We pulled into the parking lot of the Horry Restaurant, (yes you read it right)and wondered at the deserted surroundings. The flyer in our vacation condo promised an eatery “popular with the locals” virtually brimming with culinary treats. A large “Open Tuesday through Sunday” sign offered reassurance we hadn't missed the rapture on this beautiful warm Monday evening, the first of our three days away from obligations and hectic schedules.
Seven years ago my five sisters and I began our annual three-day holiday together always meeting somewhere new and as luck would have it we arrived in the middle of Bike Week at Myrtle Beach for our current adventure. After a full day of travel from Ohio, Virginia, West Virginia and SC we were tired, hungry and looking forward to a memorable meal to start off this year's fun. A bit let-down with our luck at the Horry, we made a u-turn and headed back toward Little River.
Mama Jean's Restaurant sported a large neon “Open” sign blazing in the window and we enthusiastically headed in. The restaurant was well-filled and a large man greeted us at the door. All the patrons looked up as one and focused in on us with a Twilight Zone quality that was, well, creepy.
“Are you here to eat or for the Bible study?” This from the large manager-looking man.
“You're kidding, right?!” I threw all my best effort into sounding like I appreciated his joke, but letting him know he wasn't fooling me.
He assured me he was not kidding whilst all the Bible scholars maintained their humorless stares in our direction. He herded us back out the door and suggested we visit the Billy the Kid place several streets away since Mama Jean was closed with the sole purpose of the spiritual enlightenment of those within. Never mind us poor hungry pilgrims from parts abroad.
Trying to follow Big Man's directions we immediately took a wrong turn at the light and found ourselves at a nondescript building boasting Caroline BBQ and another “Open” sign in the window. Next door an outdoor karaoke bar with a large sign on wheels proclaiming “Biker's Welcome” was blasting forth the non-talent of its customers. Bikes roared in and out and a man across the street was repeatedly swinging something back and forth over his shoulders, slapping his back. It was impossible to determine whether he was practicing some sort of self-flagellation or swatting flies. We backed out of the parking lot and went in search of The Kid.
I went in to scout out Billy's establishment. The stale-smelling, smoky bar with sticky oilcloth-covered tables and the promise of a brawl or two from the patrons in the not-too-distant future led me to suggest to my siblings that we head back over to Carolina BBQ.
Parking adjacent to the lot filled with rowdy bikers and thundering music we walked up the steps of what looked like a converted double-wide mobile home. Two fellows, one clean-shaven and one not, looked up from the two tables they were stacking with the six matching chairs. “You're closed?” We groaned at our poor luck.
After hearing an abbreviated version of our ill luck in finding a place to eat they assured us they would be happy to stay open and serve us. “We saw you leave a few minutes ago,” the hairy one said. “Stay and eat; I just made BBQ fresh this morning and it's always best on the first or second day. Not so much on the third.” None of us ventured to argue with this pronouncement.
My sister, Anne, usually the dignified, polite member of the group had a frantic look on her face, the kind that precedes a bout of uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. We all avoided eye contact knowing six grown women bent over in gales of mirth might cost us our last chance at a square meal in this town.
The two tables were pushed together and all available chairs were gathered for us. I was given a barstool which gave me a rather high vantage point, but my knees didn't need to be under the table to eat, I decided. Hairy Man, the chef/host/manager carried in another chair from somewhere for the last woman standing and we settled down to order. Sweet tea all around, with a squirt of lemonade, “like the hillbillies do it,” was placed before us and it was icy cold and refreshing..
Having the place to ourselves with two very bored fellows to wait on us, we ordered everything they recommended: pulled pork, “made fresh this morning,” steaming hushpuppies, coleslaw, and fries. They threw in some chicken for good measure and we ate till we hurt. All of it was served on paper plates in heaping quantities and all of it was mouth-wateringly delicious.
Obligingly our waiter snapped photos, kept our glasses refilled, brought us take-out boxes for leftovers and showed keen interest in anything we had to say. Hairy Man encouraged us to come back again when he walked us to the door.
Agreement by all confirmed it was a thoroughly successful venture in dining on our first night out.
