Woke up to a pretty grim day - windy and rainy, and the
forecast was for more of the same, so after a quick trip
to breakfast (same as the other day), it was back to bed.
We woke up in the early afternoon, to bright sunshine and
and 67 glorious F. So we hastily clad ourselves and walked
about town for a while - quite dead it was, too, although
pretty; then came back for the Gloria Ferrer, which was a
pretty decent Champers substitute for $20 (regular retail
$18, but we'd got it on Christmas Eve in Georgia) - a very
comely pale pinky orange that poured with an excellent
mousse and nice little bubbles. Strawberryish-lemonish
aroma, rather enticing, and a mixed berry and citrusy
taste, good acid-sweet balance. Not much finish, but
what do you expect. After which it was time for a brief
nap and then off to Christmas dinner.

Got all dolled up and took a stroll down Bay St., which
was deserted except for a couple bars that were totally
jampacked - we noted the Moon River Brewing Co. for later.
Arrived at The Olde Pink House a hair early and went to
the basement pub for a drink - the bartenders pour without
measures, but they obviously are held to a close standard
- the girl behind the bar eyeballed a pretty exact 1.5 oz
Maker's Mark, and she got her supervisor to pour the
right-size measure of Don Fino for Carol. A fairly festive
but low-key atmosphere with a decent tinkle pianist singer
in the corner. At 8:29 we went back to the hostess station
and in a minute or two were sent into a half-empty top-floor
room (I guess they wanted to make sure we were going to buy
that extra drink); as we were on our way the hostess
whispered behind her a warning about the prime rib, saying
that they'd had complaints about it. Interesting, thought I,
and opined to Carol that they must have been running out of
it. We were seated in a quiet corner table with a view of
the square where John Wesley used to live or something (for
Carol) and of the Lucas Theater, site of various musical
and theatrical events (for me). Did you know that a city of
the pretensions of Savannah cannot sustain a professional
orchestra (or, as far as I can tell, any orchestra at all)?
The musicians of the former Symphony have this bitter joke
that if you want culture in Savannah, eat some yogurt.

Anyhow. We were having a decent time. Our waitress was
friendly and didn't seem put out to be working on Christmas
- I inquired about the prime rib, just to see what she would
say, and she sort of paused, said it was fine, but then
suggested the crispy flounder with apricot glaze, which was
what I was inclined to order anyway, as it is as much as
anything the "signature dish" of the area (both Anson's in
Charleston and Garibaldi's in Savannah claim inventorship).

I started with she-crab soup, another low-country specialty
- this turned out to be a pretty ordinary though well made
cream of crab with no roe and garnished with a few drops of
what tasted like Fairbanks sherry. Very unlike the delicate
she-crab I've had before.

Carol's bean soup with bacon and collards was hearty and
as advertised; it would have been well served, though, by
some of that cheap sherry.

Her black grouper stuffed with crabmeat was a sizable slab
of quite nice fish topped with a green-pepper-heavy crab
imperial - decent.

The famed crispy flounder with apricot glaze was in fact a
pretty exact copy of Cantonese sweet-sour fish. The sauce
had a hint of sesame oil and ginger, which means of course
that I liked it (really!). One of the pleasures of this dish
is that you get to crunch on the fried bones; unfortunately,
the fish had its revenge on me, and I ended up with this
sharp thing protruding from my upper gum. Endured this until
we got to the hotel, where with the assistance of a pair of
tweezers and an interdental stimulator, out popped an inch-
long bloody fishbone.

The sides for both dishes were "hoppin' John," really rice
with a few black-eyed peas, and barely-steamed baby green
beans, which were extremely stringy.

We'd ordered the Trimbach Pinot Blanc, which would have
been a good all-around accompaniment, but our waitress
came back, with apparent chagrin on her face, with the
news that it was out; my second choice was the Ch. Ste.
Michelle Chardonnay, which was not as nice. Rather oaky,
imbalanced toward the sweet; better with the grouper
than the flounder, I thought.

The only dessert that called our names was pecan pie,
which was served with an oversweetened, overwhipped, grainy
whipped cream and (apparently) Haagen-Dazs vanilla. Carol's
slice was overcooked and dark; mine undercooked and very
blonde. They were both okay and nothing more - I wouldn't
be surprised if they'd come from Piggly Wiggly.

During our actually pleasant and leisurely meal we had 12
other diners order within earshot; only one of these asked
for the prime rib. Of course, I excused myself to go to the
restroom and not incidentally eyeball they guy's dinner -
it was a decent-size cut of the less good end of the rib,
done quite gray (he'd asked for medium-rare, but it was 10,
and medium was probably the best they could offer), and he
ate only half of it. So maybe the hostess had had our
interests at heart after all.