Have you ever wondered why cilantro, black beans and arroz con pollo exist seemingly only south of the Florida state line and chicken and dumplings magically pop onto menus as soon as you get north of it?
What if I told you it had to do with an ear?
Look, this isn't high school history and there won't be a quiz on names and dates later, so let's distill this down to the least we all need to know: In the mid-18th century, the newly-founded Georgia was a little like Israel: two different groups of people wanted to claim it — the Spanish and the Brits. The Brits had the colonies to the north and Spain had Florida, which I think we can all agree was the better end of the deal, what with its beaches and better winters. That wasn't enough; Spain wanted Georgia, too. Enter Robert Jenkins, with two perfectly serviceable ears. Jenkins, a smuggler extraordinaire who had loyalties to the Brits, attempted to board a ship commanded by a Spanish privateer (that's what you call pirates when they're on your side). The privateer failed to appreciate Jenkins' zeal and cut off his ear, which of course the Brits took as an act of war (somehow, Jenkins kept the ear and brought it back to Parliament instead of, you know, a board-certified surgeon).
In short, a series of battles ensued in what we now call — with some degree of mirth — The War of Jenkins' Ear.
On St. Simon's, an small island about 45 minutes north of Florida by car and fewer by boat, the war played out with the Battle of Bloody Marsh, a battle filled with trickery and treachery and ending with everyone agreeing that Florida was apt to get weird somewhere in the 20th century and should be contained to south of the St. John's River. And that, within 30 miles or so, is where the border has stayed, a clean line between the Deep South, entrenched in colonialism, and the New South, a black bean-filled haven with far fewer plantations.
To explore the site of the battle where the fate of Florida and the South ultimately landed, I accept an invitation from the King and Prince, a dog-friendly beachfront resort on St. Simon's Island. And, true to geography, I find nary a Cuban sandwich but plenty of what the South calls its "Golden Isles," which I discover by following a grey ribbon of asphalt through a tangle of marsh.
The King and Prince has a nifty history, albeit one that doesn't start until almost 200 years after the nastiness with the ear. It started as a dance club, rivaling a neighboring dance club, but mysteriously (OK, not all that mysteriously) burned down. The owners rebuilt... just in time for the world to go to war in the late 1930s. A local noticed an odd ship off the coast — which also happens to be the furthest west the coast goes along the U.S. eastern seaboard — and, upon realizing it was a German submarine and way too close to the Mississippi River for comfort, the game on St. Simons Island changed. The King and Prince became a radar station and training camp for the military.
Today, it's a restored Mediterranean resort reminiscent of grander days, which seems at odds with the island's Low Country culture: Gullah and gators juxtaposed with golf and tennis. The indoor swimming pool gave way to an untroubled, sophisticated bar, but outside amidst the five pools (which is not at all overkill) that replaced it, you can still see indignant herons, looking displaced and pissed off, even after 80-some-odd years.
Eschewing the resort food, Beachcomber BBQ a few steps outside the resort has a decidedly unpretentious feel. They have ribs, and a few other things, but mostly ribs. After that, it's on to Fort Frederica National Monument, which looks much like most other historic battlefields, be they in Florida or the South: Nature interspersed with mosquitoes and historical markers.
While the resort has plenty to do — a gym, a bar, access to a golf course — I concern myself with the beach and the local color. Atlantic beaches and tides that span more than a few feet fascinate this Gulf coast girl. Breakfast at the resort also has a Deep South feel — as much as I want the breakfast po' boy, I choose the marginally healthier Low Country Omelet, with andouille, shrimp, corn, potatoes and, of course, cheese. A few hours south of here, in Cocoa, I order the Surfer's Special at Robert's, which is black beans and rice topped with an egg over medium and Cuban toast. Why, I muse, does something barely outside Florida — we can practically see Fort Clinch from our patio — feel so distinctly antebellum?
The answer, of course, lies with an ear.
