The other day, I brewed up a batch of Yaupon Holly Tea, made from the shrub that is the only plant in North America that packs a significant dose of caffeine. Yaupon was just one of the surprises, culinary and otherwise, that Savannah, Georgia had in store for me. My first impression of the place, for example: the Oscar Mayer wienermobile parked in the lot of the retro motel where I stayed for the first couple of nights. (There were Moon Pies on the pillow, and RC Cola in the fridge. Welcome to the South—enjoy your glucose overload!)

I’d come south to pursue a specific story, about one particular population of feral pigs, which will be the subject of its own chapter in The Lost Supper. I was fortunate enough to be able to make Savannah my base for the first part of the research; fortunate, because Savannah is a cultured, slow-moving, magical kind of place. First of all, there’s urbanism: the 18th-century historic district is a gridiron of wards, each of which has a garden-like square, twenty-one of them altogether, at its center. The squares, which are little oases of sun-dappled fountains and live-oaks hung with ribbons of Spanish moss, interrupt the flow of automobile traffic, slowing the pace of the entire city.

In some parks and cemeteries, the pavement was a mix of quicklime, sand, water, and whole unburnt oyster shells. This was used, often by enslaved people, to make dwellings—a construction material known as “tabby.” Apparently its a man-made analogue of piedra ostionera of Cádiz, Spain—another city paved with seashells.

The place definitely has an Adult Disneyland-Mardi Gras Zone feel to it. I bought a beer in a store near the Savannah River, and after checking my ID (!!), the clerk asked me if I wanted a plastic cup so I could walk around drinking. There was definitely a lot of public intoxication: this is one of those places in the US where people come to have bachelor and bachelorette parties, or have have wedding photos taken under weeping willows. Abandoned drinks and mickeys of Southern Comfort litter the landscape.

That said, the city is home to museums, the SCAD (Savannah College of Art and Design), and lots of bookstores, including the cat-infested E. Shaver, on Lafayette Square, which is exactly what a bookstore should look like, and the beautifully-curated Book Lady on East Liberty, where I picked up the memoir of the great Georgia writer Harry Crews, A Childhood. But on to the food. My first meal was a low-country boil, a one-pot meal of corn-on-the-cob, new potatoes, shrimp, and smoked sausage. Real surf-and-turf, with hush puppies on the side: deep-fried cornmeal batter, great for soaking up the liquid. Served in plastic, alas, but it did give it an appropriately rough-and-ready feel.

I was lucky enough to snag a counter seat at The Grey, the restaurant of celebrated African-American chef Mashama Bailey, who was raised in the Bronx, but has roots in rural Georgia and went to grammar school in Savannah. The Grey is located in a former Greyhound bus terminal, an art-deco relic of streamlined steel and curved glass, on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. As if to remind diners of the building’s former vocation, harsh overhead lights flicker on for a couple of minutes every hour, bathing the diners in the fluo-lit, cigarette-and-Styro-cup-coffee ambience of a bus station at three in the morning.

Up until 1960s, the terminal was segregated, with a “colored” waiting room located in a glassed-in room upstairs; that night it had been booked for a raucous bachelor party. African-American classics dominated the menu; I’d come in pursuit of southern ham. The server suggested I try the ham hock terrine, which was served with fermented collard greens and pickled string beans. He said it came from a heritage pig breed, a Red Wattle cross. “In the kitchen, they said it was huge, like six hundred and fifty pounds,” he told me.

As much as she can, Bailey sources her ingredients from Black producers, which sometimes requires a special effort, because of the 3.4 million farmers in the United States, only 45,000 are African-American. This particular ham had come from Peculiar Pig Farm, where Marvin Ross raises hogs on the same South Carolina acreage his grandfather once farmed. It was hard to really appreciate the flavor, though, because there were mere scraps of meat suspended in a jiggly aspic, which seemed to tell more about the chef’s training in France than anything intrinsic in the meat. I preferred the deep-fried sweetbreads, which were nestled in creamy mashed potatoes that had been topped with country ham gravy.

The following day, I decided to go casual. The Crystal Beer Parlor on West Jones Street has a Dandified Victorian feel to it, a relaxed atmosphere, and plenty of outdoor seating. I got a booth inside and ordered a couple of legendary southern dishes: Shrimp and Grits and Fried Green Tomatoes. The tomatoes were crusted with panko and served with a nicely tangy, cream-based horseradish sauce.

The Shrimp and Grits, another surf and turf classic, reminded me of something you might get in northern Italy, with the grits, in a creamy tomato sauce, standing in for polenta. I’d talked to David S. Shields, the scholar of southern gastronomy, kingpin in the Southern Foodways Alliance, and author of Southern Provisions, before coming down. He’d made a spirited case that southern cooking, with its mix of influences—indigenous, west African, Spanish, French, rural British—is the quintessential North American cuisine. I tend to agree. I can’t think of anywhere else on this continent with a cuisine quite so rich in character. (Sorry, Québec—poutine, tourtière, and cretons will only get you so far.)

And what about that Yaupon tea? One afternoon I strolled into the Yaupon Teahouse and Apothecary just south of Lafayette Square, which is completely devoted to the plant, offering it in forms drinkable, smokeable, spreadable (and even as bath bombs).

The name yaupon comes from the Guale language; they were ancestors of the Creek. It grows all over barrier islands on the coast. It’s scientific name is Ilex vomitoria; the Guale knew it as “black drink.” It contains theophylline and theobromine, present in cocoa. At high concentrations it induced vomiting and visions.

I picked up a package, twigs and all, before leaving. (Also enjoyed some Yaupon Ice Tea in a go-cup; refreshing and stimulating!) Now, every time I want to remember Savannah, I brew up a batch. Not so strong and black it’s going to make me upchuck, of course, but enough to make me sweat a little and wonder if I’m too alert. It’s potent stuff.

There’ll be more on my journey through Georgia and the Carolinas in the fifth chapter of The Lost Supper, due out in September. If you’re enjoying these dispatches, I’ll hope you’ll consider upgrading to a paid subscription. This Substack writing is an experiment—so far, I’m enjoying it, but I’m going to need some encouragement from readers to keep it going.