Harold's Country Club and Gas Station-Yemassee, SC
With his hand muting the cell phone, Scott turned to me and asked,"how would you like your steak cooked." A curious question at 3:00 P.M. when we weren't supposed to eat supper until 8 o'clock. "Medium, " I replied, "why?" "It's steak night at Harold's and we have to put our order in for the 8:00 P.M. seating."I was in Beaufort, S.C. (pronounced "Byoo-firt)" last weekend, visiting from my town, Beaufort, N.C. (pronounced "Boe-firt)." Founded two years apart, Beaufort, SC in 1711 and Beaufort, NC in 1709, the towns are both located on the Intracoastal Waterway and both named after one of the Lord Proprietors. Both towns are surrounded by salt water and marshes and bays and sounds and rivers, and are charming little towns, but they are still quite a bit different. Beaufort, SC has the feel of rich, southern, antebellum town with it's stately waterfront houses. Beaufort, NC has the feel of a quaint, New England fishing village- its main drag, Front St. is lined with large, whitewashed houses, most coming complete with "widows walks" where the wives and girlfriends of the sailors and fishermen could stand and look out into Beaufort Inlet for the sight of their loved one's ship returning safely to port.I go to Beaufort, SC regularly because I have great friends there who make me laugh, fetch me cold beers, take me fishing, introduce me to other great friends and keep me sane. It is a 6 and a half hour drive one-way any way you slice it, but a dozen good CD's and the hospitality that awaits makes it all worth it. My best buddy Scott, owns a house that sits on the Intracoastal Waterway featuring a view from the backyard that is simply breathtaking. Many a great time has been spent on the bluff in the backyard
just sitting in the adirondack chairs looking out over the water, listening to tunes and taking turns retrieving beer from the fridge or the boat cooler. It is a simple pleasure I will never tire of. We're usually joined by one or more others and the conversation is never serious. We tell and re-tell old stories about the stupid and funny shit we have done and I have never made it back home without my body actually aching from the laughter-we refer such sustained frivolity as "horselaughing." My standard visit, and the same goes with Scott's visits to NC have taken on a routine-arrive mid-evening, usually on a Thursday, drink beer and liquor until we pass out-me in my assigned leather chair and Scott on the couch. We awaken and crawl to our respective beds about an hour before getting up to fish. The next two full days are spent in the boat- fishing, drinking beer, laughing and talking about everything except work, politics and religion. No serious word is allowed on board-if you open your mouth, it better be to make someone laugh. A day in the boat is followed by a short period of re-grouping, boat washing, and sobering up enough to be able to rally for the evening. Two full days of this is our limit-we go at it so hard that by the third day, we can hardly muster the energy to drive home. The morning of the third day is spent sleeping late, trying to locate personal belongings that have found there way to various places in the boat, the yard, the house or the car. Not one time has either of us failed to forget something. Once, after a fishing trip Scott left so much stuff at my house that I had to mail his stuff to him in a four foot high box. Scott told me yesterday that he and Cristina went out to eat at the place we ate last weekend and he saw my yellow rain jacket hanging on the wall where I left it. I'll pick it up in a couple of weeks. After heaving all the stuff we can locate into the back of the SUV, it's a quick goodbye, secure in the knowledge that the next trip will be as soon as possible and even more fun. Then it's "put the rubber on the road," grab a cup of coffee and head back homeward.The trip from SC to home comprises three distinct parts-three hours up I-95 North at an average speed of 85 mph into NC, then two hours angling northeast through small town rural NC, then an hour and a half straight up the NC coast to home. This trip was special for me because I was looking forward to meeting Scott's new girl, Cristina. Not much to recommend her unless you like girls who are beautiful, funny, vivacious, adventurous, fun- loving, outdoorsy-types. Seriously, she could not have been more delightful and fun to hang out with and I can't wait to see her and Scott again soon. We went by boat to eat dinner in Port Royal at the marina and she navigated the boat home in the dark without benefit of a spotlight nor any instruction. Scott and I fished our regular spot on the Coosaw River without success (fishwise) but with much success (funwise). As Thoreau so aptly put it "many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after." We both know it's not about the fish and it never has been. The next day, our buddy Jeff had a hall-pass to fish and we took his boat out to an offshore wreck to see if we couldn't pull a fish out of its world into ours. Jeff managed to crank a
10 lb. sheepshead out of the briny deep and we threw him in the cooler with a smaller version and a small trout. The weather was a little cool and windy and we came in about 3:00. Jeff's wife and kids came by on their way to K-Mart to see the fish, then we gave the fish away to Scott's painter. We washed Jeff's boat, had a couple more beers then rode home with Jeff so I could pick up my car that I had left at his house. We got back to Scott's house and found Crisitina sitting in one of the adirondack chairs taking in the sunset over the water. I like a person that fully appreciates life's simple pleasures - sunsets, great music, cheap beer and laughing for no reason. That's her, and that's us, too.At 7:30 P.M., it was off to Harold's Country Club and Gas Station in Yemassee, about 25 miles west of Beaufort. I had never seen anything like Harold's in my almost 50 years and I can't wait to go back. It is an legendary and authentically southern haunt-a kind of place that takes you back to the real rural south that I remember growing up in- a place and a way of life that is sadly vanishing- being slowly but surely overrun by strip malls and cookie cutter
housing developments. I pray that these unique "landmarks" like Harold's never disappear. As a southerner I'm proud of the social,cultural and racial progress we have made but I'm also not the least bit ashamed of my rural, redneck heritage-these are my people-I love them and their music and their dancing and their reckless passion for life and a good time.We parked the car and made our way past the old-timey gas pumps (still functioning) and in through the front door of an old country gas station/tackle shop/bar chock full of the most bizarre mishmash of humanity I have ever seen this side of a county fair. Old toothless men and women, kids from age 3 and up and rich folks from town just looking for a reason to put on the Wranglers and cowboy boots , drink some beer and eat some damn good food. Cristina ordered me a 22 0z. Budweiser which came wrapped in a paper sack (for the "beggar on the corner effect), and by the time I had killed about a quarter of it, we were hustled into the food line which snaked through several small linoleum floored rooms. We made our way single-file into a hallway where we gave our party's name, paid our money, took an oval Chinette plate and stood in front of a table. On the table were three large steaming aluminum covered pans over Sterno heat. Behind each pan squated a blue-haired dowager with a set of threatening, clacking tongs. Each pan contained the steaks cooked medium, medium-well and well done and our order was conveyed loudly to the first "steak waitrix," "3 mediums, Lee party of three!" She plopped a 16 oz, well gristled, beautiful piece of "cow ass" on each of our Chinette plates and we entered the big room. On the left was a table with salad, baked potato, potato salad and green beans. We sat at a long wooden table and commenced to ripping into our food and throwing back the double-deuces. The room was packed but not noisy with all the people cramming steak and potato into their faces. About 9:00 P.M., the dining room slowly cleared and the food crowd waddled back into the main part of the gas station where the Karaoke was cranking up. Folks, I've seen karaoke, and most of it is incredibly lame-non-tune carrying drunks up on stage on a dare trying to sing "Brandy," but this was different. The freakin' song book was as hefty as a New York City phone directory and the "DJ" would call individuals by name to come up and sing their song. Some were lame, but some were flat out talented. Old men and young kids burned up the small dance floor they had carved out of the crowd by their twisting
and twirling. One old man danced and drank until I saw him outside laying passed out on a propane tank. A few minutes later he was back in and at it again.Just watching the people was priceless. Scott let me and Cristina pound back the beer and he stopped after three 12 ouncers so he could drive us home.It was one of the greatest nights I've ever had in a place where I've had countless great nights. A short trip to downtown Beaufort for a nightcap and it was home again. I'll be back again in a couple of weeks, this time toting along my wife and my digital camera to capture the magic of Harold's Country Club and Gas Station, Yemassee, South Carolina in pictures.
just sitting in the adirondack chairs looking out over the water, listening to tunes and taking turns retrieving beer from the fridge or the boat cooler. It is a simple pleasure I will never tire of. We're usually joined by one or more others and the conversation is never serious. We tell and re-tell old stories about the stupid and funny shit we have done and I have never made it back home without my body actually aching from the laughter-we refer such sustained frivolity as "horselaughing." My standard visit, and the same goes with Scott's visits to NC have taken on a routine-arrive mid-evening, usually on a Thursday, drink beer and liquor until we pass out-me in my assigned leather chair and Scott on the couch. We awaken and crawl to our respective beds about an hour before getting up to fish. The next two full days are spent in the boat- fishing, drinking beer, laughing and talking about everything except work, politics and religion. No serious word is allowed on board-if you open your mouth, it better be to make someone laugh. A day in the boat is followed by a short period of re-grouping, boat washing, and sobering up enough to be able to rally for the evening. Two full days of this is our limit-we go at it so hard that by the third day, we can hardly muster the energy to drive home. The morning of the third day is spent sleeping late, trying to locate personal belongings that have found there way to various places in the boat, the yard, the house or the car. Not one time has either of us failed to forget something. Once, after a fishing trip Scott left so much stuff at my house that I had to mail his stuff to him in a four foot high box. Scott told me yesterday that he and Cristina went out to eat at the place we ate last weekend and he saw my yellow rain jacket hanging on the wall where I left it. I'll pick it up in a couple of weeks. After heaving all the stuff we can locate into the back of the SUV, it's a quick goodbye, secure in the knowledge that the next trip will be as soon as possible and even more fun. Then it's "put the rubber on the road," grab a cup of coffee and head back homeward.The trip from SC to home comprises three distinct parts-three hours up I-95 North at an average speed of 85 mph into NC, then two hours angling northeast through small town rural NC, then an hour and a half straight up the NC coast to home. This trip was special for me because I was looking forward to meeting Scott's new girl, Cristina. Not much to recommend her unless you like girls who are beautiful, funny, vivacious, adventurous, fun- loving, outdoorsy-types. Seriously, she could not have been more delightful and fun to hang out with and I can't wait to see her and Scott again soon. We went by boat to eat dinner in Port Royal at the marina and she navigated the boat home in the dark without benefit of a spotlight nor any instruction. Scott and I fished our regular spot on the Coosaw River without success (fishwise) but with much success (funwise). As Thoreau so aptly put it "many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after." We both know it's not about the fish and it never has been. The next day, our buddy Jeff had a hall-pass to fish and we took his boat out to an offshore wreck to see if we couldn't pull a fish out of its world into ours. Jeff managed to crank a
10 lb. sheepshead out of the briny deep and we threw him in the cooler with a smaller version and a small trout. The weather was a little cool and windy and we came in about 3:00. Jeff's wife and kids came by on their way to K-Mart to see the fish, then we gave the fish away to Scott's painter. We washed Jeff's boat, had a couple more beers then rode home with Jeff so I could pick up my car that I had left at his house. We got back to Scott's house and found Crisitina sitting in one of the adirondack chairs taking in the sunset over the water. I like a person that fully appreciates life's simple pleasures - sunsets, great music, cheap beer and laughing for no reason. That's her, and that's us, too.At 7:30 P.M., it was off to Harold's Country Club and Gas Station in Yemassee, about 25 miles west of Beaufort. I had never seen anything like Harold's in my almost 50 years and I can't wait to go back. It is an legendary and authentically southern haunt-a kind of place that takes you back to the real rural south that I remember growing up in- a place and a way of life that is sadly vanishing- being slowly but surely overrun by strip malls and cookie cutter
housing developments. I pray that these unique "landmarks" like Harold's never disappear. As a southerner I'm proud of the social,cultural and racial progress we have made but I'm also not the least bit ashamed of my rural, redneck heritage-these are my people-I love them and their music and their dancing and their reckless passion for life and a good time.We parked the car and made our way past the old-timey gas pumps (still functioning) and in through the front door of an old country gas station/tackle shop/bar chock full of the most bizarre mishmash of humanity I have ever seen this side of a county fair. Old toothless men and women, kids from age 3 and up and rich folks from town just looking for a reason to put on the Wranglers and cowboy boots , drink some beer and eat some damn good food. Cristina ordered me a 22 0z. Budweiser which came wrapped in a paper sack (for the "beggar on the corner effect), and by the time I had killed about a quarter of it, we were hustled into the food line which snaked through several small linoleum floored rooms. We made our way single-file into a hallway where we gave our party's name, paid our money, took an oval Chinette plate and stood in front of a table. On the table were three large steaming aluminum covered pans over Sterno heat. Behind each pan squated a blue-haired dowager with a set of threatening, clacking tongs. Each pan contained the steaks cooked medium, medium-well and well done and our order was conveyed loudly to the first "steak waitrix," "3 mediums, Lee party of three!" She plopped a 16 oz, well gristled, beautiful piece of "cow ass" on each of our Chinette plates and we entered the big room. On the left was a table with salad, baked potato, potato salad and green beans. We sat at a long wooden table and commenced to ripping into our food and throwing back the double-deuces. The room was packed but not noisy with all the people cramming steak and potato into their faces. About 9:00 P.M., the dining room slowly cleared and the food crowd waddled back into the main part of the gas station where the Karaoke was cranking up. Folks, I've seen karaoke, and most of it is incredibly lame-non-tune carrying drunks up on stage on a dare trying to sing "Brandy," but this was different. The freakin' song book was as hefty as a New York City phone directory and the "DJ" would call individuals by name to come up and sing their song. Some were lame, but some were flat out talented. Old men and young kids burned up the small dance floor they had carved out of the crowd by their twisting
and twirling. One old man danced and drank until I saw him outside laying passed out on a propane tank. A few minutes later he was back in and at it again.Just watching the people was priceless. Scott let me and Cristina pound back the beer and he stopped after three 12 ouncers so he could drive us home.It was one of the greatest nights I've ever had in a place where I've had countless great nights. A short trip to downtown Beaufort for a nightcap and it was home again. I'll be back again in a couple of weeks, this time toting along my wife and my digital camera to capture the magic of Harold's Country Club and Gas Station, Yemassee, South Carolina in pictures.
posted by david at 5/02/2005 11:03:00 PM
7 Comments:
Sounds like my kind of trip!
A.J.
Thanks for the re-cap of Harolds. I am going there this weekend and was online looking for directions, and stumbled upon your blog
The last time I was at Harold's Country Club, my wife's Uncle stopped off for a few minutes on our way to Dawson's Landing. As we drove off, he told us how they filmed a lot of the movie Forrest Gump's shrimp boat scenes right off Dawson's Landing.
He also mentioned that Harold's was the inventor of Fried Turkey. To date it's the best place in the South to get the real deal. If you haven't fried a turkey for Thanksgiving, you've got to try Harold's.
Of course, me being a Yankee and all, I can go on and on about the scenery, the people, the food, well, just about everything the Low Country has to offer!
"HAROLD'S COUNTRY CLUB" Theres no place on earth that you can get a better steak than at Harolds Country Club. And from my understanding Martha Stewart used some of his secrets.
Its a very good place for family fun especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Thats when the fun begins with State Of The Art Karoake.The atmosphere is always friendly in and old southern enviroment.
I have an eight year old child named Marlin and he sings The Devil Went Down To Georgia. Every one loves to hear him sing. Come on out to Harolds on the weekends for a southern experience. From Wayne Bishop
I know you wrote this a couple years back, but sittin' here in Ohio, lookin' at fall's colors and feeling it's chill, it was very nice to be reminded of the souther coastal lifestyle. I miss it dearly.
'Neck
just returned from harolds, for an old south georgia redneck it was heaven. took my wife there for her ** birthday cause she loves a good jook joint. you were right on about the steak and libations (thats liquor to you yankees)the crowd was packed and very hospitable .in the parking lot were limos next to pickups. just a great place.
So, I do not really consider it may have success.
labrador
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