now they're working their way through the Gospels, and focusing on the words in red.
Davis lets his bar speak for itself. It's neither his podium nor his pulpit, but he's always listening, and he'll speak up if you ask him the right question or look like you need a friend. And while he may serve both beer and mixed drinks, I've never seen him touch either one, although he is partial to his own cooking. Between the environment and the food, people can't stay away. This includes Charlie and me.
And talk about successful restaurants. An armored truck makes two pickups a week. With that much money flowing through here, you're probably asking yourself, Yeah, what about the money? Sounds like a scam . . . like maybe he's using all that religion and Scripture quoting to pad his own pocket. Problem is, we all know better. Davis got his investors to oversee the finances so he could concentrate on what he did best-hoisting up the bucket. As a result, Davis never touches a penny; he's paid a reasonable salary with a quarterly bonus based on net income and couldn't steal from himself if he tried.
The parking lot was half-full, and Davis's enormous Harley, chromed from stem to stern, sat to one side of the front door when Charlie and I arrived. I parked next to Sal Cohen's decadeold Cadillac, and we walked in. Four guys stood in the back propped between pool cues and baseball caps, talking above squinty eyes and the cigarettes dangling from their lips. The cloud of smoke hanging just above their heads swirled slightly from the single ceiling fan that sucked the air around the inside of the bar. The stacks of quarters lined up along the green velvet rail told me they'd be there all night.
Upside down on the wall above the bar hangs the world's largest armadillo. At almost three feet long with a pre-roadkill weight of twenty-five pounds, he was three times bigger than any armadillo I'd ever seen. All the locals called him Leppy, because armadillos are known to carry leprosy, but I just called him Gross, because he was.
An out-of-town couple sat at a table against the wall, clutching hands and wearing slick biker leathers, unscuffed Dingo boots, bandanna do-rags, and black T-shirts they had bought at Bike Week the year before. They were what the locals call "weekend warriors from Atlanta."
Davis stood sweating in a white, grease-stained apron, flipping a griddle full of burgers with one hand and pounding out patties with the other. As we walked through the door, he waved his spatula at us. Charlie tapped the floor with his walking stick, checking the location of the chairs between him and the bar.
"Hungry?" Davis asked over his shoulder.
"I could eat the butt end of a horse," Charlie replied.
"Ahh." Davis smiled and shook his head to avoid the smoke. "A man after my own heart."
I spotted Sal, patted him on the back, and we took a seat at the bar next to him. Davis poured me a Sprite from the fountain while he made Charlie a St. Peter Johnny Walker Black Label with soda.
Davis had no problem with you drinking if he detected it wasn't an issue for you. If it was, and he did, then he'd serve you, but you might not enjoy it very much. Drinking had never been an option for me. Occupational hazard, you might say. And after I left my occupation, I just never picked it up.
On our left sat Sal, making his way through a cheeseburgerwhich, as slowly as he ate and as much as he chewed, would take the better part of an hour. And on my right slouched a greasy, skinny stranger staring at three empty glasses of beer and trying to make sense out of the Scripture verses printed on his cocktail napkins. Davis had loaded him up with popcorn, peanuts, and napkins, apparently working him over pretty good.
As for the empty glasses-he hadn't really drunk three whole beers. He thought he had, but the alcohol content had been altered somewhat. Actually, it'd been altered a lot. To strangers that are "of legal age," Davis gives what they ask for. Real
Davis lets his bar speak for itself. It's neither his podium nor his pulpit, but he's always listening, and he'll speak up if you ask him the right question or look like you need a friend. And while he may serve both beer and mixed drinks, I've never seen him touch either one, although he is partial to his own cooking. Between the environment and the food, people can't stay away. This includes Charlie and me.
And talk about successful restaurants. An armored truck makes two pickups a week. With that much money flowing through here, you're probably asking yourself, Yeah, what about the money? Sounds like a scam . . . like maybe he's using all that religion and Scripture quoting to pad his own pocket. Problem is, we all know better. Davis got his investors to oversee the finances so he could concentrate on what he did best-hoisting up the bucket. As a result, Davis never touches a penny; he's paid a reasonable salary with a quarterly bonus based on net income and couldn't steal from himself if he tried.
The parking lot was half-full, and Davis's enormous Harley, chromed from stem to stern, sat to one side of the front door when Charlie and I arrived. I parked next to Sal Cohen's decadeold Cadillac, and we walked in. Four guys stood in the back propped between pool cues and baseball caps, talking above squinty eyes and the cigarettes dangling from their lips. The cloud of smoke hanging just above their heads swirled slightly from the single ceiling fan that sucked the air around the inside of the bar. The stacks of quarters lined up along the green velvet rail told me they'd be there all night.
Upside down on the wall above the bar hangs the world's largest armadillo. At almost three feet long with a pre-roadkill weight of twenty-five pounds, he was three times bigger than any armadillo I'd ever seen. All the locals called him Leppy, because armadillos are known to carry leprosy, but I just called him Gross, because he was.
An out-of-town couple sat at a table against the wall, clutching hands and wearing slick biker leathers, unscuffed Dingo boots, bandanna do-rags, and black T-shirts they had bought at Bike Week the year before. They were what the locals call "weekend warriors from Atlanta."
Davis stood sweating in a white, grease-stained apron, flipping a griddle full of burgers with one hand and pounding out patties with the other. As we walked through the door, he waved his spatula at us. Charlie tapped the floor with his walking stick, checking the location of the chairs between him and the bar.
"Hungry?" Davis asked over his shoulder.
"I could eat the butt end of a horse," Charlie replied.
"Ahh." Davis smiled and shook his head to avoid the smoke. "A man after my own heart."
I spotted Sal, patted him on the back, and we took a seat at the bar next to him. Davis poured me a Sprite from the fountain while he made Charlie a St. Peter Johnny Walker Black Label with soda.
Davis had no problem with you drinking if he detected it wasn't an issue for you. If it was, and he did, then he'd serve you, but you might not enjoy it very much. Drinking had never been an option for me. Occupational hazard, you might say. And after I left my occupation, I just never picked it up.
On our left sat Sal, making his way through a cheeseburgerwhich, as slowly as he ate and as much as he chewed, would take the better part of an hour. And on my right slouched a greasy, skinny stranger staring at three empty glasses of beer and trying to make sense out of the Scripture verses printed on his cocktail napkins. Davis had loaded him up with popcorn, peanuts, and napkins, apparently working him over pretty good.
As for the empty glasses-he hadn't really drunk three whole beers. He thought he had, but the alcohol content had been altered somewhat. Actually, it'd been altered a lot. To strangers that are "of legal age," Davis gives what they ask for. Real
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