Harold’s Country Club proclaims that it is “in the middle of nowhere but close to everywhere.” That’s true. Where, exactly, might you find this legendary haunt? In Yemassee, South Carolina, off Highway 21 at 97 Highway, 17A. It’s close by the Colleton and Jasper County line as well. If you get the feeling this town is a crossroads, well, that is the case. Some, in fact, consider Yemassee the heart of the Lowcountry.
And the heart of the Lowcountry enjoys eminence. Yemassee claims the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Auldbrass, Old Sheldon Church ruins, Frampton Plantation, and a country club like no other. You won’t need clubs; you won’t need a caddy. But you might pick up a cue stick, and for sure, a fork.
For Harold’s Country Club—“in the middle of nowhere but close to everywhere”—resides in the heart of locals who love a fine meal at an American South original.
I went to see it. I pulled up in front of a sign that’s seen its share of Lowcountry sunlight, sayeth its faded, yellowed plastic. Nonetheless it’s colorful. A grill full of ribs, chicken, and a huge steak fill one side, a frosty mug of beer the other.
In the middle is a graphic: a circle around a bespectacled Harold and the words, “Harold’s Country Club…Bar & Grille, Est. 1973.” The likeness of Harold Peeples makes the sign.
Entering, I took stock of the place. At the right, front corner of the building stands an old Fire Chief gas pump. Gives the place character. I walked up to the front glass door with a sky blue paper note stuck to the glass: “Benton’s Fresh Boiled Peanuts.” Yep, you could smell salt in the air.
Over between the restrooms, a digital jukebox, TouchTunes, sat idle. Nearby, two dispensers of paper towels sat on a camouflage-covered table. I suspect come October’s cool blue evenings, fluorescent orange deer hunters love this eatery off the beaten path.
Rules caught my eye. “You are required to pay for every steak you order.” In the billiard area—excuse me, poolroom—a list served notice that improper behavior would not be tolerated. A few admonitions: “No Smoking.” “No Hitting Sticks on Tables.” “No Sitting on Pool Tables.” And then, in lowercase, “follow the rules or you will be barred from playing pool.”
On the wall at the bar’s end, some advice: “Win or lose, stick with booze.” At 3:30 p.m., a cast of characters sat around the bar. “Like a scene from Andy of Mayberry,” I mused. Harold’s has to be an oasis to locals. Yemassee is 21 miles from Beaufort as the crow flies, 18 from Walterboro. On the flatscreen at the end of the bar, a NASCAR race was underway. A black-and-white car flirted with the wall. No one paid it any mind. At the bar’s opposite end, several plastic parrots suspended from the ceiling watched the race. Well, they appeared to.
A boy wearing a red-and-black athletic shirt, no. 15, sat at the bar. I consider Harold’s a family-friendly place. That doesn’t preclude a movie poster in the pool room that features a scantily clad woman with a pair of fabulous legs. The gams promote Bordello of Blood, “Where customers come in, but they don’t come out.” Well, no worries, you’ll come out of Harold’s Country Club in good shape, but know that when you walk in you are stepping in high cotton.
A touch of fame attends this venerable old way station. Celebrities and celebrity makers have been here. Harold left us in 2003, but in his day, he had a special friendship with movie mogul Joel Silver, who owns nearby Auldbrass Plantation of Frank Lloyd Wright fame. Joel often stopped by on Sundays to have coffee with Harold.
In 1994, Dennis Hopper transformed Harold’s into a biker’s bar for his movie Chasers. The print world loves the place, too. Coastal Living, Esquire, and Southern Living magazines have all covered Harold’s. Garden & Gun called it one of the best dive bars in the South. So dive right in.
How did all this come about? Permit me a bit of history—back story, you could say. The family-run business was long a gathering place for the community. What would become Harold’s Country Cub began in the 1930s as a Chevrolet dealership. Harold Peeples bought what had become an old-fashioned garage and gas station in 1973. In the late 1970s, friends and neighbors began a beautiful custom: gathering for covered dish suppers on Thursday nights. Over time, the group began cooking and eating in the garage to avoid bad weather and the gnats and mosquitoes for which the Lowcountry is famed. As Thursday evening gatherings grew, Harold took over the cooking, charging a small amount to cover expenses.
The new car smell of Chevrolet Master’s with 206-cubic-inch engines faded long ago, replaced by sizzling steaks, baked potatoes, and sautéed onions. Add to that shrimp, fish, and burger baskets, wings, and extras that include jalapeno poppers and hush puppies.
Today, Potluck Thursday features a different meal. Fridays you can enjoy Wings and Things, seafood, chicken, steaks and hamburger baskets, as well as extras such as jalapeño poppers, fries, fried mushrooms, hush puppies, onion rings and more. Steak Saturday nights usher in steaks, twelve- to fourteen-ounce choice cut ribeyes. Meals include a baked potato, sautéed onions, a salad, and roll. Served at 6:30 or 8 p.m., you must call 843-589-4360 to reserve your steak in advance. Specify: well done, medium well, medium, medium rare, or rare.
When the back roads lead you to Harold’s, your destination is a car place that became an eatery. It’s a tale worth telling, this evolutionary story of cars yielding to growling stomachs beset with hunger pangs. In earlier days, folks moved cars out of the garage to set up tables and chairs. In time, the cars left for good. What was the garage’s lube rack is now a “stage” seating area commandeered at times for live music. (Harold built that stage over the “grease rack” in lieu of removing it. How cool it’d be to watch that rack rise with a country band on stage, giving them a platform like no other.)
As the garage evolved into a bar and restaurant, radiator hoses and fan belts stayed put. On May 9, 1999, a big fire changed that, destroying the entire bar area, hoses, belts, and all. Harold rebuilt. Friends donated various artifacts to help restore the unique décor. Fan belts were donated by, well, who else? Fans.
A room for extra seating and private parties morphed into the bar, and Harold’s was up and running within a week, although it would be two weeks before meals could be prepared. Missing the first Thursday potluck was too much. Several customers asked Harold if they could bring covered dishes so everyone could share a meal. The food was back, and the rest, as they say, is history.
But wait. Hold on. We have one more fish to fry. What about that name, Harold’s Country Club? Well, a tale’s behind that too. Because all work and no play make Harold a dull boy, he devoted much of his time to baseball and softball. He played, coached, umpired, and supported the local softball team. When that team lost its field and needed a place to play, Harold and friends formed the Yemassee Athletic Association. They bought land and built a ball field across the road beside what today is the Country Club, known then as Peeples Service Station.
After the games ended, announcer Charles Jackson had a custom of sorts, saying, “Now, let’s all go over to Harold’s Country Club for a cool one.” Soon people started calling the business Harold’s Country Club.
You would have liked Harold. Despite all his rules, the man had a heart. Rich or poor, he treated folks the same. He had a reputation for helping people—friends, strangers, stranded motorists, whoever needed a helping hand. He valued good times and wanted everyone to have just that. But then there were all those rules. He didn’t accommodate tomfoolery. In fact, he banned troublemakers from his old Chevy dealership “for life and a day.”
For life and a day. Folks, that sounds a lot like forever. Well, it just sounds like it because it wasn’t quite true. A sincere apology got them back through the door, resurrecting their membership. And you know and I know they had to be grateful. Grateful to be reinstated at Harold’s Country Club down yonder in the middle of nowhere, where breezes stream Spanish moss back like an older woman’s tresses and old oaks tremble when winds press against limbs heavy with resurrection ferns.
Down yonder in Spanish moss land, where a Saturday night carries the aroma of grilling steaks and locals talk about movie stars, old cars and rules.
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