FEATURES – September/October 2008

Late—Night Bites

Our Food Editor tells the epic tale of feasting and noshing in Hampton Roads during an after-hours journey like no other.

By Patrick Evans-Hylton

There is nothing like a 400-pound gorilla sitting on your chest, beating its hairy pectorals and dripping acid-tinged saliva onto your face when all you want to do is relax.

The Beast won't budge, except to shift a bit. I try to ignore it and get into a TiVoed episode of Ice Road Truckers. No freaking way.

The sun is down, but it is still hot. It's late summer in Hampton Roads, after all. A neon sign flashes outside my four walls, an obscene glowing red light throbbing in sync with the grunting of The Beast. The rising crescent moon is obscured in haze and humidity. I am sweating; my blood is too thick for a climate like this.

Only a couple of hours have passed since The Beast was fed. That doesn't matter. Tonight, hunger is a lonely hunter.

It won't be satisfied until I throw on my jeans and wrinkled T-shirt and grab my Ray-Bans. You can't go out on a night like this, with a 400-pound gorilla in tow, without Ray-Bans. My car, Yo Yo, starts. The satellite radio plays a Jefferson Airplane tune.

Go ask Alice, I think she'll know

I turn onto Atlantic Avenue and head down the strip.

"Damn, where did all these people come from?" I ask The Beast. He just grunts.

The street is littered with tourists capturing the very last weekend of summer. They waddle down the sidewalk, having consumed the very last of the all-you-can-eat fried shrimp at one of the many buffets. Although their ravenous appetites should be sated like my own monster, they are not. A man in a Hawaiian shirt so small it barely covers his expanding belly steps in front of Yo Yo as I turn into Mahi Mah's.

The Beast roars. My horn blares. The tourist mumbles something and shuffles inside with a throng of others.

"It's ok," I shout to the kid doing the valet parking. His image reflects in my sunglasses. "We're just a couple of good Americans like yourself. Just here to get a bite to eat. Nothing to worry about. No sir-ree-bob." I toss him the keys and slip a $5 into his sweaty palm.

For the full version of this article, see the September issue of Hampton Roads Magazine-available wherever magazines are sold.

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