1, 2, 3, yum: St. Augustine, FL

There's an episode in Season 3 of Dexter (if you're streaming and not there yet, just ... don't) where an old family friend lies dying in the hospital.  As a last request, she asks Dexter to bring her the best Key lime pie in all the land--the assumption being, of course, that Miami's in close proximity to the islands where said fruit gets its name, therefore narrowing the search radius to fit the 54-minute run time.

She gives her approval in the hour's final moments, based on a peculiar taste for sodium pentathol and pancuronium.

Now, not all of us care to combine our death wishes and our dessert--and we never do find out where that particular slice of heaven hailed from. At any rate, I doubt Dexter traveled far enough north to discover the perfect-pie declaration I'm gonna hit you with right now: St. Augustine, Florida's Gourmet Hut.

The least weird of the signage.

Boom.

St. Augustine is a quaint, bizarre little town on the northeastern coast of the state. Known as the Ancient City, it's considered to be the oldest continuously occupied European settlement in the U.S., celebrating its 450th anniversary next year. While there's loads of history to take in during a visit, perhaps the city's most fascinating element is its unique combination of culture and kitsch. Hundred-year old buildings, cemeteries, forts, surrounded by a mangy moat of tourist traps and bright signs slapped on the sides of most everything. Kettle corn and wax museums and ghost tours with a pirate. Ghost tours with the town sheriff. Ghost tours with a Victorian lady. Ghost tours with a ghost? Not likely.

Perhaps the picture becomes clearer when I tell you St. Augustine is home to the first permanent installation of Ripley's Believe It or Not? Yeah ... now you're getting it. Take the schtick from inside of Ripley's and just paint the town, baby.

It's a pretty trippy mélange, and not without its charm. Or its good eats.

At the end of a long weekend, my friend Jake and I, having enriched our minds with seemingly a semester's worth of history lessons, were ready to move on to our stomachs. The evening prior, post-ghost tour, we'd Yelped ourselves silly on a park bench, looking for a good spot for dessert. With everything closed or closing at that late hour, we gave up. On our way out of town the next day, the opportunity for one last sweet hurrah presented itself. I'd remembered the restaurant's name in my searches, and off we went.

For starters, The Gourmet Hut is adorable. It's a little shack of a place with a kitchen and maybe two spots for eating indoors. The rest is a whimsical shabby-chic garden to the left of the "Hut"--random mismatched tables and chairs, trees and trellises and grape arbors lined with stringed lights, brass chandeliers and candles. The appetizer menu is written thoughtfully on black poster board, propped up on the nearest available chair by the waitress. It really all sounds delicious, but we've got one-track minds, skipping right to the pie (and a glass of vinho verde for me).

Lime zest, local honey, tiny utensil.
Next level stuff.

What makes a good Key lime pie, would you say? It is the balance of the tart with the creamy? Light with rich? Check and check.

Many place emphasis on crust. Would it help you understand, then, if I told you the crust's delectability was an afterthought for my palate in this instance? That the whole was so greater than the sum of its parts, I had to focus to even know the distinct elements of what I was eating? Like when I got my first musician boyfriend (there's been one or two), and he showed me how to isolate the different instrumentation in a symphony.

Yup. Seriously. That good.

The secret to this wonderful creation, in my opinion, lies beyond even the basics of a good key lime pie, considering the Hut already had those pwned in spades. No, it was three additional key components that, to paraphrase The Dude, really tied the room together.

First, the lime zest. Yes, I realize it's not terribly original, but all key lime pies lacking zest are just that: lacking. It adds both texture and an added zap of lime flavor.

Next, the local honey. That sweet drizzle was the perfect addendum to the lime's bite, the cream's fluff and the crust's crumble.

And last, but certainly not least, the tiny utensil. The pie was delivered to its piehole via the cutest little cocktail fork ever. It made the dish fun and allowed for more savoring.

That's it. Easy as 1, 2, 3--a clever trifecta that took this slice of pie over the top and into my happy place.

Jake and I: looking pretty happy.