The Johnny Harris Legend Lives On: The Secret Is the Sauce
If you were any kind of Savannah party person in the 20th century, you turned a twirl at Johnny Harris Restaurant and Cocktail Lounge on Victory Drive.
From the 1920s through the 1950s the octagonal-shaped ballroom hosted the biggest bands of the era, couples jitterbugging under the starlight ceiling and canoodling in the built-in booths every night of the week.
“Everyone was there,” recalls Savannah’s forever party person Miriam Center, who will be 97 this summer and spun in and out of the arms of many a suitor during Johnny Harris’ heyday.
“One time I was on a date on a school night—I’d snuck out, of course—and saw one of my teachers. We just nodded at each other and kept on dancing.”
I’m told that during the 80s Johnny Harris was the go-to spot for homecoming dates, retirement parties, and a fancy night out in a town that had not yet found its fine dining footing. By the mid-90s when my future in-laws took me there for my first real gen-yoo-ine Southern meal, the dancing days were long gone. But the ceiling still sparkled, and I imagined I could hear the scuffle of buck-shoe shag as I tucked into a plate of famous batterless fried chicken and crispy okra.
The rest of the place murmured with magnolia-wilted nostalgia, all dark honey wood and red leather upholstery. The same grizzled crowd that had swilled bourbon and smoked cigarettes in the back bar for the last five decades still reigned, and waitresses in polyester uniforms cracked gum while serving heaping slices of coconut cream pie in the up-front diner annex known as “The Kitchen.”
The food and service remained on point as our family returned for many more feasts over the years, though the dining room rarely saw a full seating anymore. There were murmurs that the electrical and plumbing systems needed a vast overhaul. In spite of much rancor and a petition to designate it as a historic landmark, the grand old building was demolished in 2016, the 11-acre tract it sat upon sold.
Now a brand new ALDI looms in its place, behind it the bucolic horse pastures of Wicklow Farms sprouting with three-story condos, another storied Savannah institution in history’s rearview.
Yet the Johnny Harris legend lives on. After the eponymous owner passed away from heart disease in 1942 (too much of his own cooking, perhaps), loyal longtime manager Red Donaldson inherited the whole shebang. His son, Philip, and other family members dedicated their careers to the place and kept the business thrumming after Red’s fatal heart attack in 1969 (oy, no one knew about cholesterol back then.)
These days the best dishes of the JH menu—plus plenty of fresh veggies and salads, thank heavens—have been reincarnated by the next generation at BowTie Barbecue Co. on Waters Ave and Eisenhower. Its satellite food truck manned by Captain Frank is consistently the best mobile meal option in town, and another truck dedicated to all things chicken debuted this spring, known as “The Cluckernaut.”
But it's the sauce that keeps the Johnny Harris name on Savannah’s lips. And chin. And fingers. And probably your clean white shirt.
As recounted in the gorgeous 2015 cookbook penned by Red’s granddaughter, Julie Donaldson Lowenthal, this tangy, habit-forming condiment was concocted in 1924 by Johnny Harris with assistance from John Moore, a Black cook from Virginia who worked at the newly-opened restaurant and helped Harris prepare gallons of it in the back of the kitchen.
“Customers became so fond of the sauce that they would often bring empty liquor or soda bottles and jars,” writes Julie, describing the cult following that the “little sauce company” has maintained going on a hundred years.
With that kind of clout, you’d think some big corporation would’ve snatched it up and watered it down like so many other “family” foodie brands. But somehow this Savannah tradition remains as authentic and unadulterated as ever—and still cooked up in the same tiny factory Red opened across the street from the restaurant in 1950.
“We make it the same way it’s always been made—we’re still using the original old school compressor,” marvels 28 year-old Grayson Lowenthal, Red’s great grandson as he takes me on a tour of the small building now dwarfed by the new grocery store.
Grayson took over sauce operations two and half years ago after working in the trenches of the Athens and Savannah service industries. His first job was on this same floor, helping turn lids tight at age 11 and learning how it all worked from a devoted team that’s as good as family. Massive bins labeled “salt,” “pepper,” and “sugar” line the walls, though the secret recipe—passed down only by word of mouth for years—lays somewhere in a thick binder on a very high shelf.
He points out the venerable 80-gallon steam kettle—still shiny as a church bell—then demonstrates the assembly line where filled bottles twirl past the labeling machine like skirted ladies with their dancing partners.
“I’ve learned how to fix every piece of equipment in here,” he says modestly. “I can always jump in on the line if needed.”
This low-tech, high-output enterprise produces over a 100K bottles a year, filling online orders worldwide and shipped to over 350 regional outlets, including your local Kroger, Publix and Red & White (another Savannah family business for a different time.) The original continues to outsell the other varieties, though I’m partial to the Carolina mustard version, especially on smoked chicken from the Red & White deli. (Pro tip: Stick the bottle in the microwave for 30 seconds to ramp up the flavor. Meatless? Try it on roasted cauliflower.)
While some millennial upstarts might want to make their own mark, Grayson has no plans to tinker with the production process or hire some flashy agency for a rebrand of the sauce’s iconic logo.
“Why would I mess with something that’s stood the test of time for a hundred years?” he shrugs, running a thumb over a corner of a freshly labeled bottle.
“The quality and taste is consistent; you can depend on it. I think people value that more than anything.”
We peek into the office built into a partition of the warehouse by his grandfather, who passed away less than two years ago at a vigorous 89. Like the rest of the factory, it stands as something of a working shrine, family photos from the 1990s on the walls, ballpoint pens and a handheld calculator in a drawer, no computer in sight.
Grayson, who normally works in a cubicle at the front of the building, sits down gingerly in the big chair, the presence of his forefathers looming large. Though he never got to shimmy through the ballroom or toss back shots at the smoky bar, he approaches the responsibility of the Johnny Harris legacy with reverence and humility. Other dynasties might boil with Succession-like drama, but this fourth generation barbecue sauce scion has nothing but respect for those who built the business.
“It’s a family of hard workers,” he says quietly, cradling the calculator in his hand. “I’m just trying to keep up.”
Knowing how nostalgic folks are these days for the better parts of the past, Grayson dreams of perhaps one day reviving the dinner-and-dancing scene for Savannah’s current party people. In the meantime, the memories are imbued in the sauce, and he’s busy hyping Johnny Harris’ 100 year celebration with a series of pop-up events. (Get your fingers sticky June 29 at Ace Hardware on Wilmington Island, where the entire selection of Johnny Harris sauces will be set up for tasting.)
We’re stocking up for summer barbecues, and it’s always fun to buy direct, old school. Maybe when you’re finished shopping at the new ALDI you’ll pop in to the little factory 2801 Wicklow St. and snag a couple of bottles.
Someone in the family will be there to greet you.
May the dancing days be here again ~ JLL
This is where I grew up. Had my first Tom Collins, kissed my first boy, played the slot machines, danced and jitterbugged until closing. And have eaten ,more fried chicken and lemon coconut pie than I can count. A major part of my life was on that dance floor jitterbugging for hours. Thank you, Red Donaldson.
First, thank you for this trip back in time. Your writing is pure pleasure! I worked on the weekends in the early 1970's at Johnny Harris, both in the dining room and the bar. I remember Richard Worlds, a tall, elegant Black man who worked as a waiter for close to 50 years I think. He told me some of the best stories! One of the favorites is how many wait staff did not know how to read or write in the early years and memorized every meal order, from soup to nuts! I remember the Gene Taggart Band with their huge RV in the back parking lot , Miss Kitty, an older friendly woman with white hair who worked in the bar area for many years and my boss, Norman Heidt, a very nice man. Today I have a booth table and seat from the bar, acquired during the auction of furnishings when they closed. If that booth could talk, oh the stories and secrets it could offer!