Bella’s Junction Cafe

I usually accept these restaurant assignments with a certain amount of reserve. 

I know that sounds strange, because I’ve posited in these pages that this tiny Plateau has, per capita, the finest assemblage of eating establishments in the Western Hemisphere. Think of it, everything from little mom-and-pop diners to elegant four-star experiences, they’re all offered up with pride and their own glorious personalities. 

But these are also “assignments,” chores to be dutifully crossed off an already too-lengthy list, experiences that must be pencilled in to days and evenings filled to bursting with interviews and edits and random meetings. 

It tempers the excitement levels, but also ensures that I go into these restaurants with what Balzac called, “Clean hands
and composure.”

All of that went out the window when Marjorie said that for August I’d be covering Bella’s Junction Cafe.

Now it’s possible that you’ve never heard of Bella’s (even though they regularly advertise in these pages – Hey, pay attention!). That’s because they’re at the far end of Scaly Mountain, just this side of the Great State of Georgia. It’s one of those Twilight Zone-ish corners of the planet where cell service drops out and GPS goes wonky and you get that little voice asking, “Where am I and where am I supposed to be?”

Well, maybe this will help – look for the 1940s-era Sinclair Gasoline Sign at the junction of Highway 106 and Old Mud Creek Road. Bella’s is the squat brown building right there at the intersection. 

But here’s why I was excited to be heading to Bella’s, an excerpt from my visit three years ago:

“I arrived with a party of seven. Normally, I’m part of a couple or, at most, a three-top. That works for most of the restaurants in the area, which tend to cultivate intimate conversation and the careful sampling of their dishes, bordering on the precious
and pretentious.

“Bella’s is an entirely different experience. It invites, encourages, lively talk and the joyful sharing of bites.”

And here, three years later, it maintains that same carefree atmosphere. Part of this is derived from the cozy nature of the place. It’s a small restaurant, and tables are jammed together and pulled apart with abandon to accommodate the traffic. 

And part of this is derived from the presence of owner Gloria Carapazza, who oversees her dining room with a sunniness that’s irresistible. She’ll introduce herself, set you at ease and, if you’re so inclined, engage in a little conversation about you, herself, and the state of the restaurant. 

I challenge you not to feel the stress of the day lift as the place works its magic on you. 

In fact, I witnessed Gloria’s seductive abilities applied to a table with an extended family complete with kids and toddlers who were at that delicate position of overwrought-hungry-and-overly tired. In such a little dining room, the potential for explosions and the disruptions of meals at neighboring tables was vast. But she winked, cajoled, and joked this family into something resembling an Irish hooley – lost in the throes  of delight, and heaps of fun to be around. 

But let’s face it, this carefully maintained good humor wouldn’t be enough to keep a place this isolated open year after year. 

And that’s where Bella’s co-owner Billy Ezechel comes into the picture. Billy’s the chef (the place is so small you can peer into the kitchen and watch him prepare your meal – in itself a dandy little show) and he maintains a menu of extraordinary depth, covering breakfast, lunch, dinner and Sunday brunch.

We dined on Chicken Parmesan, a remarkably-seasoned New York Strip, and Eggplant Parmigiana. All delicious, all having the curious effect of halting our tabletop conversation as we dove into our dishes, while allowing the previously noted, “joyful sharing of bites.”

(It should be noted that Billy was part of the kitchen of Nick’s Restaurant, a Highlands institution that’s passed into the realm of legend.)  

And Gloria once again makes an appearance in this narrative with our order of dessert. She’s the creator of our Key Lime Pie, Coconut Cream Pie, and Orange Rum Cake. You owe it to yourself to save room for dessert. Come on, you’ve earned it!

And one final note – bring cash! Bella’s doesn’t take credit/debit cards. I don’t know if they’ll make you do dishes, but don’t take the chance!

Reservations are a good idea – (828) 526-0803.


The American Woody:The first generation of depot hacks boasted open bodies constructed of wagon-style solid planking. But by the mid-1910s, closed station wagon bodies became more common and lighter construction was required. The rib-and-panel style that is familiar today made its first appearance on these vehicles and allowed for the first partially enclosed wooden station wagons with side curtains, two or more rows of seats, and side doors. These new wagons could still be considered depot hacks, but were now called Suburbans, Combinations and Country Clubs. (Versions of these names still appear today.) The lower halves of these wagonette bodies resembled the earlier versions and were now combined with a flat roof. These designs found favor with non-commercial customers, and an increasing number of firms began building them. Major manufacturers such as Ford started offering woodies through dealerships, although independent body builders performed the actual construction. The Martin Truck and Body Corp. in York, Pennsylvania, made so many bodies for Ford, Dodge and others during the 1910s and 1920s that they billed themselves as "The Largest Commercial Car Builder in the World." The golden age of the custom wood body maker ended during the Depression, as many of the small independent firms went out of business. Some reorganized and diversified, like the Kentucky Wagon Manufacturing Company, which stopped making wood Ford Model T and Model A bodies (and its own line of automobiles as the Dixie Motor Car Company) and started manufacturing truck trailers. The company is still in business today as Kentucky Trailer. The major automobile manufacturers acquired many others at fire-sale prices during this time. The fortunes of Martin Truck and Body, who called themselves "The Largest Commercial Car Builder in the World," changed dramatically during the Depression. After merging with failed carmaker Parry in 1919, Martin Truck and Body was acquired by Chevrolet in 1930 and became its first in-house commercial truck body division. Ford, with its vast timber operations near Lake Superior, was gaining experience in woody manufacturing. That experience would be put into practice in 1936 when a plant opened at Iron Mountain that built complete wood wagon bodies that were then shipped to Ford plants around the country for final assembly. While Ford was the only manufacturer building woodies from the ground up, there were still coachbuilt versions available based on GM, Chrysler, Packard, Willys, Hupmobile, Graham, Hudson, Studebaker and even American Bantam chassis. The trend toward luxury continued through the 1930s, although woody amenities lagged far behind those in production automobiles. Pontiac, for instance, did not offer full glazing until 1939. As the country began to recover economically, woodies were increasingly perceived as upscale vehicles and sales rose accordingly. Ford easily maintained its dominance, selling almost 10,000 redesigned Standard and DeLuxe station wagons in 1940 alone. Chrysler introduced its first truly car-quality woody, the Town & Country, in March of the following year. It boasted an all-steel roof and a white ash and mahogany body by Pekin Wood Products of Helena, Arkansas. With Willys, Buick, Pontiac and Plymouth all getting serious about passenger comfort in their woodies, things were about to heat up when the manufacturers were told to cease production of passenger cars and contribute to the war effort. A trickle of cars continued for a brief time, but all domestic automobile production had ended by March of 1942. Ford continued to produce a small number of Ford and Mercury woody sedans and ambulances used during the war. We reach Crystal Cove and its landmark Shake Shack and pull in to switch drivers. Remembering the earlier starting difficulty, we leave the Ford idling while photographer Joseph Puhy shoots some images. Little do we know, the ethanol-laced modern gas blend is busy vaporizing in the fuel line, a common Ford flathead V-8 problem. It happens on the uphill leaving the Shake Shack, the woodie chugging slower and slower, until it can’t chug anymore. Now we’re stranded beside the Coast Highway, with Audis and Acuras zipping past at speed. Bad scene. With no luck re-firing the engine, I resort to bump-starting it backward downhill. This works, and the ’34 has just enough power to get us turned around and find safe haven in a nearby park. But the woodie’s day is over. “I think this has cured me of wanting an old car!” Dean says, laughing. Oddly enough, another “Surf City” lyric has portended our current situation: “And if my woodie breaks down on me somewhere on the surf route/Surf City, here we come/I’ll strap my board to my back and hitch a ride in my wetsuit.” With the photo and video teams close behind, our rescue isn’t quite that dramatic, and we all safely return to the museum in modern cars, leaving the generous McPherson and his beautiful ’34 awaiting Hagerty Plus Roadside Service. The last great year of the woody was, by some accounts, 1949. Handcrafting complicated and maintenance-intensive wood frames and panels was becoming very difficult to justify in the red-hot, new-car market. The epochal Chrysler Town & Country switched to Dinoc vinyl (still available in aftermarket "wallpaper woody" kits today) with ornamental ash framing, and the 1949 Ford used all-steel construction with experimental plywood-like panels that underwent a dramatically high rate of failure. General Motors abandoned wood framing after 1948, and from 1948 through 1951, Packard produced station wagons with window framing and ornamental wood door trim by Briggs Manufacturing. The few coachbuilders that survived the Depression and World War II were again in jeopardy during the 1950s. Despite efforts to make the transition to more modern products such as hearses and other steel bodies, the wood-body manufacturers, steeped in old-world hand craftsmanship, were almost all gone by the end of the decade. Car design and manufacture, as well as the tastes of the car-buying public, were undergoing radical changes and the woody, redolent of 1930s and 1940s country clubs, fell from favor. The Chrysler Town & Country was discontinued in 1951, and while Fords continued to sell well, they now increasingly used vinyl and paint instead of real wood. The 1953 Buick wagons were the last real woodies from any major American manufacturer. Various wallpaper woodies or "vinylies" are still offered by Detroit to this day, but the age of the real woody ended in 1953. Fiberglass would come to substitute for ash and Dinoc for mahogany. It was a slow death, and the last real wood exterior trim of any kind on an American vehicle appeared on the Dodge Adventurer 150 "Li'l Red Express Truck" option available in 1978 and 1979.By the time I had my summer epiphany in San Diego, woodies were already in their second incarnation as an American icon. Furniture makers constructed the first of them on truck frames in the late 1920s. The car replaced the horse-drawn vehicles–jitneys or hacks–that had hauled passengers from train depots to hotels. Woodies were, literally, “station wagons,” and you’ll see them turn up. In Southern California, the place to see any style in wood cars is the annual Wavecrest meeting, held every September at Moonlight Beach near San Diego. Trophies are given for Best 1960s Surfing Woodie and Best Hot Rod Woodie. There are big-money restorations and Model A’s with rotting wood, Buick Estate Wagons with fewer than 50,000 miles on the odometer and more Town and Country wagons than Pasadena’s Rose Parade. Lovely as these ghosts are, there’s nothing that can duplicate your first time. Nearly 40 years ago, on the afternoon when I saw that first woodie in a San Diego gas station, I was just way to my part-time job in a suit and tie. What I watched from across the street was a preview of another kind of life, one that was raw and vital, one where a whole world was spread out along the coast waiting to be discovered. It was a moment that changed my life–because that day I quit my job and started surfing.