FLORIDA FOUND
Heaven in a brown paper bag

By Text and photograph by JAMIE FRANCIS of the Times staff

© St. Petersburg Times, published July 7, 2000

ST. PETERSBURG -- The light breaks hard on the old man's face and careens along the ridges of his forehead. There is a line of customers, some of them come every day, and this is how they always see the man. Seems he is planted here, hunched behind a No. 3 washtub, stuffing his secrets into brown paper bags.

Harry Williams owns this corner. He's been a legend here at 18th Avenue S and 17th Street for more years than he is willing to reveal. The white cinder block building does not bear his name, but everyone who ever tasted a boiled crab knows this is Harry's joint, this is where you come to get Harry's boiled crabs.

"I'm the oldest crab cooker living," Harry says as he stuffs another wrinkled $5 bill into the red and yellow Swisher Sweets cigar box that serves as his cash register. He reels off the names of other well-known crab cookers. "Jack Peterson done died, Arthur Ballard done and died, and that left me the oldest crab cooker living in St. Petersburg."

And the best, according to Dretta Walker, who buys a $5 bag of crabs from Harry every day except payday, when she splurges for a $10 bag. "I guess he got us addicted," says Walker, who works for the Pinellas County Parks and Recreation Department. "Harry knows how to make the spice stick to the inside of the meat; that's where it belongs."

The observation leaves the crusty waterman just short of a smile. His recipe is what keeps 'em coming back, and he'd rather go on to glory than give up that secret. There are hints scattered around the crab shack: garlic powder, celery salt, onion powder.

Someone kids Harry that the key ingredient might be the juice from the Red Leaf tobacco that he is chewing. Harry holds an even face and gives one of his standard answers, "I cook the way my grandma taught me, I let it make its own gravy."

Harry, who used to catch his own crabs but buys them now, stuffs about eight blue crabs in a $5 bag, depending on the mood he's in and how much he likes you. He is surrounded by food stewing in a variety of sauces and curious juices: shiny crabs glowing red under a lone light bulb; chicken and sausages simmering on top of a thick, blistering hot sauce; peanuts boiling to a roll over the orange flames from a gas fire. Harry's got it all under his thumb.

"I got to pay attention to what I'm doing, got to make the people happy with my cooking," he says. "Besides, I ain't got no back door to run to if they don't like it."

A price and food list is taped to the wall above Harry's head. The black ink spells it all out on the cardboard:

• Garlic crabs -- $5.00 a tray
• Crabs -- 75 cents and up
• Shrimps -- 20 for $5
• Potatoes -- 4 for $1
• Sausages -- 2 for $1
• Peanuts -- $1 a bag
• Wings -- 2 for $1

But no one needs the list. They use the time in line to gab with Harry.

"I want to be just like you, Harry," teases one customer, "cold, cold, cold but with a pocket full of money." Another tells Harry that he has it made. "You know how to cook good and love good, and that is all a person needs in this world." Quickly another chimes in. "We don't love you, Harry," she says laughing, "we just line up for your cooking."

Later in the day, after the working people have passed in and out of the crab shack, a young girl peeps over the tub and extends her worn $1 bill to Harry.

"What you need, baby?"

Before she can answer, Harry dips his big green rubber glove into the tub of fresh crabs and fills a $5 bag. Harry quizzes her about school. Does she like it? How are her grades? Is she ready to go back? He knows the girl, knows her parents, too. Says he already knows the answers to his questions, which is why he gave her a $5 bag for only $1.

"These schoolchildren, some of them need my help and I have to watch out for them," he says. "If they are in school, they'll get my help."

Harry says he takes care of the children because he wants to be remembered. His face remains hard and reserved; Harry won't give up any secrets today. But the old man's heart is blabbering. Pure and generous, it says.

To contact Jamie Francis, call (727) 893-8319 or e-mail jfrancis@sptimes.com

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