Our second attempt to hit up The Last Resort was for Sunday brunch and MG wisely decided to get us there early enough to beat the post-Church crowd, and it was a brilliant idea.  Our party of five was seated almost immediately, right next to the kitchen.  Normally, this would be my least favorite spot to sit in a restaurant, but the spectacle of meals that made their way past me on their way out to the rest of the restaurant made up for the unfavorable table.  Drifting past me with the regularity of New Year’s Rose Parade floats, the gorgeous food kept my jaw dropping for the next ninety minutes.  Having witnessed it, I firmly believe it’s next to impossible to order a bad meal from this place.

Captured in the front yard of Matthew and Amanda Granberry - Cleveland, Georgia

This is Matt and Amanda Granberry's backyard. I'm jealous. If it wasn't for the brutal humidity, I'd be insanely jealous.

Spinach Feta Grill at The Last Resort - challah toast dipped in egg batter, then grilled to perfection, topped with poached eggs, mushrooms, artichokes, feta, roasted red pepper sauce and spinach

The Last Resort Grill - 174-184 West Clayton Street, Athens, GA

No one seems to do brunch as well as Georgia. Wanna see more? Click below!

Sunday Brunch Special - Cinnamon Apple Pancakes

In 1966, The Last Resort Bar and Music Club opened at the same address. Down the street from three finance companies, it was said that if you were turned down by all of them, 184 West Clayton Street was your “last resort.” The club closed down in the mid 1980s, briefly morphed into a camera shop, and later re-opened as the The Last Resort Grill in 1992. It’s one of the longest-running and most successful upscale eateries in Athens.

The Drifter - Corn tortilla on a bed of black beans, topped with fried eggs, roasted jalapeños, tomatillo salsa, avocado crème fraîche and monterey jack cheese

Shrimp and Grits - Charlestonian style grits topped with fresh sautéed shrimp and red pepper sauce

The Border Omelette - pork marinated southwestern style, grilled & stuffed with black beans, jalapeños and sweet peppers, topped with tropical and tomatillo salsa and sour cream

With MG and his lovely sister, Lauren after a very filling brunch.

The final hours of the trip were spent with a quick visit to the local lake to watch bats emerge at dusk and begin hunting the skies for their mosquito breakfasts, the above-mentioned grits-making lesson, the impromptu killing of a scorpion that had found its way into the house (no one else even batted an eye), a martini with Mama Granberry while watching the insidious Courtland dispatching his competition on HGTV Design Star, and a final night on what has to be the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.

Their signs, plain and tall, beckon you from the interstate.  The melody to “Prop Me Next to the Jukebox if I Die” by Joe Diffie pings off the countertops.  The Waffle House’s vibrant, laminated menus are reminders that theirs is an establishment where quick cleanups and a rarely changing food roster are keys to success. Patrons are conditioned to know what they want and how they want it before they push through the glass door.  When a stuffed truck driver vacates a booth, the employee wipe-down process is so instantaneous that the seats are still warm when a family of Sunday churchgoers claims them next.

Eat, drink, pay, get out.  That’s what the Waffle House strives for.  And the customers seem happy to comply. All except me, of course.  I was the only one in the place who, instead of scarfing down my meal the moment it arrived, began photographing it.  Our plump Waffle House waitress, Roxie, observed my actions with a mildly bemused grin before asking, “Ya’ll aren’t from these parts, are ya’?”

Hitting up Waffle House was entirely my call. It was a “must see” destination for me while in Georgia.   MG had been dazzling me for years with stories of their world-famous hash browns which are ordered up “diner speak” and come “scattered” (spread on the grill), “smothered” (with onions), “covered” (with cheese), “chunked” (with diced ham), “diced” (with diced tomatoes), “peppered” (with jalapeño peppers), “capped” (with mushrooms), “topped” (with chili) or “all the way” (the works). As we had a long day in the car ahead of us, I resisted my stirring desire to go whole hog and limited myself to “scattered, smothered, covered and diced.” Roxie loudly broadcast my order across the diner (a Waffle House tradition the Granberrys told me to be on the alert for), before settling herself back into a conversation with another equally plump waitress that produced my favorite line from the entire Gerogia trip: “Ya’ll can go to the skatin’ rink and get a big pickle for seventy-five cents… and it’s good too!”

The rest of the meal was an afterthought from the get go.  I wanted the real Waffle House experience and that was only going to happen with hash browns, which (surprise!) did not disappoint.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on a drive through White County, residing in the northeast corner of the state and home to the towns of Cleveleand, Sautee, and the tourist trap known as Helen, which boasts a re-created Alpine village complete with gabled rooflines, schnitzel restaurants and cuckoo clock retailers.  A miles-long traffic jam along the two-lane highway 75 kept us from experiencing the magic of alp horns and glockenspiels first hand, but we did make it far enough to reach some of the best eating in White County, and I’m not just saying it ‘cuz MG’s brother, Matthew, is responsible for the food!




Nacoochee Grill lives inside an old farm house, a live fire grill doing the cooking on the inside, American flag and Southern-required rocking chairs gracing the front porch.  By the way, if a home in Georgia is unlucky enough to be without a porch – and those are rare – you’re more than likely to see a rocking chair perched up on the roof – a testament to the humidity.

It wasn’t long after we had been seated that the local area was hit with thunder the volume to curl your toes.  Pounding rainstorms are as common as gravel here.  The hammering rain just added to the fun of filling our bellies surrounded by the protective white-washed walls and creaking wooden floors that give Nacoochee Grill its charm.  MG, Gloria Granberry and I started with BBQ duck tacos served with ancho BBQ sauce, golden deep fried grit fritters stuffed with andoullie sausage and topped with chili honey mustard, and freshly-made jalapeno cheddar scones.



That was followed by sweet corn pudding and roasted baby zebra eggplant.  Next came our main courses.  MG went with shrimp and garlic grits with sauteed red peppers, poblano peppers, shallots, green onions and bacon.
I had the chicken pot pie with seared chicken, sweet peas, carrots, onion and celery.  It arrived looking less like a pot pie and more like a pastry-encrusted UFO, but I knew what savory deliciousness awaited underneath!  Excellent food and beautiful, relaxing atmosphere.  No giant pickles here… but if that’s more your speed, I know a Waffle House waitress I can put you in touch with.

1.) The bats no one bothered to tell me about ahead of time.

2.) The downtown bars with great big wooden rocking chairs open to customers who enjoy a little soothing sway while they drink themselves half into the bag.

Harmless little creature of God, you say? No. This little bastard had a belt with my name on it, next to a waiting notch.

My first night in Athens, the Granberry clan happily trotted me out to the backyard (Fences? Forget about them! It’s woods as far back as the eye can see) and pointed to the “wavy leaves” at the tops of the trees, which of course I was stupid enough to believe were, in fact, “wavy leaves,” until they (with a little too much pleasure for my taste) revealed the awful, actual truth.

I tried – believe me – I tried to deny it, thinking denial would be enough to get me through the long weekend. But Beelzebub had other plans, and chose to send a wayward minion to a very well-lit spot right over the front doorway of the Granberry house as a reminder of why one should not mess with the state of Georgia.

Yes.  I had to dash past this dirty little Satanic turd to get safely into the fucking house!

Okay, as the vacation went on, I learned not to be totally petrified of bats. MG took me down to the lake just before twilight, when these little guys just wake up and start darting about after the plentiful mosquitos. And I have to admit… it was sort of cool and romantic to watch them flutter about and dive after their early evening breakfasts, just me and MG, even if I did still want to pee my pants just a little bit.

My independent bat research has uncovered a lot of fascinating details about these guys that I would love to share with you.  The reason I won’t is that as cool as bats might be, I still fucking hate them and never want to be this close to one ever again.

The Globe Bar at the corner of Clayton and Lumpkin Streets in downtown Athens is a whole other story.  Some bars are fun for a drink or two, and some bars are more of an evening’s final “destination.”  The Globe is definitely in the latter category.

Not that you necessarily should have too many bars that you consider a great place at which to get yourself blindingly drunk (and we didn’t). But if you happen to find yourself an hour outside of Atlanta in a major college town during the summer when it’s more or less abandoned, and you feel the need for a dozen or so beers, you couldn’t do much better than The Globe.

Comfy leather couches and rocking chairs settled up against giant windows allow you to take in a terrific view of downtown Athens and all the pub-crawling locals headed to their next drinking destination.

The shiny brass bar serves up 14 draft beers and over 100 bottled varieties. I went with a smooth, deep golden brown Warsteiner Lager that went down like candy.

MG and I agreed that if my time in Athens wasn’t so short, we would have loved to sit there together for hours, but the next morning (and the Waffle House) was calling my name, so we cut the evening short…

…just in time to get back home so I could scream like a Polly Prissy-Pants at the evil hairy-winged fart waiting for me at the front door.

Don’t judge me. I can bench press a lot.

Really, what else can be said?  If I had a few more days here, I might take Nature’s Harmony Farm up on their very generous offer. The photo opportunities alone would be worth it.

I took the daytime tour of downtown Athens and the University of Georgia yesterday. The mercury was hovering around 100 and despite the abundance of tree-provided shade, it was, as my friend Steve always put it, “hotter than a shit house in July.” The campus was established in 1785 and has over 30,000 students in attendance. The historic buildings and gorgeous landscaping make every turn of the eye a treat. Click on the images below for a high-res version, and then back-button to return for more:

Next was Casa Mia, a downtown tapas bar where we ordered up some very spicy calamari tacos, garlic shrimp and my very first plate of fried green tomatoes.  Served up on a bed of greens and a tasty pool of blueberry sauce underneath, it was the perfect ratio of crunchy to tangy to sweet.

The beer I chose to go with it was a Dogfish Head 90 Minute India Pale Ale that served up a pungent and malty flavor which contrasted sharply but not unpleasantly with the food. Casa Mia was not our first choice for food that night, but our initial destination, The Last Resort, was screaming with impatient chow-heads in the waiting area.  The detour ended up being more than worthy.  After dinner, it was on to the Globe Bar.  Posting to come, along with my first visit to a Waffle House and my first encounter with a Georgia bat.

First meal of the trip was at the East West Bistro in downtown Athens, which was above-standard pub fare though not exactly the Southern menu I’ve been anticipating.

But it was late evening when I arrived and all I wanted was a satisfying meal in some great atmosphere, and East West delivered both. I’m sure there are eateries in Los Angeles where you can order a salad that comes with a big ball of fried cheese in the middle, but I have not come across them yet.

We sat at the bar and I ordered up an “East West” Martini, which is a two-count of sake, a five-count of Grey Goose with some cranberry juice and a squeeze of lime. It looks deceptively like some sort of candy-coated Cosmo, which was the concern I expressed to the bartender, but he assured me that was not the flavor that was going to hit my tongue, and he was right. In fact, aside from a hint of the cranberry, this cocktail was nearly tasteless. I reluctantly yet wisely stopped after one.


Back to Michael’s mama’s house, where I was listening to Michael’s aunt tell a story but continued to be distracted by little pops of light out of the corner of my eye. Thank God I asked and found out the answer was as simple as lightning bugs, because for a moment I thought I might be having a stroke. The Granberry back yard is also home to deer, squirrels, cicadas that serenade one another day and night, and lots and lots AND LOTS of bats. Therefore, you will not be finding me in the Granberry back yard. You may however find me in the Granberry spare room, where Mama Granberry left me a nice surprise to help take the edge of my culture shock… one which, for me, defines the phrase, “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?”

For my last birthday, MG and I ditched L.A. and flew up to Seattle for our very first visit. We had three days to cram in a lot of sight-seeing, but we managed to hit everything on our lists, including the top of the Space Needle, the aquarium, a harbor cruise, and yes… a gay piano bar, an insect museum and a bad-ass Henry the VIII puppet show featuring bloody beheadings, puppet blowjobs, and talking vaginas… in case you were wondering.

And of course, we spent a large chunk of a day exploring the Pike Place Market.  It’s probably the biggest tourist attraction in the city, but one that’s actually worth every bit of accidental elbowing you may encounter.  It’s been in operation since 1907 and sits on the corner of a very steep hill facing out to the Elliot Bay waterfront.  Built into the Market are several lower levels with antique dealers, toy shops and eateries, but the star attraction is the street level itself.  Endless food!  Beautiful, aromatic, enticing food!  I could have easily wandered around there from sun up to sun down.  Plus, the day brought us just enough drizzle and ominous cloud cover to enhance the vibe without washing it away completely.

Here are some of the highlights from the day. I encourage you to click on the images below for hi-res versions where you can really soak up the color.

Lefty opened his hometown restaurant and pub on Geary Street in 1958. The place is dark and woody, crowded with baseball memorabilia, and throngs of patrons who clearly feel at home and no doubt crowd the place on a regular basis.

The term “watering hole” may not have been invented for this place, but it certainly applies. Ask the guy next us at the bar who was about 3003 sheets to the wind (“I’m forty-fooour… of course next year I’m gonna be forty-threeeee…. I look pretty good for forty-nine, don’t IIIIIIIII?” And of course, this was at about 11:30 in the morning. The lengthy bar and comfy stools stand directly across from a steam tray line where cooks serve up hand-carved roast beef, ham and pastrami, filling the stomachs of the business district at lunchtime.

I have read plenty of reviews that describe Lefty’s as a “tourist trap.” They seem to equate the term with any establishment that has been around long enough to have a “must visit when in the city of….” tag attached to it. Forget that. There’s a reason Lefty’s has been around for a long time, and a reason it deserves a visit – great transporting atmosphere, solid food and drinks, and bartenders that are friendly and well-versed in the history of the place. And like any good San Francisco establishment… a challenging set of stairs in a dangerously narrow hallway that must be overcome if one wants to use a bathroom. How anyone could manage it after a couple drinks is beyond me. Another reason to go!

Dimaggio’s streak began on May 15, 1941. Between that date and July 16, fifty-six games later, DiMaggio hit safely in every game, becoming the toast of America’s pastime and setting a record that still stands as one of the greatest in the history of the sport.

The decor at Dimaggio’s San Francisco (a second restaurant under the same name resides in Austin, Texas) is dark and romantic, yet simultaneously ultra-exposing, presenting itself as a place where those in the limelight might want to be seen pretending that “being seen” is, in fact, the absolute last thing they want. The lush booths outline the rest of the seating area, so diners are all more or less presented indiscreetly to one another, making it all the more fun to indulge excessively and one-up the fun you might see being had at a neighboring table.

The menu is just what you’d expect from a chop house – Porterhouse, Filet Mignon, Ribeye, New York Strip, along with a bountiful selection of pastas, pizza and a eye-popping wine list. The appetizers are equally satisfying. In my two visits, my dining partners and I have sampled the gnocchi with brown butter and pecorino, saffron risotto, and parmesan potato gratin – all superb

This visit, I went with the fontina-stuffed meatballs and Gloria Green said hello to the wood oven lasagna. Equally satisfying is the seafood risotto and chicken parmesan. Desserts include a fuji apple crisp, chocolate souffle, and tiramisu. This time around however, there was just no room for dessert.

As for the name of the joint, my most-thorough questioning of the staff has led me to believe the family has merely licensed the name, and perhaps donated the multitude of pics and memorabilia that adorn the walls. No matter, Joe Dimaggio’s Chop House is one of the best destination eateries in North Beach, swimming in nostalgia, and was the culinary high point of my most recent San Francisco visit.


Joe Dimaggio’s Italian Chop House
601 Union St
San Francisco, CA 94133
(415) 421-5633

The bill? More than it might have been someplace else.

Had I been suckered in by a wistful longing for an era I never got to enjoy, and one which has been romanced on film totally beyond reason?

Maybe, but I don’t give a shit. I loved it!


And as for the Maltese Falcon replica, restaurant owner John Konstin acquired it from Elisha Cook Jr., one of the actors from the 1941 John Huston film. The statue, along with Hammett books – some signed – were stolen from the second floor of the restaurant in 2007.

Savvy restaurant patron with a sexy distraction of a sidekick?

Inside Job?

It has yet to be determined.

And the $25,000 reward for the return of the status and the books has yet to be claimed.

John’s Grill
63 Ellis Street
San Francisco, CA 94102-2207
(415) 986-0069