The Burning of Atlanta Completed

Trail of Beers

Nov. 23-24

Thursday was Thanksgiving, so most of the bars were closed. 

Maryellen and Kenny were coming to pick me up a little after one, so I set out in the direction of Max Lager’s in search of beer shortly before noon. 

On the way, I passed what qualifies as a historical site. This is the kind of stuff you find all over the former slave states, and most of it dates to the period after Reconstruction until the 1930s or ’40s. 

A plaque in a park on Peachtree Street has the headline “Historic Reconciliation.” Jefferson Davis sometime in the 1880s (long after the armies of the rebellion lost the Civil War) was dedicating a statue in memory of some local bigwig. According to the plaque, the former rebel general James Longstreet, who had been “estranged from Davis since Reconstruction,” rode up on his horse, dismounted, and gave Davis a big hug. 

Big deal. By then the slavery side leaders were all dying off. Robert E. Lee had his stroke in ’69. So they couldn’t be as picky any more about who they would associate with. 

This was an unusual find for my secessionist memorabilia collection because, on the one hand, it didn’t commemorate the boys in gray who fought for the principles of the Founding Fathers, and on the other, it had nothing to do with Stonewall Jackson.

While I was wiping off the oak leaves to photograph the plaque, a guy named Scott came up to me and started talking. He knew a lot about the neighborhood, or just as useful, was very skilled at making things up.

Max Lager’s is next to that little park, but it was closed.

The oldest church in Atlanta was down Peachtree Street, St. Luke’s, founded in 1864. The Methodist Church on the right was burned by Sherman. All that’s original is the bell.

Scott pointed out some other stuff, too, as we walked down the street together. Then we parted ways when he directed me into St. Luke’s Park, which is part of the church grounds. That’s when he asked me for a little help. Hell, the tour was worth five bucks, easy.

I got back to the hotel in plenty of time to meet Maryellen and Kenny at one-thirty. So I had a couple of beers at the hotel bar. The Stella was better, but still too close to flat. They also serve a local IPA there called Hoplanta, and that was very good.

Ken and Mare’s son, Thomas, was with them. 

We went to a very good place called Legal Seafood, which is part of a chain that has restaurants up and down the East Coast. There’s one in Paramus, N.J., and I saw one in Washington. This one, on the west side of Midtown Atlanta, is in a perfect location, directly across the street from the Georgia Aquarium. Fish doesn’t get fresher than that. (After all, Legal says it’s seafood is so fresh that “one day the main course took a bite out of the appetizer.”)

This franchise was running a turkey special for Thanksgiving. 

There was a nice wine menu, so I had a Latour Chardonnay with dinner. Raw oysters are always terrific, and they are very good for dietary iron. I know this from the Internet, so it must be true.

Turkey is great because of the go-withs. The meat itself isn’t all that tasty, but the gravy and the stuffing are always comfort food. So are Southern style vegetables. I never enjoyed broccoli more. It was cooked soft and mixed with a cheese sauce.

The chocolate pudding cake went perfectly with port. 

After dinner, we walked down the block and took a stroll through the Centennial Olympic Park, where the Olympic games and the bombing took place in ’96.

The park apparently replaced a rundown neighborhood and now is crowded by commercial and cultural buildings, including the World of Coca-Cola. The photo of the day is a feature of Coke World, with a four-story Coke bottle inside a glass tower.

The skating rink was playing loud music, but the real attraction was the fountain. Maryellen pointed out to me that it is a mosaic of the Olympic rings. Jets of water come up in various patterns out of the rings, and that’s what I saw first. People cross the jets to have their photos taken. One lady was stuck inside the fountain for a while.

Friday morning, I got up at five so I wouldn’t have to rush and would still get to the airport early.

I walked uphill a couple of blocks to the Peachtree Center MARTA station, and was at the airport in about half an hour or so. I was there a couple of minutes past eight for a ten-forty five flight.

All I had taken was a couple of cups of coffee, and when I started for the gate, I became concerned. Except for a Starbucks, the only food and drink that I could see were Cokes out of vending machines and pre-made sandwiches offered on shelves behind plastic curtains. I walked to the other end of the D gates terminal. There were two bars, but they were closed. Just about when I was ready to despair, I fell on the Georgia Peach Bar and Grille.

They couldn’t draw beer before nine. Fair enough, I guess, so I had the BLT with a glass of water and waited. At nine, the bartender started mixing a champagne cocktail (another excellent breakfast drink) and let us all know the taps were open for business.

While I was nursing a Sweetwater 420, a lady came in and asked, “What local brews do you have?” Like wow, man, deja vu. That’s my first question.

I’ve got this good system worked out. You drink on the ground and sleep in the plane. I was so far out that when the plane touched down in Charlotte, I got tossed. I thought we were dodging missiles.

The Taste of Carolina in the B terminal at Charlotte has North Carolina brews. I sampled the Olde Mecklenburg Brewery Copper, an amber ale made in Charlotte. It was Americanized, quite a bit lighter than I expected. It won’t replace Duvel or an ESB, as ales go, but it was still good.

Hoppyum IPA from Foothills Brewery in Winston-Salem is well named, very tasty and bitter.

I’m on the last leg of the trip right now. I’m waiting for Joanna, who’s coming in from Phoenix at seven. 

I killed an hour at Ruby Tuesday next to the gate in terminal A. My bag was waiting in an office next to the baggage claim.

I’m in terminal C and have two hours to kill. I may have to go back to A, though, to find a bar.

P.S. Terminal B has the City Point Bar outside the security perimeter. I’m sending this from there.

Except for the cab ride, Harry’s back home for a while.

Be well, all.