The Back Porch Southern Eats – Fernandina’s Not-So-New Kid on the Block

There’s a Southern saying that goes, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” The Back Porch Southern Eats took that to heart — heck, they didn’t even bother moving. Same building as Captain Jack’s, same smoky soul. Just slapped on a new name, threw some paint on the walls, and expanded the menu. And you know what? That’s perfectly fine.

Captain Jack’s made good barbecue, and The Back Porch keeps the fire going while branching out beyond the smokehouse staples. Fried shrimp baskets, hot honey chicken sandwiches, a ridiculous baked potato so big it should have its own zip code — this place isn’t reinventing Southern food, it’s flexing with the confidence of someone who knows you’ll come back if it’s good enough. And it is good enough.

Let’s get one thing out of the way: service here is hit or miss. Some days, your mobile order will be hot and ready when you walk in. Other days, you’ll wait an hour past pickup while the dining room chokes on chaos, the staff barely hanging on, customers pacing like starving dogs. If you’re impatient, beware. This is Southern hospitality on a tightrope.

But the moment that food hits your hands? All is forgiven.

The honey-glazed cornbread is sticky and sweet, like dessert pretending to be a side dish. The Dina Dip — chopped brisket on a French roll with caramelized onions, provolone, and au jus — leans heavy on bread but redeems itself the moment you dunk it. That juice is the nectar of the gods, and the brisket is smoked to a T, soft with just enough bite to remind you it once had a backbone.

Then there’s the Barn Burner. A fried chicken sandwich dripping in hot honey and aioli, stacked with house pickles and lettuce on a brioche bun the size of your fist. It’s bold, messy, and unapologetic. Not too spicy, even for wimps like myself. You’ll need napkins. Plural.

And don’t sleep on the Smoke Show Burger. Candied bacon, crispy onions, smoked garlic aioli, all piled on half a pound of beef that practically begs to be eaten with your bare hands. It’s indulgent. Sinful. The kind of thing you’d eat three days before starting a diet you already know you’ll break.

The loaded baked potato? It’s not just loaded. It’s armed. I went with pulled pork, though you could go brisket if you’re feeling beefy. Either way, it’s a mountain of meat, cheese, and buttery carbs. Zero surprises, just comfort.

But the sleeper hit — the one that stole the show — is the baked mac and cheese. Look, most places say they do mac and cheese well, but they’re liars. This one walks the talk. Creamy, gooey, and kissed with just the right amount of char on top. The noodles have a nice bite, the sauce clings like a desperate ex, and it dares you not to scrape the bowl clean.

The space itself feels fresher than its past life — lighter colors, a breezy bar, outdoor seating that makes you want to linger. It’s a solid refresh. You won’t confuse it for fine dining, but you also won’t want to. This is where you go when you want something real. Something that sticks to your ribs and leaves you slightly dazed, questioning whether you really need dinner later. (You don’t.)

There’s nothing here that reinvents the Southern wheel, but that’s the point. The Back Porch isn’t about brilliance. It’s about consistency. Comfort. Food that tastes like your grandma started watching Food Network and followed Paula Deen without question.

Call it a rebrand. Call it a resurrection. Just don’t call it boring.