When you go camping near the beach, you think your toughest battle will be keeping the sand out of your sandwich. Not so at North Landing Beach. There, the real contest was finding dinner. Out in rural Sandbridge, restaurants are as scarce as Wi-Fi, and our GPS delivered the grim news: “nearest open restaurant, 50 minutes away, in another state. Suddenly, we were tributes in our own Hunger Games, facing a journey across the line into Moyock, North Carolina.
Our prize? The Southland Restaurant, a place so vast it could feed an army of rebels. The plates came piled high, proof that in the South, food is not rationed—it’s weaponized. Victory was sweet, though slightly heavy with gravy. But the Games were far from over. After dinner, Southland lured us into its adjoining store, which felt like a sponsor gift parachuting from the sky. Shelves groaned under the weight of trinkets, souvenirs, and fireworks enough to stage our own District rebellion. There were cigar cases, wall signs, and a literal arsenal of bottle rockets. We walked out thinking we’d secured survival gear for the next round.
Yet the long drive convinced us we needed closer options. That’s when we discovered RedHead Bay Café, the breakfast arena where the odds are always in your favor—if you arrive before 3 p.m. The food was so filling that a single plate could fuel you for the whole day. On weekends they even brought in valet parking, probably to manage the line of hungry tributes waiting for their turn. Still, every quest has its detours. Wandering south again, we stumbled upon Pass the Salt Café in Currituck. The name amused the ladies, so that’s where we landed. Out on the porch, the mood was light, and Ed—clearly emboldened by victory—snuck rabbit ears into our group photo. We ordered salads, proving that even in the Hunger Games, sometimes restraint is possible. The atmosphere was quirky, a mix of rustic and eclectic, a place that rewarded the curious traveler.
But the true finale was yet to come, and it was hiding practically next door to our campground. All we needed was the courage to enter a place that reviews warned us about: Monk’s Place. Monk’s looked every bit the biker bar its reputation suggested. A smoky room with dollar bills plastered to the ceiling, a jukebox atmosphere, and burgers that could topple a Capitol feast. Their menu promised “Bigger Better Burgers,” and they delivered. It was gritty, unpolished, and absolutely glorious. We left wishing we had dared to step inside earlier in the week. In the end, our food journey felt less like vacation dining and more like a survival saga. We crossed state lines, braved biker bars, and fought off hunger one oversized portion at a time. And while the odds weren’t always in our favor, the final tally was worth it: great food, good laughs, and stories that will outlast any campfire.
