I've been going to Highlands Bar and Grill in Birmingham, Alabama, since 1988. I learned to love the place while wolfing Frank Stitt's stone-ground grits soufflè, puddled with a butter, country ham, mushroom, and thyme sauce. I remember well my first taste of his lady-pea crostini, and his way with sweetbreads, too. I celebrated my 40th birthday at Highlands in the vaguely arts-and-crafts main dining room, fighting my wife for the last crumbles from a brace of miniature apple pies and a stinky slab of Roquefort. This spring I returned to Stitt's table after a long absence. It had been at least a year, maybe more. Too long. What hit me like a roundhouse was the seafood. And the shellfish. All from the Gulf Coast of Alabama and Florida, a few hours' drive down I-55. Gigged flounder from Apalachicola, swaddled in baby leeks. Briny oysters from the same Florida fishing town, baked in their shells and swabbed with crawfish hollandaise. Pan-fried black grouper from nearby Destin, strewn with fried capers and caper berries, napped in a brown-butter sauce. I ordered it all. I even reached for more than one forkful a friend's veal sweetbreads and sweet-pea timbale in a sauce of morels and Madeira. I left agog at the goodness and wondering why, in last year's top 50 restaurants listing, Gourmet dropped Highlands from the firmament.
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