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Not equipped
with a “let's get in line and wait” gene, I always want to go eat somewhere else
when the line is too long. John Wayne and Elvis could come back to earth, happy
to autograph 8 x10 glossies for the crowd. I wouldn’t wait in line. For Carla though, there’s that antique/junk
store next door so we wait.
Well, I wait
while she goes inside and touches absolutely everything in the place,
especially the stuff with the “Do Not Touch” signs.
She makes me
stay, unswayed by my petulance, as she dances joyfully off to bond with all the
same kind of old and interesting (junk) that is already stuffed into every
corner of our house.
Sooner than
expected, the hostess calls out our name over the speaker system. It’s even
wired into the antique store. Smart. Diners browse, maybe buy something,
waiting to hear their names called out. Win-win.
On our first
visit some 40 years ago, I balked. No booths. No beer. Cash only. Spotting
another diner under the age of 40 is rare. Sometimes it seems like an oxygen
tank and three-headed cane may be part of the required dress code.
There’s a
good reason for that though. The older crowd no longer care about the
trappings, the “cool” factor has no relevance. What does?
Great food
at a great price. Good service with a smile.
The best
“home cooking” in town. Want some crunchy perfect fried chicken? Maybe a big
slice of meatloaf with gravy? Try the daily specials. The big draw for all
these years though has been the lightly fried local shrimp. Butterflied, hot,
awesome. You want 9 or 12? Some pink sauce with a dash of Datil heat?
Carla and I
split the 24 platter, the best deal.
It's simple,
really. I’m 74 now and no longer care much about the beer, booth, music, or the
cool factor nearly as much as I care about reliably outstanding Southern style
food, at a fair price.
Oh, and Osteen’s
has always had the best staff as well. Long time waitresses we’ve seen dozens
of times. Been there forever. (Must be a good place to work.)
Ready with
cash, we carry our Styrofoam treasure up to the cashier. Eternally cheerful,
concerned to know that everything was up to par. It is. She beams. Actually, always more than up to
par.
We walk out,
“God blessed” by the cashier.
No longer
pouting, happily stuffed with some of the best fried shrimp…anywhere. I leave
the Styrofoam out on the kitchen counter, looking forward to more of the same
later in the day.
My wife is
wonderful. She makes me do stuff I never want to, stuff that I insist I won’t
do. Then I’m always happy that I did. How does she know?
Carla hugs
the sunny cashier when we leave. Funny that something so totally out of
character for me and so natural for her, makes me smile inexplicably like the
Cheshire cat every time I remember it.
If you
haven’t been to the fort, walked St George Street, and eaten at O’Steen’s…
you’ve never been to St Augustine.
