The Georgia Pig

Most people go to Brunswick's famous Georgia Pig for the chopped pork sandwiches. For years, the Remlers have visited the Pig for the rudeness. We've always laughed at the belligerent signage, and if we were lucky enough to get yelled at upon entering, even better.

Stephen and I first ate at the Georgia Pig about seventeen years ago at the insistence of our friends David and Lane Jones, who declared the Georgia Pig's chopped pork the best they'd ever had. So on a drive home from Jacksonville one evening, we stopped by.

The old wooden shack on Highway 17 at the Jekyll Island exit was easy to find among the sprouting fast food restaurants. When we climbed the rickety front steps, we found a piece of torn cardboard box nailed to the front door with a message written in ballpoint pen: "Open 11:00-8:00." Great, we thought. It's seven o'clock now. We've got plenty of time.

We were so naive.

When we entered the place, two fat, greasy women greeted us with "We ain't got no tea! We're about to close!"

Taken aback, I replied uncertainly, "But your sign says that you're open until eight."

One woman stuck out her abundant hip with her fist on it, and said, "Honey, if we stay open 'til eight, we'll be here 'til nine."

Horrors.

"All I want is a barbecue sandwich and a Coke," I said. "Can we buy those?" Was I really asking these two customer service representatives for permission to buy their food?

"All right," the other one said, showing what few teeth she had left. "But you gotta eat on the porch."

Stephen and I agreed, thankful not to have to share a room with Ma Porkchop and her gap-toothed crony. In a few minutes, they tossed two sandwiches and two cans of Coke (thank goodness the drinks were cold) in a paper bag, and Stephen and I went to the front porch to eat on a picnic table so old and warped that I perched on the edge of the bench for fear of butt splinters.

We'd only taken one bite before they turned the lights out on us.

Because the barbecue made up for the service, and because Stephen and I got a kick out of the employees' work ethic, we've been back to the Georgia Pig many times, insisting that our boys also enjoy the Pig's version of southern hospitality. I've taken Sabra there once, and we've also brought JoJo and Bruce. All agree the run down shack, the underwhelming service, and the cardboard signs only enhance the tasty chopped pork sandwiches.

Recently, I made a solo trip to the Georgia Pig. I wish I'd had someone with which to share the experience.

As I walked from my car to the shack, I found an amply hipped woman wearing size extra small stretch pants and a hot pink tank top. She pushed a red Snapper mower through the weeds as sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip. A cigarette dangled from her mouth.

At the front door, I noticed the Pig operators had upgraded their signage, having traded in their torn cardboard for a white erase board and florescent poster paper. Those signs warned me NOT to bring any animals on the front porch (which immediately wipes out half my social circle as customers) and to wear my shoes when indoors (even my children who can walk). Next time I come, perhaps I should bring my two boys barefooted but tell them to enter the building scooting on their butts. The indoor signs were just as welcoming as they urged me NOT to take barbecue sauce bottles out onto the porch. I wondered why sauce bottles were forbidden outside. It's not like they'd be whisked away by the numerous animals lurking there.

My question went unanswered as I stood patiently behind a family of five placing their lunch orders. As I waited my turn, the hipsom beauty from the lawn mower entered, ran her grubby fingers through her sweaty hair, and went immediately behind the counter to work the cash register. That was a line I refused to cross. If that woman touches any food back there, I thought, I'm leaving.

She must have been psychic because she only punched a few buttons on the cash register before disappearing in the back room. I breathed a sigh of relief, but in retrospect, I don't know why her departure made me feel better. I had no idea of the condition of any other employee's hands. For all I knew they could have all been picking their noses before I walked in.

My original plan was to purchase a pound of barbecue and a quart of Brunswick stew to take home and surprise my family. But the lawn mowing lady provoked me to reconsider. Instead, I got a barbecue sandwich and a Coke to go. I think it'll be a while before I return to the Georgia Pig.