Later, walking across the two-lane bridge connecting the modern shops and restaurants on Dock Street to the old town, we stop and watch a few souls fishing at sunset. The sky turns a brilliant purple as families splash in the calm waters around a half-moon beach. The steamy heat and slow pace ease me back to my Southern roots.

Cedar Key to Apalachicola
Back on Route 98, which stretches across the Panhandle, we leave a bit of Old Florida behind, and Chef insists on stopping at another roadside attraction, Dakotah Vineyards, mostly because he simply can't believe Florida has a winery. Given his sour face at the tasting, I'm glad I'm driving and not drinking, and Chef still can't believe Florida has a winery.

As we approach the long bridge across the bay to the town of Apalachicola, we see that this patch of Florida bustles more than Cedar Key. Oyster trawlers are scattered in the waters, and people saunter around the shops lining Market Street. The Apalachicola River extends 300 miles, and its steady flow has kept the town buzzing on and off since its founding in the 1800s, when it served as the third-largest cotton port on the Gulf coast (after New Orleans and Mobile).

Today, Apalachicola is a delicately balanced blend of Old and New Florida—historic buildings and houses mixed with funky boutiques and numerous cafés. I'm completely charmed by the place, but Chef withholds judgment until he tastes the local fare.

Oysters have provided stability to this region for years. Ten percent of the country's supply comes from this bay, and they are some of the biggest, juiciest, meatiest, saltiest—and cheapest—oysters we've had the pleasure of tasting. At 25 cents each, compared to about four dollars a pop in New York City, Chef and I literally can't get enough—we eat them morning, noon, and night. We eat them roasted, baked, and in shooter cocktails with peppered vodka and horseradish, not to mention in oyster po'boys for lunch, and served with eggs (and grits) for breakfast.

We head across a four-mile bridge to St. George Island, a skinny strip of land with a storied past. Here the peaceful life of the Creek Indians was interrupted by the Spanish, who landed in 1528. Next came pirates, who roamed the waters and buried treasure nearby. In 1803, the island's first of many major real estate transactions occurred when the Creeks and the Seminoles were forced to turn over the area to pay a debt.

After lolling awhile, we drive on to St. Joe Beach along a road that's among the prettiest on this trip—baby palm trees dwarfed by giant cedars. Out of the car, we trudge up stairs over mountains of sand, and at the summit, take pause at the view: miles and miles of nearly empty snowy beaches lapped by clear turquoise water. We head down to splash in the warm water, agreeing that we will come back and bring friends: Oysters and beaches this delicious deserve to be shared.

Apalachicola to Pensacola Beach
Somewhere between Apalachicola and Pensacola, we lose track of time. Unbeknownst to us, we actually gain an hour by crossing time zones—an extra hour wasted on this stretch of tacky suburban sprawl with Las Vegas casino–style condo developments. Yet the beaches are pristine. We park near a gate barring cars from the protected park and hike down the beach to stake a claim with our beach umbrella. Other than the cute guys in Speedo swimsuits waving politely a few yards away, no one is in sight. I race into the sparkling surf and, floating in the shallow, warm, crystal-blue water, I'm feeling retroactively gypped—we never had beaches like this across the border at the Grand Hotel.