"We're going to die here!" a friend posted on Facebook recently. She was at an outlet mall, and I totally get it. Outlet malls are… well, let's just say they're not exactly my idea of a fun Florida road trip. When I think of parts of Florida I want to explore, little-known cracks and crevices of the Sunshine State, I do not think of outlet malls.
Which is why I was immediately suspicious when I read great reviews online about a place called Rippers Roadstand, located on the outskirts of the mega-complex that is the Ellenton Outlets.
I've lived in Florida since I was 7 and (thankfully) have precious few memories of living in the cold, bleak landscape of the north. One of the memories I've kept, though, is of Walter's Hot Dogs in Mamaroneck, New York. I mean, when a hot dog stand manages to get an article in the New York Times and a spot on the National Register of Historic Places, it's not just your average bevy of Yelpers telling you to eat there. I'll admit, as much as I loathe people lambasting us Floridians with, "we have better pizza/bagels/sandwiches in Brooklyn/Manhattan/Philly," I measure every hot dog I eat against Walter's.
So how, exactly, does this relate to history? Simple. History makes me hungry, and it's my working theory that I can find great food nearby the little-known scraps of Florida history. And, in all honesty, the scraps of history are really the main course. The hot dogs are just gravy, so to speak.
I put this theory to the test at Ellenton's Gamble Plantation State Park, a scant 10 minutes away from Rippers. I planned a trip with my trusty sidekick, Thelma (not her real name, obviously). Thelma and I both volunteer for the Gulfport Historical Society, and we both love hot dogs, so this trip seemed like an excellent excuse to explore the state, learn more about our lesser-known past (Am I the only one who's more than a little sick of Ponce de Leon and St. Augustine? Am I going to Hell for even thinking that?), and have a hot dog.
This is not Florida's proudest moment: The evils of slavery combined with the evils of sugar. Americans want to forget the Civil War, want to forget we ever lost a war – even if was a war between our states – but forgetting this part of our history isn't an option. Remembering where we've been allows us to more clearly see where we're headed, and so onward we forge through the state park.
Florida carves its parks into the face of the state in places you wouldn't expect, and the Gamble Plantation makes no exception. The roads grew around the mansion and its grounds, but the bucolic serenity of the sprawling grounds, looming oak trees and the quiet beauty of our nation's most noted failure – leads you away from bleat of car horns and cacophony of mass-produced pants and back into Florida's past.
We stumble across a wedding party, taking photos in front of the mansion. The bride, glowing with happiness, is black. The groom, clearly enraptured with his bride, is white. The moment is too delicious not to savor: This is how far we've come. I wonder: Do they know the history of this place or did they select it for the beauty of the setting? And then I realize, of course they do. They probably deal with bigoted nonsense as frequently as most white people deal with traffic.
We ignore the mass-produced, low-cost horrors of the outlet mall – thankfully, Rippers is in the first outparcel after we turn into the complex symbolizing pretty much all that's wrong in America – and stare in awe at the menu.
A ripper, I learn, is what you call a hot dog after you plunge it into boiling oil until the casing rips open. I order mine topped with sauerkraut and bacon (the bacon comes in the sauerkraut; Rippers doesn't exactly cater to vegetarians) and a side of fries, which I order with its own side of cheese, because I'm well past pretending I'm going to eat healthy today.
As I chew on my fries and inhale what is perhaps the best hot dog outside of Walter's, I think about the plantation just down the street. Its history is one every evolved Floridian and Southerner would like to forget. We want to pretend it never happened. We can't do that, of course. Slavery happened. Racism still does. Unpleasant and atrocious as those two things are, we cannot ignore them. I wonder about the happy couple, blending their families in front of a mansion that once housed a man who made his fortune off – literally – the backs of black people. Their marriage – both the union and the place – is a triumph of how far we've come from those days of subjugation and hatred, and what better place to celebrate it?
I finish my ripper far faster than advisable, ball up the wax paper and napkins and sigh with content. I hope Judah P. Benjamin is rolling over in his grave.
This article appears in May 21-27, 2015.