June 28, 2007 Issue

I know a man who makes biscuits.

Ferrell Shipp grew up in Childress, Texas. He was born in 1925 and he still remembers the days of the dust bowl and the depression. His father, Phocian Shipp, left Sand Mountain, Ala. looking for farm work – and found just enough to support Ferrell and his five sisters.

Ferrell told me recently that his first job, when he was 12 years old, was in a restaurant in Childeress. He washed dishes from 4 a.m. to 1 p.m. “They didn’t have dishwashing machines back then,” he said. “I made 50 cents.” A friend of mine overheard Ferrell and commented: “50 cents an hour was a long time ago.” After my friend left, Ferrell whispered to me: “It was 50 cents a day.”

“After work at the restaurant,” he said, “I’d go to the barber shop and shine shoes. I made more money doing that.”

Ferrell’s knowledge of the dustbowl days didn’t come from a novel by John Steinbeck. He was there.

“There were a bunch of abandoned railroad cars. We’d crack open a door to let enough light in so we could play baseball in the freight car. It was too windy and dusty to play outside.”

When he would wake up in the morning, his body would leave a clean imprint on the sheets. The rest of his bed would be covered in thick dirt.

Ferrell eventually moved to Hartselle, Ala. He married, had three sons and a daughter and later divorced. He raised his boys by himself. Tom Shipp is now the principal at Baker High School. Jim is a Russian translator in Washington, D.C. Roy lives in Tampa and travels the world as a salesman in the pharmaceutical industry. Susan works in healthcare services in San Diego.

Ferrell moved to Destin in 1966 and he bought the Silver Sands restaurant, next to the old Destin Post Office in 1968. After Hurricane Opal in 1995, Ferrell lost the lease on the Silver Sands building.

I knew his sister, Jo Smith, who ran the front of his restaurant. I mentioned to her that they could open for breakfast in our building, at Harbor Docks.

One morning, as Jo and I drank coffee by the wood burning stove in Harbor Docks dining room, we waited while Ferrell inspected our kitchen. “It will be his decision,” Jo said.

I watched Ferrell walk the 60 feet from the kitchen to our table. Ferrell walks slowly. After a couple of minutes he had made it half the way. I whispered to Jo: “This doesn’t look like it’s going to be a real long term arrangement.” That was 12 years ago.

Jo retired in 2004 and moved to north Georgia. I used to marvel over the way she ran the floor for breakfast. Serving over 300 people in a morning can be hectic and it took me several years to figure out Jo’s system. She would seat, and then wait on the tables she either knew, or suspected, would be good tippers. She left the other diners to the rest of the wait staff.

Ferrell and I have gotten to be friends over the years. We have many of the same interests. We follow the Atlanta Braves and Alabama football. I’ve read all of Larry McMurtry’s books and Ferrell, who doesn’t see so well, has listened to them on tape. Our favorite is Lonesome Dove.

Every morning Ferrell shuffles his size 14 feet along the same route in the kitchen. He goes from the cutting board where he rolls out the dough, to the oven where they bake, and then to the waitress station where the biscuits are kept warm. Then he heads back to a stool that he sits on in the middle of the kitchen.

His staff hasn’t changed much since 1995. Rose Najarian has been with him for 25 years. Carol Marler, Edna, Judy, and Carol Kilpatrick have been with him since they moved to Harbor Docks.

Ferrell lives close to Harbor Docks in a modest house in a neighborhood where English is not the primary language. He gave up driving his pick-up truck years ago when his vision began failing. Now, Betsy and Judy drive him to and from work.

The unusual arrangement we have, operating two different restaurants under one roof, has worked well. There are awkward times when the breakfast crew is shutting down and our lunch staff is gearing up, but it all works out.

Unusual arrangements make for interesting alliances. Dang McCormick has been in charge of lunch at Harbor Docks for the past 27 years. She and Ferrell are friends and have co-existed without a cross word for the past 12 years. Anytime I stick my head in the kitchen looking for Ferrell, Dang shouts in her broken English: “He somewhere counting his money!”

Ferrell pays us a percentage of his sales to use our building. His business has steadily grown and it has been a lucrative deal for Harbor Docks. I’ve never checked to see what Ferrell’s sales are and if we have ever had a lease agreement, it’s been either filed or thrown away.

This morning, Ferrell will be making biscuits the same way he’s been making them since 1945, when he worked in a little doughnut shop in Guntersville, Ala. For 62 years he has made sure that the dough hasn’t been kneaded too long, because that makes them tough. When Ferrell can’t make it to work — and that is a rare occurrence — his nephew Craig makes the biscuits. He learned to make them when he was 16. They’re good, but not quite as good as Ferrell’s.

Biscuits are a funny thing. People can be particular about what constitutes a good one. In a blind taste test, I imagine Ferrell’s biscuits would do quite well.

But if you knew Ferrell, like I do, and you knew what went into his biscuits, what holds them together; I think you would agree with me:
Ferrell Shipp makes the best biscuits in the world.

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