Sunday, August 02, 2015



In the middle of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina there are a few things that you can’t miss, one is a pick-up truck, and the other: is a Calabash restaurant or two. Top that off with one or two golf courses, a few resort centers and a couple of people and there you have Myrtle Beach. Oh, I forgot, multiply that by several thousand!

When I got down to Myrtle Beach, we decided to look for a place to eat, and saw this seafood restaurant that said on its large sign: “Calabash Restaurant, all you can eat.”
TLW (The Little Woman) needed to go into a local store and while she did I found this coupon book she was carrying and thumbed through it. I discovered ‘Calabash’ is a term used by many restaurants.

In fact there is a Calabash street off of the 17. The 17 route along with The Kings Highway are main roads the locals and tourist travel. As you travel these roads, and any roads off of them, you will find that 50% of the vehicles are pickup trucks. Yes, BIG annoying in your way pick-up trucks. There is no escaping them, they are everywhere, leaving me to wonder: what the Hell are they all needing to pick up???

Inside the restaurants the food is mostly deep fried, comes in a plastic woven-like waxed paper lined red basket and the dinner is stuffed into it. Mostly hamburgers and catfish, shrimp and onion rings or fries, with Cokes and beer to hydrate the grease to allow it to flow like the NYC sewer system. Finding a decent restaurant with fine foods is kind of difficult, and even harder once you get in as the tourist bring in their rug rats that scream as often as possible, or in their case needed.

As we were dining at one of the Calabash restaurants, TLW inquired about a certain item on the menu and the waiter, a country boy explained that Calabash was a way of frying something, I guess a kinder, gentler way to grease the fins and claws.

So as we left the restaurant, flush with our fresh known knowledge of Calabash, this local, sitting by himself and taking apart the crab legs, calls us over. Curious, I respond by walking over to the table.

Local: “You b’long to a band?”
Me: “Why?”
Local: “Ya got the face of a gitar playa.”

Yo gotta love dem locals!


Post a Comment

<< Home