Along the white sands of the Redneck Riviera, Jon Paul Buchmeyer retraces family memories in a Mercedes CLS550

"The Forgotten Coast," a marketing slogan adopted by promoters of Florida's Panhandle, never enticed me—I'd assumed the coast was forgotten for a good reason. My bias against the region began as a toddler, during my family's annual road trip from Dallas to the Grand Hotel in Point Clear, Alabama, just miles from the Florida border. After pulling over in our 1975 diesel-fueled Mercedes sedan (an oddity in the Chevy-loving South), my father would point to the highway road sign for Pensacola and ominously proclaim to us kids, "Watcout—just a few more stops and we could wind up in Florida."

Decades later, Southern friends tell me that I'm missing out—the barrier islands along the Gulf Coast are home to some of the last remaining historic Florida towns not ruined by development, and to some of the world's most beautiful beaches. To help me face my Florida fears 25 years after my last family trip, I recruit my Mexican boyfriend, Chef, a professionally trained cook, who demands that we eat well on the road. We load into a sexed-up version of my family's sedan, a Mercedes CLS550, and traverse the state's western coast.

Tampa to Cedar Key
Along cluttered Route 98, we test the brakes when Chef spots Jake's Boiled P-Nuts stand. As he samples local delicacies, several ramshackle vans and pickups gather to gawk. No doubt we stand out: two gay men driving a flashy car through backwater Florida. Wearing a novelty T-shirt emblazoned EVERYONE LOVES A LATIN BOY, Chef tells Jake that in his opinion the man's fried nuts need a little more spice. I hold my breath while the grizzled snack purveyor scowls, then breaks into a smile. "I like 'em hot, too."

I hustle Chef back to the car. The heat is oppressive, and Florida's legendary humidity breathtaking. But the Benz offers two reprieves: a MAX COOL button that sends the AC into overdrive, and an in-seat chemical cooling system that keeps your back and legs from getting sweaty.

We turn onto the pastoral and cedar-lined Route 24, passing dozens of wooden clam shacks built on stilts over lazy water. We're on our way to Cedar Key, a town you've got to work to reach. It's three miles into the Gulf of Mexico, and inhabited by fewer than a thousand year-round residents. Unlike other historic fishing villages at the edge of America on a road to nowhere—Key West and Provincetown come to mind—Cedar Key isn't overrun by tourists and has nary a cruise ship in sight.

Back in the mid-nineteenth century, this sleepy town was the busiest port in Florida, with a population of 5,000 and the terminus of a cross-state railroad. But after an enormous hurricane decimated the area and Tampa turned into a railroad hub, Cedar Key became one more lonely village dominated by commercial fishing fleets. In the 1990s, Cedar Key reinvented itself as a capital of clam farms—now it's the nation's leading producer of littlenecks. Chef discovers Robinson Seafood, where for $9.95 we get the all-you-can-eat special, devouring mounds of plump, meaty clams along with hush puppies, fried mullet, and iced tea (sweet, of course). Our waitress is dumbfounded when we refuse refills: "Ya'll are big spenders and li'l eaters!"