T.B. Sutton General Store

Sutton General Store feels like stepping through a crack in time—wooden floors creaking underfoot, shelves lined with relics that probably have stories to tell if you ask the right person. The kind of place where you order lunch at a counter that’s seen more handshakes than receipts, and the people behind it still call you “hon.”

We went simple—a cheeseburger and a hamburger steak, each made the way things used to be. The burger came hot off the griddle, the cheese melted into the meat, soft bun catching every bit of grease like it was meant to. The hamburger steak was pure diner comfort, seared just right, seasoned by a hand that’s done it a thousand times before. No pretense, no garnish, just food that fills you up and leaves you quiet for a moment.

Two glass bottles of Coke to wash it down—cold enough to sting your throat, sweet enough to make you grin. Sitting there, in a century-old store in a town that doesn’t seem in a hurry to catch up, it felt like a reminder that sometimes the simplest meals are the ones that stay with you the longest.