The Meaning of Thanksgiving

 

Biloxi's Best Burger,  2021

My brother Johnny and I drove into a small parking lot where a square, block concrete building stood, completely windowless and with no visible door. I noticed the vehicles in the lot were mostly trucks and SUVs. After parking his truck, we approached a recessed door marked with a bold sign that read, "No weapons allowed." With some trepidation, I followed him into the bar, which was called The Project, located very close to Keesler Air Force Base.

The single room was dimly lit with a long L-shaped bar and about ten tables scattered throughout. The hanging lights cast a soft glow, creating a dim and solemn atmosphere. It reminded me of the old Star Trek series where the crew would find themselves in a rough bar filled with large, alien-like beings; this time, however, we were the crew.

The Project is a true dive bar, and its popularity is largely due to its proximity to Keesler Air Force Base. The lunchtime crowd mainly consisted of young soldiers who could enjoy a hamburger and a beer for just $10, proudly advertised behind the bar. In the evening, the crowd shifted to older retirees, who filled the long bar, while couples occupied the tables. I could imagine their conversations revolving around war and military heroics. These men were the grizzled veterans, worn and torn, who had lived to tell their stories. Unlike British pubs, there were no dartboards or pool tables here. While tempers might flare and fists could escalate things, the sign at the door made it clear that guns were prohibited.

Single men lined the long bar, many of them staring blankly into their beers. One could only imagine the weight of their thoughts. At the end of the bar, closest to the door, sat four regulars who were there both times we visited. These women must have been particularly thirsty, as they each had two mixed drinks in front of them, perhaps not wanting to wait for the single harried barmaid.

With black-painted walls, dark brown tables, and a mix of oldies and country music playing, the atmosphere was ideal for reminiscing.

To the right of the entry was a small room containing hamburger supplies and excellent potato salad—the sparse menu. No one else was eating except for us, and our order was to-go. A sign behind the well-stocked bar proudly displayed a framed award: "Biloxi's Best Burger 2021."

We placed our order at the bar, and I ordered a glass of wine. As we sat down, my brother pushed an ashtray towards me, and I felt like I was in paradise.

After a brief wait, the cook shuffled out, clearly nursing a serious injury to his leg, likely service-related. My brother pointed out an old blackened coffee can with a large brush inside, sitting on the grill. It turned out that this was the special sauce the cook applied to the burgers as they cooked. The absence of French fries was explained by the risk of fire and the challenge of everyone trying to exit through the single door.

As we settled at one of the tables with Hank Williams playing in the background, my brother nudged the ashtray closer to me, and I said, "Let's take our time.""