Trailheads Hike Like City Slickers, Break The Law, Split Up, Then Reunite And Celebrate At Little’s Food Store.

We subscribe to the “mad man hiking theory,” meaning Trailheads are predictably unpredictable. So, this week, we let Mother Nature do her thing and headed into the big city for an urban hike in the concrete jungle.

We met at the lovely Anne’s house in Cabbagetown. Yesterday was her birthday, and Brad painted her portrait, making the rest of us look like schlubs because we only gift our women with Tiffany diamonds, gold jewelry, and priceless precious gemstones. As we offer up our gifts, we’re often asked: “How many commas were on the price tag?”

Maybe we should start watching Bob Ross videos and pick up the brushes. As Bob said: “We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.”

Trailheads began their march through Cabbagetown, a cool pocket of Atlanta adjacent to Oakland Cemetery, and much livelier than there. We passed some nice graffiti and felt like urban hipsters. There was a wall of painted commemorative tombstones for all the funky little businesses in that area that are no more. We paid our respects, then continued our journey.

The locals watching us pass by shook their heads in disgust and mumbled, “There goes the neighborhood.” We had “gentrification” written all over us.

Brad pointed out the train yards and explained that this was the site of the largest explosion in the Battle of Atlanta, which occurred eighteen days after Independence Day, when a munitions depot was exploded on July 22, 1864, and a great fireworks show ensued. Most of us are too young to remember that, but we’re glad Brad kept notes.

The talk of explosions, independence and battles caught Patrick off guard. He struck a profound position and quietly said, “War is hell, gents.” When he looked up, he saw his hiking mates running down the street, avoiding him. He ran and caught up with the gang as Trailheads marched by a billboard for Sweet James.

We felt protected by the personal injury attorneys. Though we’re always reminded of early James Taylor when we see these ads. Patrick later called the lawyers to see if he had a case for the pain he endured after his “war is hell” quote.

We merged onto the Beltline and into Reynoldstown. George, Brad, and Steve went into the Daily Dose Coffee shop for some java joe. A bearded man with a nicotine-discolored mustache who we initially mistook for Roy was sitting out front, and Guy struck up a conversation with him (as he does) about the Atlanta Braves.

Painting by Brad Copeland

The two fans are optimistic about this season and take pride in the fact that the Braves grow their talent rather than buying it (looking at you, Dodgers, Mets, and Yankees). The coffee crew returned, jock talk ended, and we trekked onward.

Trailheads ambled through Glenwood, admiring the brownstone walkups and tree-lined streets. Frightened residents peeked out their windows and said, “What are they doing here?” A woman came out of her home with a shotgun and sat in a rocking chair. “Keep on movin’, boys,” she said. “Just keep on movin’.” We weren’t in Cabbagetown anymore.

We grabbed a selfie by the highway and entered East Atlanta Village. (Please note that this is the fourth distinct area of Atlanta on this journey already. We’re covering ground here.) Many of us recalled when this area was a bohemian outpost, but it’s been gentrified (not our doing!) with fancy restaurants and hip bars serving pricey cocktails served in glasses, not slugged from bottles.

A family with a doodle-something-mix approached us, and Guy told them Fio was the pooch’s cousin. We learned their dog’s name was “Bear” and that the family had just returned from six months in Europe. Steve asked how the Europeans treated them, and they replied everyone in Italy and France was great. The only issue they had was with one specific American. Some people earn their title of “ugly American.” Of course, our global ambassador, George works hard to dispel that label in his international travels.

Trailheads continued and approached the Maynard Jackson High School campus. A sign read “No Dogs Allowed” as Trail Master Guy kept walking defiantly with Fio. We followed our bad boy leader cautiously. We were getting hungry and never cared much for the fare served in jails.

Guy, Fio, and George descended the stairs, going deeper into the forbidden dog zone. They wanted to snake through neighborhoods instead of retracing our tracks back. Brad, Elvis, Steve, and Patrick watched the rebels and told them they’d meet up later. The law-abiding citizens wanted to avoid Johnny Law’s strong grip. 

We decided to break from our barbecue tradition and try the legendary burgers and sandwiches at Little’s Food Store in Cabbagetown. This gem has been open since 1929, (once again this predates most of us) and you can shop here for groceries, a word our president claims he invented, or belly up to the counter and order some grub. 

A text was sent to non-hiking-but-always-eating Trailhead Roy. He quickly replied he couldn’t join us because he was waiting on a “stump grinder,” which sounded racy to us. We wished him well in his toothpick manufacturing process.

Little’s Food Store has a long counter if you want to eat indoors, or head outside where there are picnic tables in the shade. Trailheads carefully studied the menu as if studying for their SATs. We hoped we’d do much better on this test.

We placed our lunch orders. 

There’s a funky animal sculpture out front. We got good vibes.

We parked ourselves at a table, waiting for our food, when Patrick spotted the remains of a Mary Jane-reefer-wacky-tobacky-devil’s lettuce-joint-loco weed-doobie-jazz cigarette.

He became worried that Sgt. Joe Friday from Dragnet would bust him and give him a good talking to, so he quickly flicked the butt away. Patrick’s not paranoid– but he has had a few run-ins with 1960’s TV cops. He was recently pistol-whipped by Officer Pete Malloy from Adam-12.

Brad, Guy, and Patrick sampled Little’s burgers, and they lived up to their reputation. The beef patties are grilled beautifully and topped with melted cheese, mustard, pickles, lettuce, and tomato on a potato bun.

The flavor secret is the grilled onions on the bottom of the burger patties. They’re charred and packed with savory goodness. 

We loved the taste, as evidenced by Brad’s smiling mug.

Burgers come with a side of fresh French fries—unpeeled taters sliced thin, fried to perfection, salted, and served hot and crispy. Ronald McDonald could learn a thing or two about making fries from these babies. 

Steve and George ate healthier with their Dexter Sandwiches, made with fresh sliced turkey, crispy bacon, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and mayo on toasted white bread. Steve removed his bacon because he means business, and both guys subbed coleslaw for the fries. No wonder they are the svelte Trailheads.

While the slaw was great, shredded cabbage is no match for the mighty potato. Sounds like a good idea for a Food Network competition show: Bobby Flay’s Cabbage vs Potato Wars. We’ll have our Sweet James legal team prepare the contract.

We sat with full bellies and enjoyed a relaxing time in Cabbagetown. Not to be confused with Slawtown, which is further south. It’s a must-see destination.

Trail Master left a memento of our visit on the front door of Little’s Food Store, a burger and sandwich joint that is Trailheads-approved. 

Rating: Four Ribs*

Little’s Food Store

198 Carroll St SE, Atlanta, GA 30312

(404) 963-7012

littlesfoodstore.com

*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. nj Ounr 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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