverado’s! Have a seat on this here bar stool and buy me a drink!
No, thank you. I had just driven all the way down straight from the office, and my slacks and white shirt stood out from the jeans and cowboy boots. I glanced around. Even if I had wanted to stay, none of the sparse tables between the pool tables and dance floor were available.
I guess the sign advertising Lingerie Lunch today should have also tipped me off. I’d already missed it, and the smoke was more than I could bear, so I left. I was after quirky, not hazardous.
Next stop was one hotel over. The Island Grill looked a bit more normal, apart from the very high BQ (Biker Quotient.) I did spot a Zaxby’s up the road as a back-up.
Inside I found a schizophrenic joint – a place that was alternately trying to be a biker bar as well as a family friendly restaurant. At least no gapped-tooth maidens were trying to compel me to buy them beer, or worse.
There was biker stuff all over the place, but the clientele was, in fact, families and older couples for the most part. The bikers were out on the back deck smoking. The Hit-n-Run Band was doing its sound check for a later performance.
I normally bring either my Kindle or laptop to pass the time, but had left both in the car. So, while I waited to be seated I picked up some alternate reading material – a local Savannah weekly and a biker rag called Full Throttle. That latter publication was as schizophrenic as the restaurant. There were photos of kids and families right across from advertisements for bikini competitions and “gentlemen’s” clubs. The preponderance of ads, however, were for biker lawyers.
I had a relatively safe quesadilla and some fried mushrooms – standard bar fare, and listened to the first couple of songs from the band. They were OK, but wouldn’t win any Grammys. At least they weren’t trying to do Jimmy Buffett.
I had driven four hours, and had an early paddling appointment the next day. As I drove back by Silverados, it was hopping even more. Perhaps it would have been more interesting, but I think the price would have been much, much steeper.