A St. Augustine Tradition for 40 Years Winning Best Bar by Folio Magazine for the eighth year in row, Scarlett O’Hara’s is a St. Augustine tradition! Located in the heart of Old Town, Scarlett’s is a fun place for casual southern fare, award winning BBQ and great cocktails with a beautiful outside deck and bar. Live music is hosted regularly, Happy Hour all day every day and fun nights from pub trivia to karaoke. Come see why the locals call this place home for over 40 years! INSIDER TIP: Don’t forget to visit the Ghost Bar upstairs. Scarlett O’Hara’s is listed in the National Directory of Haunted Places and is said to be haunted by the man who built the house way back in 1879.
Gathering place for a bustling crowd with a schedule of live music plus casual BBQ fare & drinks.
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Related Web Results
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Reviews
We started with drinks and I enjoyed the Old Fashioned and a draft. We followed that with Fish Fingers and a creamy tartar sauce perfectly fried and tender. Also enjoyed the Onion Rings. Again very tasty. I would recommend the full menu even though we left early for dinner down the street. The bartender was a very friendly and nice person.
Enjoy.
To enter Scarlett’s is not merely to seek sustenance; it is to confront the low-water mark of human endeavor, a grotesque parody of the innkeeper’s sacred contract.
From the entry stairs, one is greeted not by the inviting warmth of the hearth, but by a thick, institutional miasma – a smell of boiled despair and floor cleaner failing in its Sisyphean task.
The exterior promises disuse, with paint peeling away like flaking skin, but the interior delivers a deeper conviction: here, filth is not an accident but a proud, deeply layered patina of neglect, clinging stubbornly to the cheap railings and the gummy surface of the tables.
The food itself is a profound, if predictable, culinary betrayal. It is a tragedy of logistics, not passion. One eats what has been shipped, processed, and scooped by industrial effort, utterly devoid of the vitality of anything freshly harvested or intelligently prepared.
The steam-tray fare possesses the uniform, weary texture of plasticine, while the sauces suggest an alchemical mix of cornstarch and budgetary regret. It is factory slop, warmed to a temperature that guarantees safety without suggesting pleasure, fit only for those tired of Nights-of-Lights queues at real restaurants or confined to the blandest of institutions.
And for this profound experience of decay, the tourist – the credulous, wandering flock with wallets open and eyes diverted by cheap candy canes and stapled tinsel – is extorted with prices that suggest fine dining rather than forensic evidence.
The prices are set by pure cynicism, calibrated precisely to fleece the outsider who, ignorant of local integrity, believes any establishment with a roof must justify its cost.
Scarlett’s is not a restaurant; it is a moral trap, a grim lesson in letting the past – the good graces of civilization – decay into sticky, overpriced ruin. Steer clear.
Another great meal from Scarlett’s!