Mr. Olive Crazy and I went out on the town last night. Since moving to Wrens, Georgia, were I am conducting version 2.0 of my olive variety trials, we hadn’t had a proper “date night.” And, we needed one – badly.
After a day of making farm-related purchases in the nearest “big city,” Augusta, we turned to our trusty mobile restaurant apps to find good food, a comfortable atmosphere, and a tasty martini. After some debate we settled on Sheehan’s Irish Pub at the intersection of Central and Monte Sano Avenues. It was the perfect choice.
We settled into a cozy corner booth, ordered drinks, and food and turned our attention to the college football game playing behind the bar. While I sipped my drink, Tom wiped out the bread the waitress left on the table. Seeing that the bread quickly disappeared, the waitress asked if we’d like some more. I hadn’t had any so I left that decision to Tom. He gave her an enthusiastic – yes, and remarking about its salty, chewy, deliciousness asked what kind of bread it was.
My ears perked up at her response. “Kalamata olive bread,” she said. Now I absolutely had to try the bread.
It was wonderful. The exterior was slightly crunchy without being a tooth-breaker. The inside had a light but chewy texture and the saltiness of the Kalamata olives was perfect.
I tried to find out which bakery made the bread but didn’t have much success. The restaurant orders it through Sysco and the invoice had a code of BrkSimp, which wasn’t helpful. I’m resolved to call Sysco on Monday to find out the bakery name. It’s a start.
After our splendid meal Tom and I went old school and drove through a local car wash featuring disco lights. It seemed fitting since the car wash is across the street from the former location of Stonehenge, a discotheque from the 70s, where a young Tom held up the wall near the dance floor and a young Mary danced her heart out to The Commodores Brick House and the Bee Gees Night Fever.
These days the not-so-young Mary and Tom are content to grow olives, eat Kalamata olive bread, and drive through a disco car wash before returning to the country where soft breezes blow through the silvery leaves of our young olive trees.
May the sun shine through your branches.