Scott W.
Yelp
I should have known something was up. Bourdain prides himself on saying he does not lie on the food he samples. I don't know how consistent this practice is, but I do know that while being filmed eating at Gullah Grub he made no real commentary on the food itself. In fact, he spent more time riding horses with the owner than eating. I mean, it's the Travel Channel, I know, but come on.
The menu reads good and the food is deceptively prepared. Fresh out of the back of an establishment that used to be a house, I was certain the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen was signaling a course of dishes fired over the cast-iron heirlooms of a family steeped in history and gritty, backyard-culled recipes. Based on what hit the table, I think the staff was banging the pots and pans to hide the sound of the microwave ding.
I ordered the ribs, potato salad, cornbread and shrimp gumbo. "No", "eh", "no" and "eh" respectively. The ribs were boney shoulder pads and the cornbread was on the dry side the way a camel's nuts are "a little dusty." The potato salad was average, and for a seaside community they are surprisingly stingy with the shrimp in a shrimp gumbo. Maybe they're used to people wanting more soup out of their gumbo than meat. They didn't have the advertised greens. Mind you, the place opens at noon. How you gonna' be out of stuff when I just saw you open the door? And greens, no less? How you not gonna' have greens in-house? I'm reasonably sure I drove past a few hundred stalks of them coming into town.
I ordered the "Swamp Water" (rim shot) to drink. I am reasonably sure that this is made with actual brackish sewage. The tea tasted like it came out of a garden hose, which is fine when you're seven and have a culinary palate tweaked by Space Rocks and Nerds, but less so when you're a grown foodie. A fellow newcomer informed me that the Swamp Water tastes like lemonade mixed with sweet tea. Wait, what? Any golfer can tell you that's an Arnold Palmer. I drove eleven hours into Gullah country to have a nasty Arnold Palmer? I rounded the meal out with a peach cobbler that was flaccid and breaded with whatever is in moth balls that makes rats die. The menu offers tossed salad, which I didn't order, but certainly felt like I'd experienced.
Here's an observation for my readers in the Klan: Gullah Grub doesn't serve fried chicken. They sell a barbecued chicken, but not fried chicken. They sell a DVD of the owner teaching you how to prepare Grandma's pan-fried chicken and they don't sell fried chicken. They have this same DVD playing on a small TV in the dining area on a loop, but they don't sell fried chicken. They sincerely hope you enjoy the DVD because it's as close as you are getting to fried chicken. And I don't mean they were out (though at this point I would have hardly been surprised). I mean it wasn't on the menu. There is a KFC nine miles away that has better chicken than a world-proclaimed, southern low country cooking restaurant, winning the contest handily via the mere act of serving it at all. That puts the "low" in "low country cooking."
So: missing items off the menu at opening, screw-you service, locals that do come in getting their food to go. The local who bumped the back of my chair going out the door gave me more attention than my waiter. All that glitters on the Travel Channel is not gold.