The sun was on a power trip, thinking it’s the boss of the sky, while the Sandies, a band of eight doughnut-powered nomads, were all set to blaze through 188 miles of Florida’s finest tarmac. Their mission? To worship at the altar of the most divine BBQ this side of the mighty Mississippi.
The pilgrimage to The Bridge, as they reverently dubbed it, was a breeze. Even Florida’s infamous humidity decided to play hooky, making the ride a slice of Sandie heaven. Now, The Bridge might not have the historical heft of its London namesake, but in the annals of Sandie lore, it’s a legend in its own right.
But let’s not put the cart before the horse. For the moment, let’s just say that the Sandie’s BBQ quest nearly bit the dust at The Bridge. The dream of smoky, meaty goodness nearly evaporated like the last wisps of smoke from a grill at dawn.
The saga began with an innocent click from Tommy N’s bike—more like a distress signal from his rear tire. “Hey George, time for a pit stop,” Tommy signaled. JoeJoe, the tire whisperer, diagnosed a wood screw. The solution? A pit stop at a concrete bridge on Old River Road, destined to be immortalized as The Bridge. Not the Brooklyn Bridge, not the Victoria Bridge, but The Bridge that would echo in Sandie Road lore eternity.
The tire repair kits were whipped out, and the Sandies descended on the rocks and concrete like knights ready for battle. It was a close call, but Tony G, channeling some ancient tire wizardry, triumphed. Tire patched and pride intact, they hit the road again.
With their stomachs howling like a pack of wolves, the Sandies made a beeline for Sightler Farms and Mercantile Co., a culinary haven just south of Andalusia on Highway 55. They don’t just dish out BBQ; they serve Bar-B-Que, so sacred it demands to be spelled out in full.
Once more, Tony G carved the Sandies into the annals of history. “Rootbeer,” Tony requested. “Nope, but Dr. Pepper’s in the house,” came Tony’s succinct reply. “AK, no,” Tony then asked for grilled chicken?” “Sorry, we’re fresh out.” Tony G had the Bar-B-Que and declared it fit for the Gods.
This wasn’t the Sandie’s first rodeo with gastronomic plot twists. Cast your minds back to the Indian Beach Oyster House & Trading post debacle. JoeJoe, perusing the menu, asked for hot dogs, out. hamburgers, out, fish sandwiches same.” “So, what’s on the menu?” “Oysters,” the answer as clear as the establishment’s name. For Tony, it was all about the Bar-B-Que, and despite the menu misadventures, the feast was nothing short of heavenly (get it Gods, heavenly , I still got that old snap).
Tim W indulged in a baked potato so decadent, it was like a Bar-B-Que sundae topped with sour cream—a culinary marvel.
A very special shout out to Sandy S is in order, for herding this feline frenzy with the grace of a seasoned Sheepdog—much appreciated, Sandy.
Tim W bid adieu, taking the path less traveled. The Sandies, true to their creed, ventured home via the scenic detour of Mossy Head—because why take the direct route when you can embrace the extraordinary?
As the Sandie mantra goes, “Sandies leave together and Sandies come home together.” And so we did, epic journey and all, mission gloriously accomplished.
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