Johnson Creek Tavern

August 20, 2008 • (0) Comments

Harbour Island’s Johnson Creek Tavern is the place to go when you want fried seafood. Fried shrimp, fried fish, fried oysters, fried scallops, fried hushpuppies, french fries and even fried pickles adorn a menu that satisfies kids of all ages.

We visited three or four times during August and the only misses were a cloying “pluff mud pie” for dessert and the beverage selection. Somehow, restaurants here (and the JCT is one of them) omit the better call-brands of rum. Mount Gay Eclipse, the widely-distributed Barbados brand known fondly by sailors everywhere as the Breakfast of Champions, is missing in action in the lowcountry. Same for Haiti’s Rhum Barbancourt, a veritable glassful of warm caramel and cane. What a shame, because the view from JCT’s dining rooms and deck overlooks Johnson Creek where it courses into St. Helena Sound and the Atlantic-proper. All that deep water so near probably puts more than one diner in a mind to go a’cruising.

And for that, you need rum.

Added 08/20/2008 at 1:39 PM • Section: Incidental Blather
Categories: Picks & Pans
Permalink to this entry

About this entry

Excerpt:

Harbour Island’s Johnson Creek Tavern is the place to go when you want fried seafood.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 20, 2008 at 1:39 PM.

Author:

Related Entries

Open for business

RS@N is now open for comments. You’ll have to register first, but I won’t make you wear the club tie or anything like that. Sign-up, sign-in and sound-off.

Summer’s here

Editors asleep, the New York Times misquotes Ian Fleming

Everybody knows how James Bond likes his martinis, but not even The New York Times understands why he digs them that way.

First skateboard ride in Antarctica

It is little-known but true that my brother was the first human being to ride a skateboard on the continent of Antarctica.

Post-partum

My friend Kenton is eager to fish together again soon and, regretting lost opportunities that might have been saved if we’d fished just one hour more, has sworn a vow of depression until we return to the Catskills.

Hail, November

What better way is there to celebrate the arrival of November than an hour on quiet water with a good cigar?

Trout on a fly

Long before my first fish had taken its fly, I’d considered the irony of my investment in fly-fishing.

Ghosts

Days passed in a welter of boxes, blankets, and labels, bubblewrap, some newsprint, much tape and sore muscles; in rapid order, choices were made, discards jettisoned, and goodbyes hastily arranged. And when moving day abruptly arrived and the shipper’s Bill of Lading presented for scrutiny, we slowed only to empty bank accounts and acknowledge toll booths.

redsky@night