‘What else I get for you, honey?’ My waitress returned with a glass jar of tea full of ice and lemons.

I pointed to Biddy een de Fiel because I could not say it. The translation promised a grilled chicken breast on Romaine lettuce.

‘You want sweet-potato chips or maybe some crab frittas to start?’ Her eyes roamed around the restaurant as she talked.

‘No, thank you.’

Determined her customer would have more than a diet lunch, she showed me fried low-country shrimp on the back of the menu. ‘We also got fresh fried shrimp today. It so good it’ll make you tongue slap you brains out.’

I looked at her. ‘Well, then I guess I’d better try a small side dish.’

‘So you want all two of ‘em.’

‘Please.’

The service maintained its languid pace, and it was almost one o’clock when I paid my bill. The lady in the bright dress, who I decided was the manager, was outside in the parking lot talking to another dark woman who drove a van. The side of it read Gullah Tours.

‘Excuse me,’ I said to the manager.

Her eyes were like volcanic glass, suspicious but not unfriendly. ‘You want a tour of the island?’ she asked.

‘Actually, I need directions,‘1 said. ‘Are you familiar with Live Oaks Plantation?’

‘It’s not on no tour. Not no more.’

‘So I can’t get there?’ I asked.

The manager turned her face and looked askance at me. ‘Some new folks is moved there. They don’t take kindly to tours, you hear my meaning?’

‘I hear you,’ I said. ‘But I need to get there. I don’t want a tour. I just want directions.’

It occurred to me that the dialect I was speaking wasn’t the one the manager - who no doubt owned Gullah Tours - wanted to hear.

‘How about if I pay for a tour,’ I said, ‘and you get your van driver to lead me to Live Oaks?’

That seemed a good plan. I handed over twenty dollars and was on my way. The distance was not far, and soon the van slowed and an arm in a wildly colorful sleeve pointed out the window at acres of pecan trees behind a neat white fence. The gate was open at the end of a long, unpaved drive, and about half a mile back I caught a glimpse of white wood and an old copper roof. There was no sign to indicate the owner’s name and not a clue that this was Live Oaks Plantation.