The Nitty Gritty
- Expires 90 days from purchase
- $3 cover charge if redeeming Friday or Saturday
- Each purchase covers 2 people
- Must be 21 to purchase, sorry kids
- Sales tax and gratuity are not included
- Bring photo I.D. to redeem
Kinda like the Clermont or Miss Ann's, Southern Comfort is just one of those Atlanta treasures. If you've been, then you just know. And if you haven't been, you've almost certainly heard about the lore: beer-tinged tales of late nights, cheap booze, rowdy dancing and even rowdier karaoke inside Atlanta's last-living honky-tonk. For some, Southern Comfort is a living relic. For others, it's a place where just about anyone can line-dance back in time with the help of a cold, cheap High Life and the sounds of Merle Haggard wafting from the jukebox. And for us? Well, we just don't think you can call yourself an Atlantan till you've laced up your dancin' shoes and two-stepped to Dwight Yoakam on that infamous dance floor, before eating those calories back up with a couple of cheeseburgers, a whole bunch of wings and, yes, an ice-cold pitcher of American beer.And sure, while you'll get all that, it's the atmosphere we like the most. Like many of the regulars, owner George Jones (not that George Jones, mind you) was originally a trucker—one who just so happened to write country music in his spare time. "He always wanted a honky-tonk where he could play his music," Misty, one of the bar's longtime staff members, told us. So, Mr. Jones decided to open up a little roadhouse just south of the perimeter. And in the 24 years since George first opened Southern Comfort, not a whole lot has changed. (Except for a few additions to its Wall of Legends, which nowadays you'll spy the likes of the Black Lips pinned up right alongside Dolly, Elvis and Johnny.) With its wood-paneled walls, big rig-packed gravel parking lot, boot-shod regulars, twinkling Christmas lights and bar bedecked in signage warning of pickpockets and loose women, one might almost expect to look over and see Charlie Daniels drinking beer and spittin' Skoal on the next barstool over. One thing's for sure: Toto, you ain't in Midtown no more.