Madness, sheer utter madness!
Last Thursday was beautiful, but there were no Trailheads on the path to truth and barbecue because Trail Master was out of town, and the rest of the crew was lazier than the children of a Lazy Susan and a Laz-Z-Boy chair.
This week, globetrottin’ George was off to Paris for the Olympics (contrary to rumors, he is not competing) and hobnobbing with Lindsey Vonn and Katarina Witt. Nadia Comăneci joined in today, too. George apparently doesn't know any shot putters.
Back in Atlanta, the threat of rain scared Steve, Roy, and Brad; even though it was as dry as melba toast, the weather system was up north. But two true Trailheads rallied like champs. Patrick drove to Guy’s house for the express ride to Zonolite Park Trail.
And from the get-go, there were issues. Guy’s Jeep told him one of its tires had low air pressure, so he had Patrick slowly drive the car to inspect the rubber and see if there was a nail stuck in it. Negatory. We saddled up for the drive to the trail. Patrick sat in the passenger seat and realized he was next to a spider that had built a web inside the vehicle’s window. What kind of haunted jalopy was this anyway?!
Unfortunately, he did not take a picture of the eight-legged beast (he was too busy screaming blood-curdling yelps of cowardice). Fortunately, we found a photo of what Patrick swears is a close approximation of the angry arachnid. Trust him that it was enormous, probably poisonous, and may have been a dragon spider able to breathe flames!!! He bravely dispatched it outside, brushing away the spider’s temporary home.
Guy began the drive to Zonolite Park Trail through congested Atlanta traffic. Would we make it? Would his tire hold? We threw caution to the wind and journeyed onward like Lewis and Clark in a traffic jam. We last hiked Zonolite with a whole crew on July 14, 2022. Read about that thrilling adventure here and learn the fascinating history of this trail.
The beloved Floataway Cafe was on the road to Zonolite Park; Kevin Gillespie's restaurant Nàdair has taken over the space. The name comes from the Scots Gaelic phrase “dòigh nàdair” or “way of nature.” It sounds fancy enough for Trailheads, right? But the place isn't open for lunch.
Because of the overnight downpour, parts of the trail were muddy. Somehow, the brave Trailheads (all two of them) persevered, showing that with determination, grit, and incredible courage, we can overcome any obstacle. Fio missed Elvis but was happy to be out and about and made many new friends.
One pal was a Dalmatian owned by a woman named Cruella. She was wearing a pretty fur coat, which is an odd choice on a humid late-July day, but she seemed nice, aside from her diabolical laughter as she eyed Fio.
The intrepid Trailheads went to the creek for a selfie as dirty brown water flowed in the background. We discussed the 1966 classic song “Dirty Water” by The Standells.
Back then, there was a rumor that the song contained sexual lyrics. Guy revealed what they were. Patrick’s jaw dropped, and his eyes popped. They continued walking in silent prayer.
Guy saw a tree slowly being eroded into the creek, hanging on by its roots. "Fascinating," was all Patrick could muster as Guy made a 19-minute, 136-slide PowerPoint presentation about the savage power of erosion and its implications for our planet.
We saw a sign with profound philosophical wisdom and made a note to take the advice sometime soon. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. We may save it for a 2025 resolution.
Then we came to a sign warning of slow cats crossing, but they must have been faster than us. We saw no felines. Oddly, people rarely walk their cats on the trails.
Trail Master checked the map to see where we were. The sign mocked him by screaming, "YOU ARE HERE.”
We took the sarcastic note from the map and let our fellow Trailheads know we would be lunching at Wa Ga Ya in Emory Village, a favorite Japanese restaurant with sushi, ramen, and cooked things not from the sea that Patrick would eat.
Since this hike was unusual, with only two dedicated Trailheads, why not trash our mission statement? We weren't on the path to truth or barbecue. Nope. A couple of us were on the muddy path to a sushi joint. Oh, the shame of it.
But before we met for lunch, we went by the Brookhaven Costco, and a nice man filled Guy's low tire with nitrogen and told him to return. He said he’d check the tire for damage and possibly fill Guy with helium for grins.
Surprise, surprise––somehow Roy, Steve, and Brad rallied for lunch. They braved the post-rainy weather to hear the tales from the trails and chow down on some raw fish. We huddled over bowls and plates and worked chopsticks like knitting needles, stuffing our gobs.
Brad attacked his dish with such wild abandon that he sheared off a toothpick-sized splinter from his chopstick. He nearly swallowed it.
It was a fine lunch despite the lack of smoked meats or coleslaw. Afterward, Guy offered to buy us a post-lunch coffee. We headed down the way to Summit Coffee Emory Village. Young people packed the place, staring at their laptops and flipping through books.
We suspect they were Emory students. They no doubt took one look at us and assumed the short bus from home had dropped some of the old folks off for coffees to give the attendants a break. We resisted the urge to lecture them of what coffee shops were like “in our day.”
When we entered, the average age was raised by a few decades. We ordered our fancy java drinks. Brad quickly arranged the cups to approximate an Olympics logo. He is always “on-brand.” We lifted our drinks and toasted our Parisian Trailhead brother George. The students stared. The barista pointed out that it was a clear Olympics logo violation and Brad should know better.
We stood out front and looked like ne’er-do-wells or creepy old guys hanging out at the hip college latte shop.
The five Trailheads scattered. It was an odd day, a muddy hike, and a radical departure for lunch. What’s this world coming to? Why, in our day…
Rating: Four Ribs*
Wa Ga Ya
1579 N Decatur Rd
Atlanta, GA 30307
404.522.3000
*About Our Barbecue Rating System
Trailheads do not claim to be food experts, epicureans, or sophisticated palates. We are hungry hikers who attack a selected barbecue venue and ravage our way through whatever smoked fare and fixings they're dishing out.
Our reviews feature what we believe are the highlights of the menu we sampled. So our intent is not to trash talk the saintly folks who tend to smoldering smokers on hot, humid summer days. They are sacrificing themselves in the noble art of smoking meats and feeding the drooling masses. Many are independent entrepreneurs who are the backbone of this humming American economy.
Now that you know our standards, you may wonder why every barbecue place gets a four-ribs rating. The answer is easy: our group has acclaimed designers, and they think the ribs graphic looks cool.
Who are we to argue? Enjoy.
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