|Downtown Forsyth GA|
After the game, Bob headed for Augusta and I headed for Savannah. I'd already been to Charleston, back in the mid-80s on vacation with my (now ex-)wife and kids, and I wanted to spend the next morning exploring Savannah, about which I'd heard nothing but good things.
Outside of Macon, I decided to leave the highway to look for a place to get some supper, and found myself in the town of Forsyth. Apart from its imposing late-Victorian town hall, it was undistinguished. These places invariably make me think of To Kill A Mockingbird, and I always wonder what it would be like to live in them. The town's only open restaurant, the Farm House, was crowded and looked pretty interesting, with simple decor and cafeteria-style service. I sensed an undiscovered jewel, and thought about all those little cafes and diners food writers Jan and Michael Stern are always finding in the most unlikely locales and describing in their newspaper column. Alas, though the Farm House certainly looked the part, and the servers were friendly, the food proved to be mediocre. I finished my rubbery catfish, climbed back into the Camry, and drove the rest of the way to Savannah, listening to HNC on the radio until it got dark enough to pull in WFAN from NY.
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