Augusta, Ga. – False gods fail to make the cut at the Masters. It’s one tough tournament. Around these parts, the holy triumvirate is Tiger Woods, fried catfish and cigarettes.
A short drive down the road from Amen Corner, the diners at Al’s Family Restaurant ignored the rain that fell Saturday and played havoc with golf’s international showcase. Forget the thunderstorm. Pass the brown gravy.
“The majority of folks ’round here don’t pay the Masters no attention,” said Butch Bone, proprietor of Al’s, where a plate loaded with catfish filets, turnip greens, squash casserole and macaroni will cost you $7.50, tax included. A slice of cake for dessert is free.
“I used to play golf in high school. Now? I don’t have time,” Bone said. “This restaurant is like having a second wife.”
Now, the TV cameras don’t lie. Out-of-this-world gorgeous does not begin to describe Augusta National. As old pro Gary Player testified, “If there was a golf course like the Masters in heaven, I’d like to be the head pro.”
But to find the real substance of the tourney’s hometown, you must look beyond Magnolia Lane. Augusta is a far piece from Disneyland. Plain folks get more kicks from cholesterol or nicotine than golf.
The dogwoods at the Masters are blooming beautiful, yet the barbershops and greasy spoons of this proud, gritty town are what I’ve come to love.
“What’s the name? Al’s?” asked tourney rookie Vaughn Taylor, the first Augusta resident in five decades to play the Masters. “Never heard of it. Must be a real local secret.”
The humble, cinder-block building of down-home cooking is a genuine slice of the Old South. The interior decorator painted the walls burgundy, then covered every available inch with framed photos of John Wayne, not Jack Nicklaus. Ashtrays adorn the tables for a purpose. After a fine meal, what tastes better than a Marlboro?
“This is a fat-boy restaurant,” said Bone, laughing. “We don’t care if you smoke. We serve meat, potatoes, grits. We haven’t been in business since 1954 for nothing. Cholesterol was something people didn’t even know they had until some health-conscious doctors found a way to measure it.”
If the intoxicating smell of potatoes frying in grease at the diner does not transport you back to the time when Dwight Eisenhower was president, then the blue haze of cigarette smoke in the Masters press lounge will leave you dizzy, wondering if this tournament and town are stuck in a time warp, where the walls of exclusivity and discrimination stand with defiance.
Progress is slow. For years, the flowers were far more diverse than the spectators. Since Woods won his first green jacket in 1997, lily white is not the only discernible color in the gallery.
“Because of Tiger’s win, I think more badges have become available to African-Americans,” said Lee Elder, the first black golfer to compete at the Masters. “Now you see 2 percent of the gallery is African-American, maybe 4 percent. I’d like to see more.”
Meatloaf is a much more powerful tool of integration than golf. Go figure. The hungry crowd at Al’s attracts a more representative sampling of the local population.
“I don’t want to step on any toes, but I’ve sat next to a preacher and a policeman at this counter, with a table full of lesbians and cowboys in that booth over there,” Bone said. “Everybody has to eat, and all walks of life, from lawyers to carpenters, walk through these doors.”
The Masters champion takes home a paycheck worth $1.26 million, which could buy a small army a lifetime of $4 breakfasts at Al’s.
Puffing on stinky cigars, fat cats lined the fairway ropes as Jim Furyk signed for a nifty 68 on his scorecard, and dusk crept in among the towering pines.
But travel 6 miles down the road and cross the river to South Carolina. That’s where you will find the happy, unpretentious din of Al’s Family Restaurant, where the only thing plastic is the Formica, and the big time never visits.
“You couldn’t give me a big city on a silver platter,” Bone said. “I need my trees, my space, my friends.”
On a rainy day in Georgia, everybody gets wet.
But how much mud sticks to your shoes? Guess it depends on which side of the fence you stand.
Within the gates of Augusta National, it’s always a garden of plush, wall-to-wall, green carpet. Outside, where the real people live, there’s a whole ‘nother world of gritty, red clay.
Staff writer Mark Kiszla can be reached at 303-820-5438 or mkiszla@denverpost.com.
